"No, Arthur isn't that kind."
"Okay, then," Perry Mason said. "You sat down and waited for Cartright, and then what happened?"
"After a while," she said, "I heard the taxicab come back. I don't know how long it was. I had lost all track of time. I was all broken up."
"All right," he told her, "go on from there."
"I went out, got into the taxicab and drove back to the vicinity of my hotel. Then I got out. I figured that no one would ever be able to trace me. I don't know how you found out about it."
"Did you know," said Perry Mason, "that you left a handkerchief in the taxicab?"
She stared at him with eyes that kept getting wider and more terrified.
"Good God, no!" she said.
"You did," he told her.
"Where is the handkerchief?"
"The police have it."
"How did they get it?"
"I gave it to them."
"You what?"
"I gave it to them," he said. "It came into my possession, and I didn't have any alternative but to surrender it to the police."
"I thought you were acting as my lawyer."
"I am."
"That doesn't sound like it. Good God, that's the worst evidence that they could get hold of! They'll be able to trace me through that handkerchief."
"That's all right," Perry Mason told her. "They're going to trace you anyway, and they're going to question you. When they question you, you can't afford to lie to them. And you can't afford to tell them the truth. You're in a jam, and you've got to keep quiet. Do you understand that?"
"But that's going to prejudice everybody against me — the police, the public, and everybody."
"All right," he told her, "that's what I'm coming to. Now, I had to surrender that handkerchief to the police because it was evidence. The police are on my trail in this thing and they'd like to catch me doing something that would make me an accessory after the fact. They're not going to have that pleasure. But you've got to use your wits in order to get yourself out of this mess.
"Now here's what you do: The police are going to come here. They're going to ask you all sorts of questions. You tell them that you won't answer any questions unless your lawyer is present. Tell them that your lawyer has advised you not to talk. Don't answer any questions whatever. You understand that?"
"Yes, that's what you told me before."
"Think you can do it?"
"I guess so."
"You've got to do it," he said. "There are a lot of loose angles about this thing I can't check up on. I don't want you to tell anything until I know the entire story, and know how the facts fit in."
"But it's going to prejudice the public. The newspapers will say that I refuse to talk."
Perry Mason grinned.
"Now," he said, "you're commencing to get down to brass tacks. That's what I came to see you about. Don't tell the police anything. Don't tell the newspapers anything. But do tell them both that you want to talk, but that I won't let you. Tell them that I have told you you can't say a word. Tell them that you want to. Tell them that you want to explain. Tell them that you'd like to call me up and talk with me; that you think you can get my permission to talk, and all that sort of stuff. They'll give you a telephone and let you talk with me. You plead with me over the telephone for permission to talk. Tell me that you'd like to explain at least what you're doing here in the city; what happened in Santa Barbara; what your plans were. Beg with me, plead with me. Get tears in your voice. Do anything you want to. But I'll sit tight and tell you that the minute you tell anybody anything, you've got to get another lawyer. Do you understand that?"
"Do you think that will work?" she asked.
"Sure it'll work," he said. "The newspapers have got to have something for a story. They'll try to get something else. If they can't get anything else, they'll pick on that and spread it all over the front page that you want to tell your story, and I won't let you."
"How about the police? Will they release me?"
"I don't know."
"Good heavens! You don't mean I'm going to be arrested? My God! I can't stand that! I could probably stand being questioned if they questioned me here in my room. But if they took me down to the jail, down to police headquarters, and questioned me, I'd go crazy. I simply can't stand anything like that, and I can't afford to be put on trial. You don't suppose there's any chance I'm going to be put on trial, do you?"
"Now, look here," he told her, getting to his feet and standing facing her, his eyes steady and insistent. "Don't pull that stuff with me. It doesn't get you anywhere. You're in a jam, and you know it. You went into your husband's house. You let yourself in with a passkey. You found him dead on the floor. You realized that he'd been murdered. There was a gun there. You didn't notify the police. You went to a hotel and registered under an assumed name. If you think you can pull a stunt like that, and not get taken down to police headquarters, you're crazy."
She started to cry.
"Tears aren't going to do you any good," he said, with brutal frankness.
"There's only one thing that'll do you any good, and that's using your noodle and following the instructions I give you. Don't ever admit that you were at the Breedmont Hotel, or that you were ever registered anywhere under an assumed name. Don't admit anything except that you have retained me, and that you won't answer any questions or make any statements unless I am present and advise you to do so. The only exception you make to that is to complain bitterly to the newspapers that you want to tell your story, and that I won't let you. Do you get all that?"
She nodded.
"All right," Mason said. "That disposes of the preliminaries. Now, there's one other thing…"
Knuckles sounded imperatively on the door of the room.
"Who knows you're here?" asked Perry Mason.
"No one," she said, "except you."
Perry Mason motioned her to keep silent. He stood staring at the door in frowning concentration.
The knocks were repeated, this time louder and with a peremptory impatience.
"I think," said Perry Mason, in a low tone of voice, "that you've got to get yourself together. Remember, what they do with you is entirely up to you. If you can keep your head, I can do you some good."
He walked to the door, twisted the bolt and opened it. Detective Sergeant Holcomb, flanked by two men, stared at Perry Mason in amazed surprise.
"You!" said the officer. "What are you doing here?"
"I," said Perry Mason, "am talking with my client, Bessie Forbes, widow of Clinton Forbes who lived at 4889 Milpas Drive under the name of Clinton Foley. Does that answer your question?"
Sergeant Holcomb pushed into the room.
"You're damn right it does," he said, "and I know now where you got that handkerchief. Mrs. Forbes, you're under arrest for the murder of Clinton Forbes, and I want to warn you that anything you say may be used against you."
Perry Mason stared with grimfaced hostility at the officer.
"That's all right," he said, "she won't say anything."
Chapter 15
Perry Mason entered his office, freshly shaved, eyes clear, step springy, to find Della Street engrossed with the morning newspapers.
"Well, Della," he said, "what's the news?"
She stared at him with a puzzled frown on her face.
"Are you going to let them do that?"
"Do what?"
"Arrest Mrs. Forbes?"
"I can't help it. They've already arrested her."
"You know what I mean. Are you going to let them charge her with murder and keep her in jail while her trial's coming up?"
"I can't help it."
"Yes, you can, too, you know you can."
"How?"
"You know as well as I do," she said, getting to her feet and pushing the paper across the surface of her desk, "that Arthur Cartright is the man who killed Clinton Foley, or Clinton Forbes, if you want to call him by his real name.