Drake grinned. “That’s the hell of it; they can’t. You can imagine how Hamilton Burger, the district attorney, feels. He’s biting his fingernails back to the knuckles.”
Mason was thoughtful. “If that gun was found under Norda Allison’s pillow it was planted there. She left that house early in the morning and went to a hotel. Do you think she’d have gone away and left a gun under the pillow?”
“Save it for the jury,” Drake said, “don’t try it on a detective with a bad stomach.”
“What’s the physical history of the gun?” Mason asked.
“It was purchased by Barton Jennings. He doesn’t have a permit. He used it on a camping trip up in Idaho. He was hunting and said he wanted to take along a .22 to get some game.”
“How does he explain its being under Norda Allison’s pillow?”
“He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t have to.”
“It was his gun,” Mason said. “It should have been in his possession. It’s up to him to explain. Where did he keep it?”
“In a bureau drawer in the room where they put Norda Allison for the night.”
“And very conveniently left the gun in the drawer for her to find?”
“That’s their story.”
“That’s a hell of a story,” Mason said. “Anything else, Paul?”
“Yeah. I’ve got the names of the people who were with Mervin Selkirk up in San Francisco. That is, a newspaper reporter up there got them.”
“Go on,” Mason said.
“Well, Mervin Selkirk hit this fellow with brass knuckles. They’ve now established that as a fact. Some inoffensive bird named Benedict was the target. Selkirk had the brass knuckles and he was laying for Benedict. He socked the guy and then slipped the brass knuckles to this other chap who pretended he didn’t want to have his name involved as a witness and got the hell out of there.”
“You got the story?” Mason asked.
“I’ve got the story. So have the police. So have the newspapers.”
“How did you get it?”
“I got it after the reporters dug out the facts. My San Francisco correspondent knew I was working on the case. I was trying to get some angles up there and they called me as soon as it broke.”
“What’s the name of the fellow who went out with the brass knuckles?” Mason asked.
“Nick Fallon,” Drake said. “His full name is Arturas Francisco Fallon, but Nick is a nickname. He’s the guy who furnished the brass knuckles. Selkirk knew he had them; said he wanted to borrow them; had them in his pocket; stuck his foot out when Benedict walked by. Then when Benedict stumbled, he began cussing him and as Benedict straightened up to show a little indignation, Selkirk cracked him on the jaw, then slipped the knuckles back to Fallon — Fallon knew what he was supposed to do right quick. He got out of there fast.”
Mason digested that information, turned to Della Street, said, “Okay, Della, let’s go.”
“Dancing?” she asked.
Mason shook his head. “Come on,” he said.
“Where will you be?” Drake asked.
“We’ll be in touch with you, Paul. Keep on the job. Get all the information you can. What have they done with Norda Allison?”
“They’re booking her for suspicion of murder.”
“Find out anything about Robert Selkirk, the seven-year-old son of Mervin by his former marriage?”
“Not yet,” Drake said. “He’s supposed to be on some kind of a camping trip. He and his dog went out with a Scout group of some sort. They’re on a two- or three-day camping trip.”
“I have a tip he’s not with that group,” Mason said.
“Then I’ve sure sent a man on a wild-goose chase,” Drake told him. “He’s rented a jeep and is going in over mountain roads. I told him to find out if Robert was with the group, then get to the nearest phone and let me know.”
“When will you be hearing from him?”
“Probably within an hour.”
“We’ll call you back,” Mason said. “Come on, Della.”
They rode down in the elevator.
“How,” Mason asked, “would you like to pose as my wife?”
Her eyes were without expression. “How long?” she asked tonelessly.
“An hour or two.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to borrow a baby.”
“Oh, are we?”
“And then phone for a baby sitter,” Mason said. “Know anybody in your apartment house who would co-operate?”
Della Street thought things over for a moment, then said, “Well... there’s a grass widow on the lower floor... the baby’d be asleep.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “We’ll see if we can fix it up.”
She laughed enigmatically, said, “I thought for a moment your intentions were... skip it.”
Mason drove her to her apartment house, opened the door of the car. She jumped out on the other side. “Let’s go.”
They went up to Della’s apartment. Della excused herself and a moment later came back with a woman of about her own age.
“This is Mrs. Colton, Mr. Mason. I’ve asked her if we could borrow her baby and... well, she wanted to look you over.”
“We need a baby sitter,” Mason said, “and I want it to look convincing. You can stay out in the hall if you want.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said, laughing. “I just wanted to size up the situation. It’s such an unusual request.”
“She’s asleep now,” Della Street explained, “but we can move her bed in here or we could put her in my bed.”
“It’s going to look rather crowded for a couple and a baby,” Mason pointed out.
“You ought to see my apartment if you think this one would look crowded,” Mrs. Colton said.
Della Street looked at Mason and raised her eyebrows. Mason nodded.
“Well, thanks a lot, Alice,” Della said. “If you don’t mind, we’ll bring her in.”
“Need help?” Mason asked.
“With the crib, yes,” Mrs. Colton said. “I think we’d better bring her up in the crib. In that way we won’t waken her — I hope.”
Mason went to Mrs. Colton’s apartment. The woman, Della Street and Mason carried the crib with the sleeping child to Della Street’s apartment.
Mason seated himself, thumbed through the pages of the telephone book, got the number of the Nite-Out Agency and entered it in his notebook.
“You’d better call me if she wakens,” Alice Colton said. “She knows you, Della, but if she should waken and find herself in a strange apartment, she... well, I’d like to be there.”
“Don’t worry,” Della said. “We’ll call you. We just want to use her for a short time for... look, Alice, why don’t you stay right here with us?”
“Would it be all right if I did?”
“Sure it would,” Della said. “Only just be careful to appear as a friend of ours and not as her mother. For the purposes of this masquerade I want to be the mother of the baby.”
She turned toward Perry Mason and elevated her eyebrows.
Mason nodded, picked up the telephone, dialed the number of the agency.
“Hello,” he said, when a voice answered. “We find ourselves confronted with an emergency. We need a baby sitter right away and it may be she will have to stay here all night. I’m not certain.
“Now we’re willing to pay forty dollars for the right person, if she’ll be willing to stay all night.”
The voice of the woman at the agency was reassuring. “That will be quite satisfactory. I’m certain we can get you a reliable sitter for that price.”
“Well now,” Mason told her, “there’s a problem. My wife is very nervous and we simply won’t feel satisfied if we leave the child with someone who is a total stranger.”
“Do you know any of our sitters?” the voice asked.