“In other words, you mean that they’ll anticipate John and Nadine are getting married?”
“The police aren’t fools,” Mason said. “That idea is in their minds right now. It probably occurred to them at least an hour ago.”
“What can they do?”
“Plenty.”
“What?”
“For one thing they can cover the state line checking stations. They can put out a broadcast in Las Vegas and Yuma. The only chance John had of marrying Nadine was to have chartered a plane and got to Yuma before the officers missed him.”
Della Street, seeming close to tears, said, “That’s what comes of my interfering. I didn’t think far enough. If I’d waited and let you tell him, you’d have told him to get a plane and—”
Mason said, “A lawyer isn’t supposed to take steps to suppress evidence.”
“Well, you could have told him indirectly. I keep thinking that we’ll hear any minute. Oh, I hope they made it.”
Mason resumed pacing the floor.
“Paul Drake will know?” Della asked.
“Paul Drake’s sitting right on top of everything,” Mason said. “He’ll know what happens.”
“Chief,” she said, “how many tablets were in that bottle of cyanide the police uncovered?”
“We don’t know,” Mason said. “The police aren’t taking us into their confidence — not as yet.”
“When will we know?”
“If Hamilton Burger is smart we’ll know when the case comes to trial.”
“You think it’ll come to trial?”
“It’ll come to trial.”
“Even if Nadine and John get married?”
Mason nodded.
“But if they do get married, if John can’t testify, then you can beat the case?”
Mason said, “There’s something wrong somewhere. We have too many cyanide tablets. Remember that the police recovered one bottle from the lake. John dumped one bunch of tablets down the toilet — at least he says he did. That makes two bottles of cyanide tablets. Then we have one bottle of sugar substitute tablets that was thrown out in the lake. That’s three bottles altogether, one of them containing harmless tablets, two containing cyanide.”
“But Jackson Newburn threw that bottle of sugar substitute out in the lake—”
“And he’s going to deny it,” Mason said. “The police would like to pin that on me. They won’t be very tough with Jackson Newburn — if he can think up a nice story to tell the police about how it happened he was down at the High-Tide Motel to meet Nadine.”
“But can he do that, Chief? Can he tell a lie that won’t have loose ends you can pick up?”
Before Mason could answer, the telephone rang sharply.
Della Street snatched it up. “Hello. Yes, Paul.”
The receiver made squawking noises.
Mason, standing by the corner of the desk, anxiously watching Della Street, needed no words to tell him what had happened. He saw the dismay on her face.
“Oh, Paul,” she said chokingly. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
Mason walked over to the hat closet, took his hat and moved over to the light switch.
“All right, I’ll tell him,” Della Street said tearfully and hung up.
“Paul wants us to stop by his office,” she said. “They caught Nadine and John Locke halfway to Yuma. The damn fool was driving his own car. The police had the license number. Police are triumphant. They have given a statement to the press.”
Della Street came toward Mason.
Mason clicked the light switch, circled Della Street’s waist with his arm, let her cry on his shoulder, there in the warm darkness of the law office.
Chapter Thirteen
Paul Drake entered Mason’s private office shortly after noon, greeted Della and tossed the early editions of the newspapers on Mason’s desk.
“How bad is it?” Mason asked without looking at the papers.
“They really went to town,” Drake said. “Hamilton Burger has been strictly ethical. He has smugly refused to make any comment, but Sergeant Holcomb of the Homicide Squad was fortunately available and he made a statement.”
“In Hamilton Burger’s office?” Mason asked.
“In Hamilton Burger’s office, in the presence of a quote beaming Hamilton Burger, who was seen unconsciously nodding his head from time to time unquote.”
“How very interesting,” Mason said. “How bad is it?”
“It couldn’t be worse. Sergeant Holcomb stated that he had handled enough homicide cases in which Perry Mason was the attorney so that ingenious attempts to throw him off the trail were almost routine. The phony bottle of evidence with the sugar substitute pills didn’t fool the police for a minute.
“They realized that Nadine must have secured cyanide from the laboratory in which John Locke was working, so when John Locke failed to show up at his apartment, police started a thorough investigation. They found that John Locke had been met at his favorite restaurant by a man who answered the description of Perry Mason.
“By ten o’clock, when police found that it was impossible to locate either Nadine Farr or John Locke, the versatile Sergeant Holcomb furnished the answer. Establishing roadblocks on the Las Vegas highway and the Yuma highway, the police managed to locate the eloping couple just outside of Indio. It wasn’t even necessary for them to use the roadblock because John Locke was driving his own car and the police had secured the description of that car, together with its license number, and had alerted the highway patrol.”
“How clever,” Mason said sarcastically.
“Oh, the boys are really basking in the sunlight of their own self-approval,” Drake said. “It’s nauseating. There are pictures of a glowing district attorney who adheres to professional ethics by making no comment. There are pictures of a glowing Sergeant Holcomb smoking a big black cigar. There are pictures of the tearful couple as they were apprehended on their way to Yuma to be married.”
“Modesty never was one of Sergeant Holcomb’s virtues,” Mason said.
“Notice how nicely Hamilton Burger beams,” Drake said.
“Let him beam,” Mason said. “What about Jackson Newburn — anything?”
“There’s silence, a complete unfathomable silence,” Drake said. “You want to read this bunch of stuff?”
“Not now,” Mason told him. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Paul. We’ve had a knockout punch. We’re down for the count of nine. We’re going to get up and we’re going to go on fighting, but it hurts.”
“You’re damn right it hurts,” Drake admitted.
“What about Nadine’s background?” Mason asked. “You said you had the dope on it.”
Drake said, “This whole thing goes back some twenty-five years to a time when Nadine Farr’s mother was employed by Mosher Higley as a confidential secretary.”
“Good heavens,” Della Street exclaimed, “then you mean that Nadine Farr may really be the daughter of Mosher Higley?”
“Not so fast, not so fast,” Drake warned. “You’re getting a couple of carts before the horse, and getting the wrong horse into the harness.”
Mason grinned. “Tell it your own way, Paul, but let’s have it fast.”
Drake said, “Mosher Higley and a man by the name of Wesley Mann Jennings were in partnership in a construction company. Rose Farr was the confidential secretary and office manager. She carried figures in her head that it would take the bookkeeping department half an hour to dig out. She could answer the phone, reach decisions, relay messages, and get things done in a matter of seconds. She knew more about the business than anyone in it.”