Mason interrupted her, his voice thick with the accents of a man who has been drinking heavily. “Thash a’right, sister. Go right ahead. Have you li’l fun. Betcha you don’t know what I’ve been doin’. I’ve been shelebratin’ a weddin’ party. Rodney Wenshton got married. Li’l Doris Wickford. Nishe girl, too. Lotsh champagne! Ran onto ’em coupla blocks down street. Never dranksh sho much champagne ’n all my life. Now, don’t try talk no bus’ness with me now. Tomorrow — tomorrow — I tol’ you I’d try gettin’ Junior out tomorrow — hic, yesh, tomorrow — tomorrow I be a’right. Goo’-by!”
Mason dropped the receiver into place, flung off the covers, stripped off his pajamas, wrapped a robe around him, pushed his feet into slippers, and raced down the corridor to where a pay telephone was ensconced. Mason dropped a coin, dialed Operator, and said, “Get me police headquarters just as quickly as you can. This is an emergency. Rush that call.”
Almost at once, Mason heard a voice saying, “Yes, this is headquarters.”
“Perry Mason. Is Lieutenant Tragg where I can get in touch with him?”
“No, Lieutenant Tragg’s off duty. He... What’s that?... Just a minute... Oh, hello. They say he just came in from San Francisco. Want to talk with him?”
“Get him at once,” Mason said. “It’s important as the devil.”
“Hold the line.”
A few seconds elapsed, then Mason heard Tragg’s crisply hostile voice saying, “Yes, Mason, this is Tragg.”
“Lieutenant, don’t stop to argue. Throw out a call lor radio cars that are in the vicinity. Send them rushing to the Gentrie residence. No sirens. Handle it very quietly, but get into that house and hold every person there until you can get there. Don’t let anyone have a chance to kill anyone else or to commit suicide.”
“What’s the idea?” Tragg asked.
“Dammit,” Mason said irritably, “I told you not to argue. Do what I tell you to, and you’ll be having the congratulations of the chief tomorrow. Fall down on it, and you’ll be on the carpet right. I’ll meet you there.”
Mason didn’t stop to give Tragg any further opportunity to argue, but slammed up the telephone receiver; then sprinted back down the corridor to his room. He flung off the robe and dressed in frenzied haste. When he had his clothes on, he paused long enough to dial the number of Della Street’s apartment.
“Hello,” he heard Della Street’s sleep-drugged voice saying.
“Wake up,” he told her. “The lid’s blown off.”
“Who?... What?... Oh, yes,” she said, crisp wakefulness flowing into her voice. “Where are you?”
“Just leaving for the Gentrie house. Get a taxi and get up there as fast as you can. Bring a notebook. Better bring a portable typewriter. We might even get a confession out of it. You can’t tell. The criminal seems properly repentant; but every second counts now. I’ve got to rush up there. Be seeing you.”
Mason dropped the receiver, picked up his hat, and dashed out of the apartment without even taking time to switch off the light.
Through an arrangement with the garage attendant, Mason’s car was parked in a position where it was always ready to go, and Mason had only to fling open the door, jump into the seat, and step on the starter. The garage-man watched him careen around the corner of the driveway, shook his head dubiously; then looked at his watch. It was five minutes past five in the morning.
“That guy should join a union,” the attendant muttered to himself.
Two radio cars were already parked in front of the Gentrie residence when Mason arrived, and, as he was switching off the ignition to his car, Lieutenant Tragg, in one of the fast cars of the Homicide Squad, came skidding around the corner.
Mason paused at the foot of the front steps to beckon to Tragg. Tragg, running across to join him, said, “I certainly hope you’re not giving me a bum steer on this, Mason.”
“I hope so, too,” Mason said. “Let’s go.”
Tragg tried the front door. It was unlocked. The men pushed their way into a strange gathering. Four radio officers were guarding the members of the Gentrie household: The younger children, huddled and frightened; Rebecca, swathed in a heavy robe, her hair in curlers, her face without make-up, her eyes glittering with indignation; Mrs. Gentrie, trying to take things philosophically; Arthur Gentrie, clad in pajamas and bathrobe, managing a prodigious yawn as Mason and Lieutenant Tragg entered the room.
“Perhaps,” Rebecca snapped to Lieutenant Tragg, “you’ll be good enough to tell me what this is about.”
Tragg made a graceful little bow, turned to Mason, and said, “Perhaps, Counselor, you’ll be good enough to tell me what this is about.”
Mason grinned with relief as he saw the little household assembled under the eyes of the radio officers. “My telephone rang a few minutes ago,” he said, “and Mrs. Gentrie confessed to having committed the murders and said she was going to shoot herself.”
Mrs. Gentrie said promptly, “Why, I never did any such thing. I absolutely deny it. You’re crazy, Mr. Mason.”
Mason grinned at her. “It was your voice all right. By pretending to be so drunk that I couldn’t have been trusted to remember what happened or what was being said over the telephone, I threw the contemplated suicide out of schedule.”
“I tell you I didn’t telephone you,” Mrs. Gentrie said indignantly. “If you say that I did, you’re saying something that’s not so.”
“Of course,” Mason went on, “your voice sounded somewhat strained, which was only natural in view of the fact that you were hysterical, but there were certain little mannerisms of expression which were undoubtedly yours.”
“You’re crazy,” Mrs. Gentrie announced flatly.
“You also told me,” Mason said, “something which came as a very valuable piece of information — that Lieutenant Tragg had found the can I had planted on the shelf, and removed the top, that he had then placed another decoy can there. That explained a feature of the case which had hitherto puzzled me.”
Mrs. Gentrie said, “That’s true about lieutenant Tragg. He told me not to say anything about the tin; so I didn’t. I didn’t have any idea you’d put the tin there.”
Tragg turned to Mason. “You planted that?” he asked.
Mason nodded. “To help clear up the case. I could have had it solved earlier if it hadn’t been for your interference there.”
“But I put a tin back to take its place,” Tragg said, “and had the same code message copied and placed in the lid.”
Mason smiled. “But don’t you see that the person for whom the message was intended was present when you opened the tin, and so actually got the message without the necessity of having the can removed from the shelf. You crossed me up there, Lieutenant.”
Tragg frowned, looked at Mrs. Gentrie, and said, “Mrs. Gentrie, I’m going to ask you...”
“You don’t need to,” she flared. “I’ve put up with a lot of official stupidity and a lot of bungling in this case. I realize that people can’t be perfect, but I’ve never seen such utter ignorance as...”
Mason interrupted to say to Lieutenant Tragg, “Of course, she’ll make all sorts of denials — now. She wanted to lure me down here so that she could kill me — probably not here in the house, but maybe as I left my apartment. You see, she’d got that message and believed what it said. And, in case you haven’t as yet figured out the code...”