"This is a new portable," she said.
"Exactly," he told her, "and I'm going to put some of the type a little out of line, so it won't look quite so new."
He went to the machine and started bending the type bars.
"What's the idea?" she asked.
"We're going to write a confession."
"What sort of a confession?"
"A confession," he said, "to the murder of Paula Cartright."
She stared at him with wide, startled eyes.
"Good heavens!" she said, "and then what are you going to do with the confession?"
"We're going to mail it," he said, "to the city editor of The Chronicle."
She remained motionless, staring at him with apprehensive eyes, then suddenly took a deep breath, walked over to her chair, sat down and slid some of the sheets of paper into the portable typewriter.
"Afraid, Della?" he asked.
"No," she said. "If you tell me to do it, I'm going to do it."
"I think it's skating on pretty thin ice," he told her, "but I think I can get you out if anything happens."
"That's all okay," she said. "I'd do anything for you. Go ahead and tell me what you want written."
"I'm going to dictate this," he said slowly, "and you can take it directly on the typewriter."
He moved to her shoulder and said in a low voice, "Write this, addressed to the city editor of The Chronicle.
Dear Sir:
I notice that in your paper you printed an interview with Elizabeth Walker, in which she said that I had made statements on several occasions that I intended to die on the scaffold; that I spent most of my time staring through binoculars at the residence occupied by Clinton Forbes, who was then going under the name of Clinton Foley.
All of these things are correct.
I notice that you have published an editorial demanding that the authorities apprehend me, and also apprehend Paula Cartright, my wife, before the trial of Bessie Forbes is allowed to proceed, the intimation being that I killed Clinton Forbes.
This accusation is unjust and untrue.
I did not killClintonForbes; but I did kill my wife, Paula Cartright.
Under the circumstances, I think that the public is entitled to know exactly what happened.
Perry Mason paused until the clicking of the typewriter signified that Della Street had caught up with him. Then he waited until she raised her eyes to his.
"Getting frightened, Della?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Go on."
"It's loaded with dynamite," he told her.
"It's oke with me," she said. "If you can take a chance, so can I.
"All right," he said, "go on from there:
"I lived in Santa Barbara with my wife, and I was happy. I was friendly with Clinton Forbes, and his wife. I knew that Clinton Forbes was a rotter, so far as any moral sense was concerned, but I liked him. I knew that he was playing around with half a dozen women. I never had any suspicion that my wife was one of them. Abruptly, and out of a clear sky, I realized the truth. I was a ruined man. My happiness was wrecked and so was my home. I determined to hunt down Clinton Forbes and kill him, as I would a dog.
"It took me ten months to find him. Then I found him living on Milpas Drive, under the name of Clinton Foley. I found that the adjoining house was for rent, furnished, and I moved in, purposely engaged a housekeeper who was stone deaf, and who could not, therefore, engage in neighborhood gossip. Before I killed Clinton Foley, I wanted to find out something about his habits. I wanted to find out something about how he was treating Paula, and whether she was happy. To that end, I spent most of my time studying the house through binoculars.
"It was a slow and tedious undertaking. On occasions, I would see intimate glimpses of the home life of the man on whom I spied. At other times, days would go past, during which I would see nothing. In the end, I satisfied myself that Paula was desperately unhappy.
"And yet, despite all of my plans, I failed in my purpose. I waited until there was a dark night that suited my intentions, and sneaked across the grounds to the house of my enemy. I fully intended to kill him and claim my wife. I gave my housekeeper a letter to my lawyer. In that letter I enclosed my will. In case anything happened to me, I wanted to know that my affairs had been put in order.
"I found the back door of the house unlocked. Clinton Foley had a police dog, Prince, who acted as watch dog, but Prince knew me, because I had been friendly with Clinton Forbes in Santa Barbara. In place of barking at me, the dog was glad to see me. He jumped on me and licked my hand. I patted his head and walked quietly through the back of the house. I was going through the library, when I suddenly encountered my wife. She stared at me and screamed. I grabbed her and threatened to choke her if she didn't keep quiet.
"She almost fainted with terror. I made her sit down, and talked with her. She told me that Clinton Forbes and his housekeeper, Thelma Benton, had been carrying on a clandestine affair for years; that the affair had dated back even before his affair with her; that Forbes had gone out with Thelma Benton, and that she was alone in the house; that Ah Wong, the cook, had gone out to spend the evening with some Chinese friends, as was his custom.
"I told her that I intended to kill Forbes, and that I wanted her to go away with me. She told me that I must do nothing of the sort, and that she had ceased to love me and could never be happy with me. She threatened to call the police and tell them about what I intended to do. She started for the telephone. I struggled with her and she started to scream. I choked her.
"I can never explain the emotions of that moment. I loved her passionately. I knew that she no longer loved me. She was struggling with me, to save the man who had betrayed me and whom I hated. I became insensible to my surroundings. I only knew that I was crushing her neck in a frantic grip. When I regained my senses sufficiently to realize what I was doing, she was dead. I had choked her to death.
"Clinton Forbes was building an addition to his garage. The cement work was in. The floor was about to be laid. I went into the garage and found a pick and shovel. I dug up the ground where the floor was to be poured, buried the body of my wife in a shallow grave, took the extra dirt in a wheelbarrow, carried it to the rear of the lot and dumped it. I wanted to wait for Clinton Forbes, but I dared not do so. The thing which I had done had completely unnerved me. I was trembling like a leaf. I realized that my temper had betrayed me into killing the woman I loved. I realized, however, that I was safe from discovery. The contractors were about to pour the cement floor in the addition to the garage, and that would cover up the evidences of my crime. I went to another section of town, rented a room under an assumed name, built up a second identity for myself, and have been living there ever since.
"I am making this confession because I feel that it is only fair that I do so. I killed my wife. I did not kill Clinton Forbes — I only wish that I had. He deserved to die, but I did not kill him.
"I am safe from detection. No one will ever penetrate the secret of my present disguise.
"Very truly yours,"
Perry Mason waited until the girl had finished her typing, then he took the paper from the portable machine, and read it over carefully.
"That," he said, "will be all right."
She looked at him with white, drawn features and staring eyes.
"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.
"I am going to take the will of Arthur Cartright as a pattern," he said, "and forge his signature to this document."
She stared at him for a moment silently, then walked across the office to a table on which was pen and ink, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and handed it to him. Wordlessly, she walked over to the safe, spun the dials, opened the doors of the safe, took out the will of Arthur Cartright and handed it to him.