"That's right," Perry Mason said. "I'm interested in that cook. What happened to him?"
"They made some kind of a deal with him, by which he agreed to be deported. I don't know just what it was. I think that Clinton Foley got in touch with the Federal authorities to find out what it was all about; found there was no question but what the boy was in this country illegally. So Foley worked out a deal by which the Chink was to be deported at once, without being held for further examination or trial, and gave him enough money to set himself up in some sort of business in Canton. Our money buys a lot of Chinese money, at the present rate of exchange, and money means a lot more in China."
"Find out anything else about him?" asked Perry Mason. "That is, the cook?"
"I found out that there's something funny about the tipoff that caused the Federal authorities to go out there and round him up."
"What sort of a tipoff was it?"
"I don't know exactly, but, from all I can gather, some man telephoned and said that he understood Ah Wong was in the country without a proper certificate; that he didn't want to disclose his identity or have his name used in any way, but he wanted something done about it."
"Chinese or white man?" asked Perry Mason.
"Apparently a white man, and apparently rather well educated. He talked like an educated man."
"Well," said Mason, "go on."
"That's all there is, definite," said the detective, "but one of the clerks in the immigration office handled that anonymous tip, and also talked with Foley over the telephone. She's got a goofy idea that it was Foley who gave the tipoff."
"Why would Foley do that?" Mason asked.
"Search me," said the detective, "probably there's nothing to it. I'm simply telling you what the clerk told me."
Perry Mason took a package of cigarettes from his pocket, gave one to Della Street, then to Paul Drake. He lit Della's cigarette, then Drake's, and would have lit his own from the same match, but Della Street stopped him.
He smoked in silence for several minutes.
"Well," said Drake at length, "what are we here for?"
Perry Mason said, "I want you to get handwriting specimens from Paula Cartright; from Cartright's housekeeper; and from this woman, Thelma Benton. I'm going to get a sample from Bessie Forbes."
"What's the idea?" asked the detective.
"I'm not ready to talk yet," Mason said. "I want you to wait here for a while, Paul." And he began pacing the floor, restlessly.
The others watched him in silence, respecting the concentration of his thoughts. They finished their cigarettes, pinched out the stubs. Mason still continued his restless pacing.
The telephone rang after some ten or fifteen minutes, and Della Street answered it, then looked up to Perry Mason, holding the receiver in her hand.
"It's Miss Sibley," she said, "and she wants me to tell you that she did exactly as you instructed, and that everything is all right."
"Has she got the handkerchief?" asked Perry Mason.
Della Street nodded. Perry Mason showed excitement.
"Tell her to get a cab and come over to the office right away," he said; "to bring that handkerchief with her, and pay the cab driver to make time. But be sure and tell her not to get that Checker cab. Get another cab."
"What's it all about?" asked Paul Drake.
Perry Mason chuckled.
"You stick around about ten minutes," he said, "and you'll find out. I'm about ready to let the lid off."
Paul Drake settled back in the big leather chair, slid his long legs over the arm of the chair, put a cigarette in his mouth, and scraped a match on the sole of his shoe.
"Well," he said, "I can stick it out if you can. I guess you lawyers never sleep."
"It's not so bad after you get used to it," Mason said, and resumed his pacing of the floor. Once or twice he chuckled, but, for the most part, he paced in silence.
It was following one of those chuckles, that Paul Drake drawled a question.
"Going to let me in on the joke, Perry?"
"I was simply thinking," Perry Mason said, "how delightfully surprised Detective Sergeant Holcomb is going to be."
"Over what?" asked Drake.
"Over the information I'm going to give him," Mason replied, and resumed his steady pacing of the floor.
The knob on the outer door rattled, and there was a gentle knock on the panels.
"See who it is, Della," said the lawyer.
Della Street went swiftly to the door, opened it, and let Mae Sibley into the room.
"Have any trouble?" asked Perry Mason.
"Not a bit," she said. "I just told him what you told me to say, and he took me for granted. He looked me over rather closely, and asked me a few questions. Then he took the handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to me. He was slick enough to smell the handkerchief and then smell my perfume, to make sure they matched."
"Good girl," Mason said, "and you gave him the name of Agnes Brownlie?"
"Yes. And the address, Breedmont Hotel — just like you told me."
"All right," Perry Mason said, "you get one hundred and fifty dollars now, and one hundred and fifty dollars a little later. You understand that you're not to say a word about this."
"Of course."
Perry Mason counted out the money.
"You want a receipt?" she asked.
"No," he told her.
"When do I get the other hundred and fifty?"
"When the job's finished."
"What else have I got to do?"
"Perhaps nothing. Perhaps you'll have to go to court and testify."
"Go to court and testify?" she said. "Over what?"
"Over exactly what happened."
"Not tell any lies?"
"Certainly not."
"How soon will you know?" she asked.
"Probably in a couple of weeks. You've got to keep in touch with me. That's all. You'd better get out of here now, because I don't want you to be seen around the office."
She extended her hand. "Thanks a lot for the work, Mr. Mason," she said. "It's appreciated."
"You don't know how much I appreciate what you've done," he told her.
It was evident that there was a vast change in the lawyer's manner, a relief that was disclosed in his bearing. He turned to Della Street, as the door of the outer office closed on Mae Sibley.
"Get police headquarters," he said, "and get Detective Sergeant Holcomb on the line."
"It's pretty late," she reminded him.
"That's all right. He works nights."
Della Street got the connection through, then looked up at her employer.
"Here's Detective Sergeant Holcomb on the line," she said.
Perry Mason strode to the telephone. He was smiling as he picked up the receiver.
"Listen, Sergeant," he said; "I've got some information for you. I can't give it all to you, but I can give you some of it… Yes, some of it is professional confidence, and I can't give you that. I think I understand the duties of an attorney and the rights and liabilities of an attorney. An attorney is supposed to guard the confidences of his client, but he's not supposed to compound a crime. He's not supposed to suppress any evidence. He can keep anything that his client tells him to himself, provided it's something that was necessary to a preparation of the case he's handling or related to the advice he's giving a client…"
Mason ceased talking for a minute and frowned while the receiver made squawking noises. Then he said in a conciliatory tone: "That's all right, Sergeant. Keep your shirt on. I'm not making any dissertation on the law; I'm simply telling you so that you'll understand that which I'm going to tell you now. It happens that I've just found out that a Checker cab, number 86C, took a woman to Clinton Foley's house at about twentyfive minutes past seven. The woman was there for about fifteen or twenty minutes. The woman left a handkerchief in the taxicab. Now that handkerchief undoubtedly is evidence. That handkerchief is now in my possession. I'm not at liberty to explain to you how it came in my possession, but it's here, and I'm going to send it over to police headquarters… all right, you can send over for it if you want. I won't be here, but my secretary, Della Street, will be here, and she'll give it to you… yes, the taxicab driver can undoubtedly identify it… I can tell you this much: the woman who rode in the taxicab dropped a handkerchief, or left it in the cab. The driver found it. Later on, the handkerchief came into my possession. I can't tell you how I got it… No, damn it, I can't tell you that… No, I won't tell you that… I don't give a damn what you think. I know my rights. That handkerchief is evidence, and you're entitled to it, but any of the knowledge that I have received from a client is a sacred communication, and you can't drag it out of me with all the subpoenas on earth."