She dropped the receiver into place, pulled out the plug and shook her head at Perry Mason. "Drenton sixeightninefourtwo," she said, "was listed under the name of Tucker, was disconnected more than thirty days ago. There isn't any four ninetysix East Pelton Avenue. Pelton Avenue is a street only two blocks long. The highest number on it is two hundred and ninetyeight."
Perry Mason jerked open the door of his private office, and said over his shoulder, "She'll get in touch with us again somehow. She forgot about leaving that retainer. Whenever she calls see that I have a chance to speak with her." He strode through the door, glowered savagely at the big leather chair in which the young woman had sat while she told her story. Light streaming in from the window caught something metallic. Mason stopped to stare, then walked to the chair and bent forward. A brown purse had slipped down between the cushions, only the clasp visible. Perry Mason pulled it out. It was heavy. He weighed it speculatively in his hand, turned and jerked open the door. "Come in, Della," he said. "Bring a notebook. Our caller left a purse behind her. I'm going to open it. I want you to inventory the contents as I open it."
She jumped to wordless obedience, bringing notebook and pencil, pulling out the leaf of the desk in a matteroffact manner, opening the notebook, holding the pencil poised.
"One white lacebordered handkerchief," Perry Mason said. The pencil made pothooks over the pages. "One.32 caliber Colt automatic, number threeeightninefoursixtwoone."
Della Street 's pencil flew over the pages of the notebook, but she raised startled eyes to the lawyer. Perry Mason's voice droned on mechanically. "Magazine clip for automatic, filled with cartridges containing steeljacketed, softnosed bullets. A cartridge in the firing chamber of the gun. Barrel seems to be clean. No odor of powder discernible."
He snapped the magazine clip back into the gun, closed the mechanism, replaced the ejected shell in the firing chamber, went on in the same droning monotone: "Coin purse containing one hundred and fiftytwo dollars and sixtyfive cents. A bottle of tablets marked 'IPRAL. One pair brown gloves, one lipstick, one compact, one telegram addressed to R. Montaine, 128 East Pelton Avenue. Telegram reading as follows:
AWAITING YOUR FINAL ANSWER FIVE O'CLOCK TODAY EXTREME LIMIT
GREGORY
A package of Spud cigarettes, a package of matches bearing advertising imprint ‘Golden Eagle Cafè, 25 West FortyThird Street.’
Perry Mason's voice ceased the droning inventory. He held the purse upside down over the desk, tapped on the bottom with his fingers. "That seems to be all," he remarked.
Della Street looked up from the notebook. "Good heavens!" she said, "what did that girl want with a gun?"
"What does any one want with a gun?" Perry Mason inquired, taking a handkerchief and removing any fingerprints which might have been on the weapon. He dropped the gun into the purse, picked up the other articles with his handkerchiefcovered fingers, polished them one at a time, dropped them back into the purse. The telegram he held for a moment then thrust it into his pocket. "Della," he said, "if she comes back, make her wait. I'm going out."
"How long will you be gone, chief?"
"I don't know. I'll give you a ring if I'm not back within an hour."
"Suppose she won't wait?"
"Make her wait. Tell her anything you want to. Go so far as to tell her I'm sorry for the way I treated her, if you want to. That girl's in trouble. She came to me for help. What I'm really afraid of is that she may not come back."
He stuck the purse into his side pocket, pulled his hat down on his forehead, strode to the door. His pounding steps echoed along the corridor. He speared the elevator signal with his forefinger, caught a down cage and signaled a cab at the sidewalk. " One twentyeight East Pelton Avenue," he said.
Mason reclined in the cushions as the cab lurched forward, closed his eyes, folded his arms across his chest and remained in that position for the twentyodd minutes that it took the cab to make the run to East Pelton Avenue. "Wait here," he told the driver as the cab swung in to the curb.
Mason walked rapidly up a cement walk, mounted three stairs to a stoop and held an insistent thumb against the bell button. There was the sound of steps approaching the door. Mason took the telegram from his pocket, folded the message so that the name and address were visible through the tissuecovered «window» in the envelope.
The door opened. A young woman with tired eyes regarded Perry Mason in expressionless appraisal. "Telegram for R. Montaine," said Perry Mason, holding the telegram in his hand. The young woman's eyes dropped to the address. She nodded her head. "You'll have to sign," Perry Mason told her.
The eyes regarded him with curiosity that, as yet, had not ripened into suspicion. "You're not a regular messenger," she observed, glancing past Mason to the cab that waited at the curb.
"I'm the branch manager," he told her. "I thought I could get the wire here quicker than by messenger. I was going this way on another matter."
He took a notebook from his pocket, whipped out a pencil, handed both pencil and notebook to the young woman. "Sign on the top line."
She wrote "R. Montaine," handed the book back to him. "Wait a minute," Mason said, "are you R. Montaine?"
She hesitated a moment, then answered, "I'm receiving messages for R. Montaine."
Perry Mason indicated the notebook. "Then you'll have to sign your own name below that of R. Montaine."
"I haven't had to before," she objected.
"I'm sorry," he told her. "Sometimes the messengers don't understand these things. I'm the branch manager."
She drew back the hand which contained the notebook, hesitated for an appreciable interval and then wrote, "Nell Brinley" under the "R. Montaine" she had previously signed.
"Now," said Perry Mason as she handed back the book and pencil, "I want to talk with you."
He slipped the telegram back into his side pocket before the snatching fingers could grab it from his hand.
Suspicion and panic filled the eyes of the woman who stood in the doorway. "I'm coming in," Mason told her.
She had no makeup on her face, was attired in a house dress and slippers. Her face went white to the lips.
Perry Mason moved past her, walked along the corridor, stepped into the living room with calm assurance, sat down in a chair and crossed his legs. Nell Brinley came to the doorway and stood staring at him, as though afraid either to enter the room or to leave him in sole possession. "Come in," Mason told her, "and sit down."
She stood still for a matter of seconds, then came toward him. "Just who do you think you are?" she asked in a voice that she strove to make vibrant with indignation, but which quavered with fear.
Mason's voice showed grim insistence. "I'm checking on the activities of R. Montaine. Tell me exactly what you know about her."
"I don't know anything."
"You were signing for telegrams."
"No. As a matter of fact, I thought the name R. Montaine was a mistake. I've been expecting a telegram. I thought that it must be mine. I was going to read it. If it hadn't been for me, I was going to give it back to you."
Mason's laugh was scornful. "Try again."
"I don't have to," she said. "I'm telling you the truth."
Mason took the telegram from his pocket, spread it out on his knee. "This is the telegram," he pointed out, "that was received here at nine fiftythree this morning. You signed for it and delivered it to R. Montaine."
"I did no such thing."
"The records show that you signed for it."