"Listen," Sergeant Holcomb said. "You can't fool me a damn bit. You didn't call me and you never intended to call me. You've been here over half an hour. What have you been doing?"
"I was in the diningroom."
"Getting something to eat, I suppose, because it just happened you were too hungry to wait."
Mason looked appealingly at the clerk.
"That's right, sir," the clerk said. "He said he was going into the diningroom."
"Where this bird says he's going, and where he goes, aren't always the same things," Sergeant Holcomb remarked. He took Mason's arm, and pushed him toward the diningroom.
"Come on, buddy," he said. "If you can pick out the girl that waited on you, I'm going to give you a written apology."
Mason stood in the doorway, looking uncertainly.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't do it, Sergeant. You know I seldom pay attention to waitresses. I know it was a young woman in a blue uniform."
Sergeant Holcomb laughed sneeringly.
"They all have on blue uniforms," he said. "It's just like I thought, Mason. You can't get away with it."
"Wait a minute," the lawyer said. "That girl over there looks familiar."
Sergeant Holcomb beckoned to her with his linger.
"You wait on this man a few minutes ago?" he asked.
She shook her head.
Sergeant Holcomb sneered.
The waitress who had brought Mason his sandwich and beer came forward.
"I'm the one that waited on him," she said.
Mason's face suddenly lit with recognition.
"That's right," he said. "You are. I'm sorry but I didn't remember you very clearly. You see, I was rather preoccupied at the time."
"Well, I remember you all right," she said. "You gave me a fiftycent tip for a sandwich and beer order. I don't get fiftycent tips with sandwich and beer orders often enough to forget the people who gave them to me."
Sergeant Holcomb's face was a study in surprised consternation.
The cashier, who had overheard the conversation said, "Why, I remember this gentleman. He paid his check and then stood at the telephone by the desk making a couple of calls."
"Who'd he call?" Holcomb asked.
"A Sergeant Holcomb at police headquarters, and then the district attorney's office. I thought he was a detective and I listened to the conversation."
"The district attorney's office!" Holcomb said.
"Why, yes," the cashier told him. "He called the district attorney when he couldn't get Sergeant Holcomb. He asked the district attorney to send a man over to be with him when he interviewed a chap by the name of McLane, who was a witness to something or other."
Sergeant Holcomb said slowly, "Well—I'll—be—damned!"
"What do we do now?" Mason inquired. "Do we talk with Harry McLane?"
"I talk with Harry McLane," Sergeant Holcomb said. "You wait in the corridor."
Holcomb pushed Mason toward the elevator.
"Ninth floor," he said.
They reached the ninth floor and Mason, hastily stepping from the elevator, started to walk in the wrong direction, then, glancing at the numbers on the rooms, caught himself, turned and walked down the corridor toward 904. Sergeant Holcomb caught Mason's sleeve and pulled him back.
"I'll be the one who makes the contact," he said. "You keep back of me."
He stood in front of the door of 904 and knocked gently. When there was no answer, he knocked again, then turned the knob of the door and opened it. He stepped inside the room and said over his shoulder to Perry Mason, "You wait there."
The door closed.
Mason stood motionless.
Abruptly the door opened. Sergeant Holcomb's white, excited face stared at Perry Mason.
"Is he going to talk?" the lawyer inquired.
"No," Sergeant Holcomb said grimly, "he's not going to talk. Now you're a busy man, Mason. Suppose you go right back to your law office. I'll attend to things here."
"But," Mason said, "I want to see McLane."
A spasm of impatience registered on Sergeant Holcomb's face.
"You," he said, "get the hell out of here before I get rough about it. This is one investigation I'm going to make before your masterly touch manipulates the evidence and spirits away the witness."
"Has something happened?" Mason asked, standing his ground.
"It will happen if you don't beat it," Sergeant Holcomb said.
Mason turned with dignity and said, "The next time I try to give you a tip you'll not know it."
Sergeant Holcomb said nothing but stepped back into the room and closed and locked the door.
Mason went directly to his car, drove to his office, pushed his way into Della Street's office and said, "Listen, Della, we've got to work fast…"
He broke off as a figure stirred in the shadows. Pete Brunold, grinning, got up from his chair and extended a hand to Perry Mason.
"Congratulations," he said.
Sheer surprise held Mason motionless.
"You!" he remarked. "What the devil are you doing out of jail?"
"They turned me loose."
"Who did?"
"The cops—Sergeant Holcomb."
"When?"
"About an hour and a half ago. I thought you knew about it. You got a writ of habeas corpus. They didn't want to make a charge against me just yet, so they turned me loose."
"Where's Sylvia Basset?"
"I don't know. I think she's in the district attorney's office. They're questioning her."
Mason said slowly, "Probably the worst break you ever got in your life was when they turned you loose. You get out of here. Go to a hotel, register under your name, telephone the district attorney, and tell him that you're there."
"But why," Brunold asked, "should I telephone the district attorney? He doesn't…"
"Because I told you to," Mason interrupted savagely. "Damn it. Do what I tell you to. Seconds are precious—minutes might be fatal. Get started! I thought you were safely in jail, and any minute now…"
The door pushed open. Two men entered without knocking. One of them looked at Brunold and jerked his head significantly toward the door.
"Okay, buddy," he said. "Get started."
"Where?" Brunold asked.
"We're from the D.A.'s office," the man said. "The Chief wants to see you right now and it'll take more than a writ of habeas corpus to spring you this time. Your friend, Mrs. Basset, spilled some information to the D.A. We've got a warrant for you and she's already been arrested."
"What's the charge?" Mason asked.
"Murder," the man said grimly.
Mason said, "Brunold, don't answer any questions. Don't tell them…"
"Hooey!" one of the men said, grabbing Brunold's arm and pushing him toward the door. "He'll answer questions about where he spent his time during the last hour and a half or he'll have two murder charges against him."
"Two?" Brunold asked.
"Yeah," the man said. "Every time you get out of jail there's an epidemic of dead guys holding glass eyes in their hands. Come on, let's get started."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Della Street glanced inquiringly at Perry Mason.
Mason crossed the office in swift strides, jerked open the door of the safe, and took out the pasteboard box containing the bloodshot glass eyes. He crossed to the coat closet and took out an iron mortar and pestle. One by one, he dropped the glass eyes into the mortar and pounded them to fine dust.
"Della," he said, "see that I'm not disturbed."
Chapter 13
Perry Mason studied the darkhaired, darkeyed young woman who stared across the desk at him with something of defiance in her manner.
Standing to one side and slightly behind her, Della Street regarded Perry Mason anxiously. There was a superficial resemblance between the two women.