Mason joined in his laugh. "Hardly," he said.
"What did you come to discuss?"
Mason stared steadily at the man's watchful eyes.
"I came," he said, "as a friend of Rhoda."
Moxley nodded. "Yes," he said, "I presumed as much. I didn't suppose you had…"
The words were interrupted by the sound of a harshly strident bell which exploded the hot silence of the afternoon. Moxley frowned, looked at Perry Mason. "Was any one," he asked, "coming here to join you?" Mason shook his head.
Moxley seemed undecided. The smile faded from his face. The look of genial urbanity vanished. His eyes hardened into speculative appraisal. The lines of his face were grim. He got up from his chair without a word of excuse, walked on noiseless feet to the doorway, and stood where he could see both the corridor and Perry Mason.
The bell rang again. Moxley pressed a button, and stood waiting while an electric buzzer released the door catch. "Who is it?" he called in a voice that had entirely lost its booming cordiality.
"Telegram," said a man's voice. There were steps on the stairs, a rustle of paper, then steps going down the stairs and the slamming of the front door.
Moxley walked back to the room, tearing the envelope open. He unfolded the message, read it, then looked suspiciously at Perry Mason.
"This message," he said, "is from Rhoda."
"Uh huh," Perry Mason said, apparently without interest.
"She doesn't," said Moxley, "say anything about you."
"She wouldn't," Mason remarked casually.
"Why?"
"Because she didn't know I was coming."
Moxley had lost all of that veneer of quick friendliness. His eyes were hard and watchful. "Go on," he said, "tell me the rest of it."
"I'm a friend of hers," Mason said.
"You told me that before."
"I came here as a friend."
"That also is no news to me."
"I'm an attorney."
Moxley took a deep breath, walked with quick, purposeful steps across the room to a table, stood with his right hand resting on the knob of the drawer in that table.
"Now," he said, "you are telling me something."
"I thought I might be," Perry Mason said. "That's why I took pains to tell you that I came as a friend."
"I don't understand."
"I mean that I came here as a friend and not as a lawyer. Rhoda didn't retain me. Rhoda didn't know that I was coming."
"Then why did you come?"
"Simply as a matter of personal satisfaction."
"What do you want?"
"I want to know just what it is you're trying to get out of Rhoda."
"For a friend," Moxley said, his right hand remaining on the knob of the drawer, "you do a lot of talking."
"I'm ready to do a lot of listening," Mason told him.
Moxley's laugh was sneering. "What you're willing to do and what you're going to do," he remarked, "may not be the same." Moxley was no longer the genial host, no longer the hailfellowwellmet. The ready friendliness of his manner had evaporated into a cold, watchful hostility.
"Suppose," Mason said, "I tell you my story?"
"Suppose you do."
"I'm an attorney. Something happened which caused me to interest myself in Rhoda. It doesn't make any difference what it was. Unfortunately, I can't get in touch with Rhoda. I knew you were in touch with her. Therefore, I decided to get in touch with you. I want you to tell me where I can find Rhoda."
"So you can help her?" asked Moxley.
"So I can help her."
Moxley's left hand drummed steadily on the top of the table. His right hand had left the knob of the drawer, but seemed to be held in poised readiness.
"For a lawyer," he said, "you talk like a damn fool."
Mason shrugged his shoulders. "Possibly I do."
After a moment, Moxley said, "So Rhoda spilled her guts to you, did she?"
"I have told you," Perry Mason said, "the exact truth."
"You're still not answering my question."
"I don't have to answer your question," Mason told him. "If you're not going to tell me anything then I'm going to tell you something."
"Go ahead and tell me," Moxley remarked.
"Rhoda Montaine," Mason said, "is a nice kid."
"Are you," inquired Moxley, "telling me?"
"I intended to help Rhoda Montaine."
"You told me that before."
"About a week ago Rhoda Montaine was married to Carl W. Montaine."
"That's no news to me."
"Rhoda's name before she was married was Lorton."
"Go on," Moxley said.
"Her application for license to marry says that she was a widow. The first name of the former husband was Gregory."
"Go on."
"I was just wondering," Perry Mason said, his face utterly without expression, "if perhaps Rhoda might have been mistaken."
"Mistaken about what?"
"About being a widow. If, for instance, the man she married hadn't really died, but had only disappeared for the statutory period of seven years. That makes a presumption of death. It's only a presumption. If the man showed up, alive and well, he'd still be her husband."
Moxley's eyes were glittering now with hostility.
"You seem to know a lot," he said, "for a friend."
Perry Mason's eyes were purposeful. "I'm learning more every minute," he commented.
"You've got a lot to learn yet."
"Such as?"
"Such as not butting into things that don't concern you." A telephone began to ring with mechanical regularity, a steady insistence. Moxley wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, hesitated for several seconds, then walked warily around Mason to the telephone. He picked up the receiver with his left hand, clamped the last two fingers of the hand against the rubber mouthpiece, raised the receiver to his ear, the telephone to his lips. "What is it?" he asked.
The receiver made rasping, metallic noises. "Not now," Moxley said. "I've got visitors… I tell you, not now… You should know who the visitor is… I say you should. I'm not mentioning any names, but you can draw your own conclusions… He's a lawyer. His name is Mason."
Perry Mason jumped to his feet. "If that's Rhoda," he said, "I want to talk with her."
He strode toward the man at the telephone. Moxley's face twisted with rage. He doubled his right hand into a fist, shouted, "Get back!"
Mason continued to advance. Moxley grabbed the telephone in his right hand, the receiver in his left, started to hang up. "Rhoda," called Perry Mason in a loud voice, "telephone my office!"
Moxley slammed the receiver back into position. His face twisted into a snarl of hatred. "Damn you!" he said. "You've got no business butting into this."
Mason shrugged his shoulders, said, "I've told you what I wanted to say," put on his hat, turned his back on Moxley and walked slowly down the long flight of stairs. Moxley came to the head of the stairs, stood staring with silent hostility at the broad shoulders of the departing attorney. Mason slammed the front door shut, stepped into his cab, drove three blocks to a drug store and telephoned Della Street. "Anything new?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, "we've chased back the records on Rhoda Montaine. She was Rhoda Lorton, wife of Gregory Lorton, and Gregory Lorton died in February of nineteen hundred and twentynine of pneumonia. The attending physician was Dr. Claude Millsap. He signed the death certificate."
"Where does Dr. Millsap live?"
"The Teresita Apartments— nineteen twentyeight Beechwood Street."
"What else?" he asked.
"We've traced the gun that was in the purse."
"What did you find out?"
"The gun," she said, "was sold to Claude Millsap, who gave the address as nineteen twentyeight Beechwood Street."
Perry Mason gave a low whistle. "Anything else?" he asked.
"That's all so far. Drake wants to know how much work you want him to do."