"Not all the time."
"Where was he?"
"He thought Overton, the chauffeur, was spying on us. He thought Overton had been snooping around my room, and he went out to try and locate Overton."
"Did he do it?"
"No, he couldn't find Overton anywhere. He said he looked all over the house."
"When was this?"
"Just before I took Hazel down to Hartley's office."
Mason said slowly, "Look here, do you want to protect Pete Brunold or do you want to save your skin?"
"I want to protect Pete with my life."
"Don't ever forget," Mason warned her, "that you're in this thing yourself. You can't protect anyone unless you're in the clear, and unless you know and I know exactly what happened. I won't protect Brunold if he's guilty and I won't protect you if you're guilty. Now, Brunold was wandering around the house somewhere about the time the murder was committed. You say that he was looking for Overton. He might have met your husband and…"
"Look out," Paul Drake said, "just below you, Perry."
Perry Mason started polishing the window, glancing downward beneath his right armpit.
Sergeant Holcomb's frowning face was thrust out of the window directly below.
"This is the blowoff," Mason said. "Tell the police you came here for a rest, that you're ready to go back with them. If you didn't kill your husband and want to protect Brunold, refuse to answer any questions. If you want to protect yourself; tell them the God's truth. If Brunold's guilty, he'd better plead guilty. If you did kill your husband, and it wasn't justified, get another lawyer. If you're guilty of murder and you lie to me, I'll quit you cold; otherwise I'll stay with you until hell freezes."
"We're innocent," she said frantically. "Pete has been justified…"
"Hey, you, up there!" shouted Sergeant Holcomb. "Who told you to wash these windows?"
Mason mumbled an inaudible reply.
"Look around," Holcomb yelled. "I want to get a look at your face."
Mason turned around in such a manner that he kicked the bucket of water over. Sergeant Holcomb saw the water coming, but dodged too late. Some of the liquid splashed in his eyes and face as the bucket hurtled past. He jerked his head back in. Mason grabbed Paul Drake's extended hand, jumped to the adjoining sill, held himself precariously balanced for a moment, then slid down into the room.
"We can," Paul Drake said, "take the fire escape down to the second floor."
"Swell, if they aren't waiting for us at the second floor," the lawyer told him.
The two men opened the door of the room which led to the corridor. They stepped into the corridor turned to the left, and through the window which opened on the fire escape. The broadshouldered detective, still standing in the corridor where he could watch the door of Mrs. Basset's room glowered at them thoughtfully, took three purposeful steps toward them, and then hesitated.
Perry Mason called to Paul Drake in a loud voice, "Empty the buckets, Paul. We can fill them up from a faucet on the lower floor. We've got to get the rail on this fire escape cleaned up."
Drake nodded. The two men raced down the fire escape. They had gained the second floor, when there was a shout from above them. Sergeant Holcomb appeared on the fire escape, wildly waving his hands.
"Here," Mason said, "is where we take a transfer."
He dove through the open window to the second floor corridor and raced down the corridor. At the head of the stairs he slipped off the white uniform which he had out on over his business suit. Paul Drake, fumbling with a button of the white coveralls, delayed matters somewhat. Mason reached out, ripped off the button, and helped pull the uniform off.
"We've got just one chance," Mason said. "We've got to go up."
He walked to the elevator, the white bundle under his arm, and pressed the «up» button.
"If we have luck," he said, "we can…"
A light glowed, a door slid smoothly back. Mason and Drake entered the elevator, just as an adjoining elevator, coming down from the sixth floor, stopped, and its door slid open. Sergeant Holcomb ran into the corridor.
"Floors?" asked the elevator boy, as he slid the door shut.
"Top floor," Mason said.
As the elevator shot upward, Mason said conversationally, "A roof garden, isn't there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine," Mason said. "We'll go out there and sit down for a while."
He left the elevator at the top floor, led the way to the roof garden, tossed the white uniforms behind a potted plant, and said, "Have you got that passkey, Paul?"
"Sure."
"Get it ready," Mason said, leading the way to the room corridor.
He picked an inside room, knocked on the door. There was no answer. He nodded to Drake. The detective turned the key in the lock. The door opened, the two men entered, and Mason twisted the knurled brass knob which shot the bolt into position. He took a cigarette case from his pocket, tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail, and grinned at the detective.
"Well," he said, "we're still out of jail."
"How the devil are we going to get out of this?" Drake asked, his face lugubrious.
Mason stretched out on the bed, pulled up pillows back of his head, blew smoke up toward the ceiling. His face was wreathed in a smile of serene satisfaction.
"They'll think we're playing tag in the corridors," he said. "After a half an hour or so, when they can't find us, they'll think we got down the freight elevator, or took the stairs, and gave them the slip. And, in the meantime…"
His voice trailed off into silence.
"In the meantime, what?" Drake inquired.
"I didn't get very much sleep last night," the lawyer said. He took one long, last puff of the cigarette and ground it out in the ash tray. "Call me at six o'clock," he said, "if I'm not awake by then," and closed his eyes.
The detective stared at him in openmouthed amazement for a moment; then moved toward the couch.
"Hey, you damned hog," he said, "give me one of those pillows. I didn't sleep at all."
Chapter 10
Perry Mason sprawled his signature over the paper which Della Street handed him, pressed a buzzer, and, when one of his assistants entered the office, said, "Here are all the papers for habeas corpus on behalf of one Peter Brunold. Get some fast action."
"You want Brunold out?" the assistant asked.
"They won't let him go," Mason said, "but I want to force their hands and make them put a charge against him. They probably don't want to charge him with murder right now. But that's the only charge they can put against him, so we'll force their hand with a habeas corpus."
Mason turned to Della Street, as the assistant took the papers and went out. "Did you ask Drake to come in here?" he inquired.
"Yes. I told him to come directly to your private office. He should be here… That's he at the door now."
A shadow hulked on the frosted glass panel of the door. Della Street glided across the office, opened it, and Paul Drake grinned at Perry Mason.
"Got a hunch?" he asked, sliding into the big overstuffed leather chair, his knees draped across one of the arms, the small of his back propped against the other.
"Yes," Mason said. "This Fenwick woman."
"What about her?"
"One of three things happened to that woman," Mason said. "Either she was kidnapped by the murderer, or she met with some accident, or she skipped out.
"The murderer didn't know her—that is, he hadn't seen her first. If she'd met with an accident, the police would have spotted her by this time. Therefore, I think she skipped out."
"That, of course," the detective said slowly, "is acting on the assumption she told the truth about what she had seen the night of the murder. She may have skipped out because she knows something that would put Dick Basset on the spot."