Mason frowned. “I can’t see anyone this morning, Paul. Perhaps this afternoon... how did she happen to come to you?”
“The telephone directory,” Drake explained. “Your office number is listed for daytime calls and then my number is given for night calls and on Saturdays. She called the office and sounded so worked up that I decided I’d talk with her. I hadn’t intended to pass her on to you, but I think you may want to talk with her, Perry.”
“What’s her name?”
“Norda Allison.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s quite a story. You’ll like her. She’s good-looking, clean-cut, fresh and unspoiled. And this trouble of hers has engulfed her. She feels she should go to the police, she thinks she’s probably in danger, and yet she doesn’t know just what to do.”
Mason hesitated a moment, then said, “All right, Paul, send her down. Tell her to knock on the door of the private office and I’ll let her in.”
“A young woman, I take it,” Della Street said. “I gather Paul Drake told you she was very good-looking.”
Mason raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How did you know that? Could you hear what he said?”
Della Street laughed. “You impressionable men! She’s sold Paul Drake and now she’s selling you.”
“It’ll only be a short time,” Mason promised. “We’ll give her fifteen or twenty minutes to tell her story, and then we’ll get on with the brief.”
Della Street smiled knowingly, made it a point to close her shorthand notebook, put the cap back on her pen.
“I see,” she said demurely.
A timid knock sounded at the door of Mason’s private office.
Della Street crossed over and opened the door.
“Good morning,” she said to Norda Allison. “I’m Della Street, Mr. Mason’s secretary, and this is Mr. Mason. What’s your name, please?”
Norda Allison stood in the doorway, seemingly in something of a daze. “I’m Norda Allison,” she said, “from San Francisco. I... oh, I’m so sorry to bother you this morning. Mr. Drake told me you were working behind closed doors on a most important matter, but... well, I’d always heard that if anyone got into trouble — that is, real serious trouble, Mr. Mason was the man to see, and...”
Her voice trailed away into silence.
Della Street, giving the visitor the benefit of a swift and professional appraisal, indicated her approval. “Come in, Miss Allison. Mr. Mason is very busy, but if you can tell your story just as succinctly as possible, perhaps he can help you. Please try and be brief.”
“But give us all the facts,” Mason warned.
Norda Allison seated herself, said, “Are you acquainted with the Selkirk family?”
“The Selkirks?” Mason asked. “Horace Livermore Selkirk?”
She nodded.
“He owns about half the city down here,” Mason said dryly. “What about him?”
“I was engaged to his son, Mervin.”
Mason frowned. “Mervin is in San Francisco, isn’t he?”
She nodded. “I’m from San Francisco.”
“All right, go ahead,” Mason said, “tell us what happened.”
She said, “Mervin has been married before. His wife, Lorraine, is now married to Barton Jennings. There was one child of the first marriage, Robert. I am very fond of him and I was, of course, fond of Mervin.”
Mason nodded.
Swiftly, Norda told Mason of her experiences with Mervin Selkirk, of her trip to Los Angeles, of spending the night at the Jennings’ house.
“I take it something happened at the house last night that upset you?” Mason asked.
She nodded. “I was nervous. I went to bed and took a sleeping pill. The doctor told me this campaign of sending me newspaper clippings was doing me more harm than I realized. He gave me some quieting pills to take at night when I felt on edge.
“Last night, after I found out what Lorraine really wanted, I was terribly upset. When that first pill didn’t quiet my nerves, I got up and took another. That really did the trick.”
Mason watched her shrewdly. “Something happened during the night?” he asked.
She nodded. “It was this morning. However, I did think I heard — a shot in the night.”
“A shot?” Mason asked.
She nodded. “At least I thought it was a shot. I started to get up, and then I heard a boy crying. I guess that must have been Robert, but that second sleeping pill really laid me out. I kept thinking I should get up, but put off doing so, and then I guess I just went back to sleep.”
“All right,” Mason said. “What happened when you finally wakened?”
“It was this morning, really early — I guess it must have been before six o’clock. I got up and there was no one around the house. I dressed and walked downstairs and opened the front door. I walked back to the patio. Robert’s tent was there, the flaps of the tent were open. There was a camp cot inside with a sleeping bag, but the tent was empty. Robert had left for his camping trip. The dog went with him.”
“What happened?” Mason asked. “Please tell me what upset you.”
“I saw an envelope on the grass under the cot in the tent,” she said. “It was an envelope exactly the same as the ones I had been receiving. My name was printed on it. Robert had started a letter to me.”
She opened her purse, handed Mason a sheet of paper which had words penciled on it in a childish scrawclass="underline"
Dear Aunt Norda:
I found this inveloape in the basment. It has your name on it. I will rite you and put it in. I want you to come see me. I am going to camp with Rover. I have a gun. We are all well. I love you.
Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Go on. What did you do after you found this envelope?”
Her lips tightened. “The stamp was uncanceled. My name and address were printed on it. It was exactly the same as the envelopes I had been receiving. Robert’s letter said he had found it in the basement. I tiptoed to the back door. There was a flight of stairs from the porch leading down to a rumpus room. Back of the rumpus room was a storeroom... well, it was there I found it.”
“Found what?”
“The printing press.”
“Do you mean the printing press that had been used to print the envelopes that you had been receiving in the mail?”
She nodded. “My name and my San Francisco address were still set in type on the press. The press was really a good grade of printing press, not just a toy. It had a round steel plate on top and there was printer’s ink on this plate. Every time the handle was depressed, the rubber rollers would move over this inked table and the table would make a part of a revolution. Then the rollers would go down over the type and back out of the way, and the envelope or paper would be pushed up against the type.”
“You examined the press?” Mason asked.
“Of course I looked at it. As I said, I’d been trying to find a printing press of that sort. After I’d complained to the postal authorities and... and it turned out Robert’s mother had given the child a press of that sort to play with and it was still in San Francisco... Of course, I went ahead and made the natural assumption that the envelopes had been printed on that press. That’s typical of the way Mervin loves to play with people.”
“Go on,” Mason said. “Tell me about the press you found this morning.”
“Well, this press had been freshly used. The ink was still sticky on it.”
“How do you know?”
She looked at the tip of her middle finger. “I touched it and fresh ink came off on my finger.”