“Could be,” Drake said. “They acted with that unmistakable air of authority. The porter said he didn’t think they looked like police.”
“They don’t any more,” Mason commented thoughtfully. “Good police detectives look like bankers or sales executives.”
Drake said, “Incidentally, Perry, I heard from the operative I sent up to the camp, where Robert and his dog were supposed to be.”
“They weren’t there?” Mason asked.
“Robert wasn’t there. He never did show up at the starting point. My man had a wild-goose chase: took a trip by automobile, then transferred to saddle horse, rode five miles over mountain trails, got bitten by a dog, turned around and rode the five miles back. He says the only two places he isn’t sore are on top of his head and the soles of his feet. He said that was some gathering of kids and dogs, mongrels, purebreds and general canines of all sizes. They’d started out with the dogs on leash, but after a while they just turned ’em loose. The guy in charge said they’d only had a couple of dog fights and then everything had worked out beautifully. The dogs seemed to enter into the spirit of the thing.
“The man in charge said Robert and his dog had been booked for the trip but hadn’t shown up. There were seven kids in all.”
Mason was thoughtful for a while, then said, “Keep a watch on Jennings, Paul. See what you can find out.”
“Something in particular?” Drake asked.
“If they started for Mexico City,” Mason said, “he undoubtedly arranged for some sort of a code signal, either by way of telephone or telegram, to let him know that they were safely outside the jurisdiction of the court. When he doesn’t hear from them, he’ll begin to get alarmed.
“In the meantime, if the police have moved in, they’ll be trying to find out just what it is Robert Selkirk did and just what it is he knows. I’m going to apply for a writ of habeas corpus for Norda Allison tomorrow morning.
“If the police have Robert, there’s no use trying to do anything more about him, but I sure would like to know whether they have him, and if so, what story they got. Any chance of finding out?”
Drake shook his head. “Not if they don’t want you to know, Perry. They’ll have Robert and the woman buried somewhere. They may tell Barton Jennings what has happened so he won’t be too nervous.”
“Suppose they do? Then what?” Mason asked.
“That’ll mean they’re all working hand in glove,” Drake said.
“And if they don’t?”
Drake grinned. “That’ll mean Robert has told his story to the police and the police don’t like it. Then they won’t be so certain Norda Allison is guilty.”
“Keep your operatives on Barton Jennings,” Mason said, “and if he begins to get a little restive and nervous, we’ll know that it’s time to rush a preliminary hearing for my client.”
Again the phone rang, again Drake picked up the receiver, said, “Hello,” listened in frowning concentration, asked a couple of questions, hung up the telephone and turned to Perry Mason. “This,” he said, “is completely cockeyed.”
“What is?”
“The printing press on which envelopes had been addressed to Norda Allison was found where it had been concealed out in some brush at the San Sebastian Country Club. It was on a lower level of the hill on which the clubhouse is situated. It’s about twenty yards from a service road which winds up to the back of the clubhouse through some thick brush. In an airline it’s about two hundred yards from the place where the body of Mervin Selkirk was found, but it’s out of sight of that location.
“And,” Drake went on before Mason could make any reply, “in the middle of the inked circular steel disc on top of the printing press was found a very nice imprint of the right middle finger of Norda Allison.”
“Well,” Mason said, “that opens up a lot of interesting possibilities.”
“Keep talking,” Drake said.
Mason was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “If Norda Allison’s story is true, she must have made that fingerprint on the printing press sometime early yesterday morning.”
“And Mervin Selkirk was killed sometime around two or three o’clock, according to the best estimate the police can get at the moment,” Drake said.
“Then the printing press must have been taken out to the Country Club after Selkirk’s death,” Mason said. “This may give us an opportunity to drag Barton Jennings right into the middle of it.”
Paul Drake said dryly, “You’re overlooking one thing, Perry.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re assuming your client is telling the truth about when that fingerprint got placed on the printing press.”
“I always assume my clients are telling the truth.”
“Yes, I know,” Drake retorted, “but figure it out, Perry. Suppose she found the printing press in his car, took it out, drove down the service road and hid it in the brush.”
Mason thought the thing over. “I think it’s quite apparent now that someone is trying to frame my client.”
“Famous last words,” Drake said ironically. “Incidentally, Mervin Selkirk kept a room at the San Sebastian Country Club. He’s been a member for several years. Two weeks ago he arranged for a room there. They have a couple of dozen they rent out, mostly on week ends. Mervin Selkirk said he wanted his by the month.”
Mason thought over Paul Drake’s statement, then abruptly turned to Della Street. “Come on, Della. We’re going to see Horace Livermore Selkirk and suggest that he file habeas corpus proceedings to force the authorities to surrender his grandson, Robert Selkirk.”
“You’re going to tell him what you know?” Della Street asked.
“Not only that, but I’m going to tell him what I surmise,” Mason said, grinning.
Chapter Twelve
Horace Livermore Selkirk’s house was spread out on the top of a sunny knoll.
The lower part of the knoll was parched and browned by the California dry-season sunlight, but the upper part which contained the house, the grounds and a small golf course, was dark with shade, green with grass, cool with the scent of growing vegetation. The house was of stainless steel, glass and aluminum.
The driveway wound up the slope until it came to the meshed wire fence which stretched a ten-foot barrier, topped with barbed wire. A caretaker’s cottage was just outside the electrically operated gate and Mason’s car came to a stop where the road narrowed in front of the gate.
The caretaker, a man in his early fifties with a deputy sheriff’s star pinned to his shirt, a belt with holstered gun and shells, came to the door and surveyed Mason and Della Street appraisingly.
“Perry Mason,” the lawyer said, “and this is my secretary. We want to see Mr. Selkirk.”
“What about?” the man asked.
“Mr. Selkirk will know when you mention the name.”
“We don’t disturb him unless we know what it’s about.”
Mason fixed the guard with cold eyes. “It’s about a matter in which he is very much interested,” he said. “I am Perry Mason and I wouldn’t have driven out here unless the matter was of considerable importance.”
“Why didn’t you telephone for an appointment?”
“Because I didn’t choose to,” Mason said. “I’m going to put some cards on the table and the manner in which Mr. Selkirk receives my information will depend on how many cards I put down.”
The man hesitated, said, “Just a minute,” stepped inside the house and picked up a telephone.
He spoke briefly, then a moment later hung up the telephone and pressed a button.
The huge steel gates moved silently back on their heavy roller bearings. The caretaker motioned Mason on and the lawyer sent his car through the gates up along the scenic driveway to the parking place in front of the house.