Burger nodded his head heartily. "I had an idea you would, Mason."
"Remember what I said," Mason warned him, "that there was no moral or legal justification for the homicide. If a person is morally justified in killing, I'll save that person from the legal penalty if it's possible to do so."
"Well," Burger said, "I can't agree with you on that. I believe the law is the only machine of justification, but I want you to understand I'm not prejudiced against you and I would like to be friendly with you. Therefore, I want you to produce Hazel Fenwick."
"I don't know where she is."
"That may be true, and yet you may be able to produce her."
"I tell you I don't know where she is."
"You spirited her away."
"I sent her to my office."
"Your action in doing that is open to grave suspicion."
"I don't know just why," Mason said evenly. "If you'd been the first one on the scene you'd have thought nothing of sending her to your office so you could get a statement out of her."
"I'm a public official and it's my duty to investigate murder," Burger said.
"That doesn't prevent me from making an investigation on behalf of my client, does it?"
"It depends on how it's done."
"There's no secret of how it was done in this case," Mason told him. "I did what I did in the presence of witnesses."
"What happened after that?"
"Hazel Fenwick took my car and disappeared."
"I have reason to believe," Burger said, "that the woman's life is in danger."
"What makes you think so?"
"She is the only person who can positively identify the murderer."
"Not the murderer," Mason said. "The man who was seen coming out of the room."
"They're one and the same."
"You think so?"
"It stands to reason."
"Nothing stands to reason until it can be proven."
"Well, let us express it this way, then: It's a matter of opinion. You're entitled to yours and I'm entitled to mine. At least, the man may be the murderer. That man is desperate. I think that Hazel Fenwick either has met with foul play, or will meet with foul play."
"Therefore, what?"
"Therefore, I want to put her where she'll be safe."
"And you think I can tell you where she is?"
"I feel quite certain of it."
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Can't."
Burger got to his feet and said slowly, "I wanted you to understand my attitude. If your clients are innocent I want to know it, but, by God, if you think you can pull a stunt like the one you pulled in concealing that witness in a murder case and not get into trouble you're crazy."
Mason said slowly, "I tell you I don't know where she is."
Burger jerked open the door to the corridor and paused in the doorway to deliver an ultimatum. "You've got fortyeight hours," he said, "to change your mind. That's final." The door shut.
Della Street glanced apprehensively at the lawyer.
"Chief," she said, "you've got to do something about that woman."
Mason nodded moodily, then grinned and said, "I can do a lot in fortyeight hours, Della."
Chapter 11
Paul Drake's eyes showed loss of sleep.
"Whenever a detective gets to digging around in people's lives," he said, "he finds skeletons."
Mason nodded moodily and said, "Who is it this time, Paul?"
"Hazel Fenwick," the detective said.
The lawyer motioned to Della Street to make notes.
"What about her?" he asked. "Did you get anything out of those fingerprints?"
"I'll say I did," the detective said. "I got ten perfect fingerprints, pulled a few wires to get the dope I wanted, and found out all about her."
"Her prints are registered then?"
"I'll say they are. She's suspected of being a female Bluebeard."
"A what?"
"A female Bluebeard."
"All right, go ahead and spill it."
"The police haven't anything very definite," the detective said, "but this woman marries men, the men then die, and she inherits the property."
"How many men?" Mason asked.
"I can't find out. The police aren't sure, but they've got some pretty strong suspicions. One of her husbands had arsenic in his stomach. They started an investigation. They exhumed another husband and found more arsenic. They arrested her, took her fingerprints, questioned her, and didn't find out anything. While they were collecting more data, some kindhearted friend slipped her a couple of saws. She sawed through the bars of the county jail, where she was being held, and disappeared."
Mason gave a low whistle, and said, "Any living husbands?"
"Yes. There's Stephen Chalmers. She married him and he walked out on her two days after the marriage. She didn't get a chance to feed him arsenic."
"Does he know about her past record?" Mason asked.
"No. I think he lied about his property when she married him. She found out the truth and there was quite a scene. Chalmers called her a gold digger and walked out. He hasn't seen her since."
"Are you sure of the identification?" the lawyer asked.
"Yes," Drake said. "I managed to copy the photograph from the back of Dick Basset's watch."
"I didn't know there was any photograph," Mason said.
"Neither do the police. Basset has the only photograph. He hasn't said a word about it."
"How did you get it?"
"Oh, I just figured he probably had one somewhere, so I picked his pocket, pried open the back of the watch, took a photograph of the photograph that was in it, and checked it with the police photographs on file in the Rogues, Gallery."
"And Chalmers identified the photograph?"
"Yeah, the one I'd stolen from Basset's watch. I didn't show him the police photographs because I didn't want him to know she had a record."
Mason said slowly, "Look here, Paul; do you suppose you could get Chalmers to let me get him a divorce if it didn't cost him anything?"
"Sure," Drake said. "But that might make him suspicious. He wants to get married again, anyway. Let him give you his note for a hundred bucks. He's a slicker and he'll beat you out of the note."
Mason nodded slowly and said, "All right, send him in. Tell him you can fix it up."
"But," the detective said, "what's the idea in getting the divorce?"
"I'm going to make a buildup," Mason told him.
"Build up to what?"
Mason said slowly, "The hardest thing on earth to describe is a woman. Notice the description of Hazel Fenwick which the police have given to the newspapers—height five feet two, weight one hundred and thirteen, age twentyseven, complexion and eyes dark, last seen wearing a tailored brown suit with brown shoes and stockings."
"Well?" Drake asked.
"Darn few people ever saw this woman. She entered the picture mysteriously. Evidently Dick Basset courted her strictly on the quiet. The description is all anyone has to go by and that description would fit almost any darkhaired woman in the middle twenties."
Drake, watching him narrowly, said, "So what?"
Mason took Della Street's arm, piloted her to a corner, away from the detective, and said, in a whisper, "Go to an employment agency and find a young woman in the middle twenties, about five feet two, with dark hair and eyes, weight about one hundred thirteen, and who is hungry. If she's got a brown tailored suit, brown shoes and stockings, so much the better. If she hasn't, get her that kind of an outfit, and be damn sure she's hungry."