He untied a heavy cord, opened the package and disclosed four buzzers, similar in appearance in every way to the bell which he had taken from the wall above the gas stove. The only difference was that the one he had removed was a bell which rang by agitating a clapper between two hollow hemispheres of metal; while the others were buzzers which gave forth an explosive buzzing sound when the current went through the coils.
Mason carried one of the buzzers back to the kitchen, climbed on the chair, screwed the buzzer into position and saw that the wires were connected. Then he replaced the chair and raised the curtain. He paused to listen, picked up his package and tiptoed down the stairs. He waited for several seconds before he unlocked the door and slipped out into the cool night air.
Hearing no sound, he locked the door behind him, took another key from his pocket and opened the door of the lower apartment. This apartment exuded a smell of musty closeness—a smell that assailed the nostrils with a message of untenanted neglect. Perry Mason found the call bell in the kitchen, and replaced it with a buzzer. Then he raised the curtain and slipped silently out into the night.
He next opened the door which led to the upper apartment, opposite the one in which Moxley had been killed. Working swiftly and silently, he again disconnected the call bell and installed one of the buzzers. He was on the point of leaving the apartment when the beam of his flashlight picked up the stub of a burnt match in the corridor. The match was one of those waxed paper affairs which had been torn from a pocket package. Mason slid the beam of his flashlight along the boards of the corridor, soon picked up another match stub, and then another. He followed those stubs to the back porch, where the light fuse boxes for the apartment were kept. Here was also a place for the delivery of groceries and garbage.
Mason noticed that a similar porchlike platform projected from the apartment on the south which Moxley had occupied. An agile man could easily slip across the intervening space, climb a railing and find himself in the back of Moxley's apartment, with access through a corridor and kitchen to the bedroom where Moxley was murdered.
Mason stepped across to the adjoining porch. Here he found one more match, and then, over in the corner where it apparently had been discarded, the empty container from which the matches had been torn. It was of waxed pasteboard with a flap which folded over the matches. On the back of this folder was printed a cut of a five story building, below which appeared the printed words "Compliments of the Palace Hotel, the best in Centerville."
Perry Mason wrapped the bit of pasteboard in a handkerchief, slipped it in his pocket. He retraced his steps, left the upper apartment and made a brief visit to the remaining lower apartment. When he left the house, there was not a single electric doorbell in the building. Each one of the four apartments was equipped with buzzers.
Mason wrapped the bells carefully in the heavy, brown paper, tied up the package into a compact bundle, listened to make sure no one was about, and then stepped out from the shadows of the foyer to the sidewalk.
Chapter 12
Perry Mason flung back his shoulders and inhaled the fresh air of the morning. He consulted a small memorandum book, looked at the street numbers, paused as his eyes caught a sign on the glass window of a small storeroom. The sign read, Otis Electric Company. Mason pushed open the door, heard a bell ringing in the back of the store. He stood in a narrow space between counters that were loaded down with electric light globes, brackets, switches, and wires. Overhead, the ceiling was clustered with various chandeliers and indirect lighting fixtures.
A door from the rear opened. A young woman smiled ingratiatingly. "I want to see Sidney Otis," said Perry Mason.
"You got something to sell?" she asked, the smile fading from her face.
"Tell him," Mason said, "that Perry Mason, the lawyer, wants to see him."
There was the sound of commotion from the back room, the noise of something being dropped to the floor. Quick steps pounded the floor. A burly figure in overalls pushed the young woman to one side and stood staring at Perry Mason, a wide grin twisting his lips away from tobaccostained teeth. Sidney Otis weighed well over two hundred. His weight was evenly distributed. He radiated a genial booming honesty. His arms were bare to the elbow, and smeared with grease. His overalls had, very apparently, never seen the interior of a wash tub, but there was wholehearted cordiality in his welcome. "Perry Mason!" he said. "This is an honor! I didn't think you'd remember me."
Mason laughed. "I always remember people who sit on my juries, Otis," he said. "How are you?" He extended his hand.
The big man hesitated for a moment, then wiped his paw up and down on the leg of his overalls, and folded his fingers about Mason's hand. "Tickled to death, Counselor," he said, suddenly selfconscious.
"There's something you can do for me," Mason told him.
"Tell me what it is and I'll do it." Perry Mason glanced significantly at the young woman.
The big electrician jerked his head toward the rear. "Beat it, Bertie," he said. "I've got some business to talk over with Mr. Mason."
"Aw gee, dad, I never get to…"
"You heard me," Otis boomed, his big voice filling the shop, but his face twisted in a grin. "Beat it."
The girl pouted, moved toward the rear of the store on reluctant feet. When the spiteful bang of the door announced that she had moved out of earshot, Otis turned an inquiring face to the lawyer.
"Where are you living now, Otis?"
The man lowered his eyes apologetically. "I used to keep an apartment upstairs," he said, "but sledding has been tough lately. I've got a room where I keep the missus and the little girl, the other one stays down here with me and helps run the shop. I've got a bed in the back that I sleep on, and…"
"I have taken a lease on an apartment for six months," Perry Mason said, "and it happens that I can't live in the apartment. I'd like to have you move in."
"In an apartment!" said Otis, the grin fading from his face. "Oh, shucks, Counselor, I couldn't afford anything like that…"
"The rent," Perry Mason said, "is all paid for six months. It's rather a nice apartment."
Otis frowned. "How come?" he asked.
"It is," said Perry Mason, "the apartment where a man was murdered. You probably read about it in the paper. It's Apartment B of the Colemont Apartments at 316 Norwalk Avenue. A man by the name of Carey was murdered there That was his real name. He was going under the name of Moxley at the time of the murder."
"Yeah, I read about it," Otis said. "They got some woman for it, didn't they? The wife of a wealthy guy from Chicago."
Mason nodded. There was a moment of silence and then the lawyer went on in a low voice, "Of course, Otis, your family wouldn't need to know that a murder had been committed there. They might recognize the place, or some of the neighbors might tell them, but by that time they'd be moved in. It's a very comfortable little apartment. It would be a nice place for the folks. It's on the south side of the house and catches the sunshine."
"Gee, that'd be swell," Otis said, "but why do that for me, Counselor?"