Mason said, “I’ve come to keep my appointment.”
He realized then that she was no longer coming toward him, but was backing away under cover of the darkness, moving quickly, trying not to make any noise, yet he could distinctly hear the sound of groping motion. His fingers, sliding along the wall, found the button of the light switch. He pushed it.
It was a light on the screened porch, but the illumination from it, seeping through the open door and into the kitchen, gave sufficient light so that they could see each other.
She was evidently young. Her body held the lithe lines of resilient youth. It was impossible to see the expression on her face, but he could see the arm which was stretched out in front, and the ominous glint of metal in the hand, which was extended toward him.
Mason said, “Don’t be foolish. Put down the gun.”
The hand didn’t so much as waver. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I’m here to keep an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“With the woman who made it. Are you she?”
“I most certainly am not. Stand to one side and let me out.”
“You don’t live here?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “No.”
Mason stood to one side. “Go ahead,” he said.
She came toward him cautiously. Light coming through the doorway struck her face. He could see deep brown eyes, a rather short, pert nose, light golden hair which fluffed out from under the rolled-up brim of a small hat perched jauntily on one side of her head. She was rather tall, and her short skirt disclosed legs which had a long graceful sweep from knee to ankle.
“Just keep back out of the way,” she warned, holding the gun on him as she came forward.
“Why the artillery?” Mason asked, trying to trap her into conversation.
She did not deign to answer his question, simply kept moving forward with that slow, wary approach as though she were stalking him.
“Don’t get nervous and pull the trigger on that gun,” Mason said apprehensively.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Then look out for that chair in front of you,” he warned. “You’ll hit that, the gun will go off, and...”
She turned her head slightly in the direction indicated, and Mason’s long arms shot out. His left hand clamped down over her right wrist. He felt her muscles bunch into tension. His fingers squeezed the strength out of her wrist. When he felt her fingers grow limp, he took the revolver from her hand, and slipped it into the side pocket of his coat.
The realization that she was disarmed gave her the strength of panic. She jerked her arm, trying to free her hand. When Mason held tight, she raised her right leg high, and kicked out at him hard, driving the heel of her shoe toward the pit of his stomach.
Mason swung to one side, jerking on her wrist as he moved. He threw her off balance and toward him. Then as she lowered her leg to keep from falling, Mason grabbed her around the waist with his left hand, circled her shoulders with his right, pinning her arms to her sides. “Now let’s be sensible,” he said.
He could feel the resistance drain out of her. The slender body crushed up against his grew limp.
“No kicking now,” Mason warned, and relaxed his grip·
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My name’s Mason. I’m a lawyer. You didn’t telephone me?”
“You’re — you’re Perry Mason?”
“Yes.”
She clung to his arm. There was something of desperation in that grip. He could feel the tremor of tortured nerves in the tips of her fingers. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“You’re the one who telephoned for me?” Mason asked.
“No.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I... I came here — to meet someone.”
“Whom?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. I think now it was a trap. I want to get out. Can’t we leave here?”
Mason said, “I was to meet someone here. Suppose you tell me who you are?”
“I’m Opal Sunley — the one who called the police yesterday morning.”
“Whom were you going to meet here?”
“Mrs. Perlin.”
“So was I,” Mason said. “Suppose we wait together? I think perhaps she wanted to see us both together. She told me she was going to make a confession.”
“She won’t make it now,” the girl said.
“Why not?”
Mason could feel her trembling. It was more than mere nervousness. It was trembling of one who’s in the grip of a fear which threatens momentarily to become blind panic.
“Go on,” Mason said. “Where is she?”
The girl’s fingers were digging into his arm. “She’s — she’s in the bedroom. She’s dead.”
Mason said, “Let’s look.”
“No, no! You go alone!”
“I’m not leaving you at the moment. You’ll have to come along.”
“I can’t. I can’t face it. I can’t go back there!”
Mason slid his arm around her waist. “Come on,” he said. “Buck up. It’s something you’ve got to do. The quicker you start, the easier it will be.”
He accompanied his words with a gentle pressure, urging her toward the door at the other end of the kitchen. He opened this door, and struck a match. The flickering flame showed him a light switch. He pushed it. The room blazed with a light which seemed dazzling. The furniture was of that nondescript variety which robbed the room of personality. He knew then that this was merely a house, cheaply furnished, and rented furnished.
“Where is she?” Mason asked.
“Down... the corridor.”
The dining room had two doors. One of them opened into a corridor, the other into a living room. The corridor then ran the length of the house to broaden into a reception room by the front door. Mason switched on a light in the hallway. On the right were two doors which apparently led to bedrooms with a bath in between. Mason moved cautiously along this hallway.
“Which bedroom?” he asked.
“The front.”
Mason kept gently urging her forward. He opened the door of the bedroom, pushed a light switch, and paused, surveying the interior. Opal Sunley jerked back away from the door.
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t! I won’t! Don’t try to make me!”
“Okay,” Mason said, “take it easy.”
The woman who lay sprawled on the floor in front of the dressing table had quite evidently fallen from the padded bench. She was dressed for the street, even to her hat, which had been pushed to one side of her head when she fell. She was lying on her left side, her left arm stretching out, her left hand clutching at the carpet. The fingers were short, stubby, and competent. The nails were close-cut, uncolored. The right arm lay across the body. The fingers of the right hand still clutched the handle of a grim snub-nosed revolver. She had evidently been shot once, just slightly to one side of the left breast.
Mason walked across the room, bent over, and placed his forefinger on the woman’s left wrist.
The young woman in the doorway stood staring as though torn between a desire to run screaming from the house, and an urge to see every move that was made.
Mason straightened from his examination. “All right,” he said, “we’ll have to notify the police.”
“No, no, no!” she cried. “You mustn’t! You can’t!”
“Why not?”
“It... They wouldn’t understand. It...”
“Wouldn’t understand what?”
“How I happened to be here.”
“How did you happen to be here?”
“She telephoned me, and told me to come.”
“She telephoned me, and told me to come,” Mason said.