In purposeful silence, Perry Mason sat down at the table, made several practice signatures on a piece of paper, then laboriously forged the signature of Arthur Cartright to the confession. He folded the paper, then handed Della Street the stamped envelope.
"Address that," he said, "to the city editor of The Chronicle."
He put the cover back on the portable typewriter.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked.
"Mail the letter," he said, "and see that this portable typewriter is placed where the authorities will never find it, take a taxicab and go home."
She looked at him steadily for a moment, then walked to the door.
She paused, with her hand on the knob, stood motionless for a moment, then turned and came back to him.
"Chief," she said, "I wish you wouldn't do it."
"Do what?"
"Take these chances."
"I have to do it," he said.
"It isn't right," she said.
"It is if the results are right."
"What results are you trying to get?"
"I want," he said, "the cement floor in that garage extension broken up, and the place underneath carefully searched."
"Then why not go to the authorities and ask them to do it?"
He laughed sarcastically.
"A fat chance that they'd do anything," he said. "They hate my guts. They are trying to get Bessie Forbes convicted. They wouldn't do anything that would weaken their case in front of a jury. Their theory is that she's guilty, and that's all there is to it. They won't listen to anything else, and if I ask them to do anything, they'd naturally think that I was trying to slip over a fast one."
"What will happen when you send this to The Chronicle?" she asked.
"It's a cinch," he said. "They'll smash up that floor."
"How will they do it?"
"They'll just do it, that's all."
"Will they get permission from anybody?"
"Don't be silly," he told her. "Forbes bought the place and owns it. He's dead. Bessie Forbes is his wife. If she's acquitted of this murder, she'll inherit his property."
"If she isn't?" asked Della Street.
"She's going to be," he told her grimly.
"What makes you think there's a body under there?" she asked.
"Listen," he told her, "let's look at this thing from a reasonable standpoint and quit being stampeded by a lot of facts that don't mean anything. You remember when Arthur Cartright first came to us?"
"Yes, of course."
"You remember what he said? He wanted a will made. He wanted a will made so that the property would be taken by the woman who was at present living as the wife of Clinton Foley, in the house on Milpas Drive."
"Yes."
"All right. Then he made a will and sent it to me, and the will didn't read that way."
"Why didn't it?" she asked.
"Because," he said, "he knew that there was no use leaving his property to a woman who was already dead. In some way he'd found out that she was dead."
"Then he didn't murder her?"
"I'm not saying that, but I don't think he did."
"But isn't it a crime to forge a confession of this sort?"
"Under certain circumstances, it may be," Perry Mason said.
"I can't see under what circumstances it wouldn't be," she told him.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
"And you think that Arthur Cartright knew that his wife was dead?"
"Yes, he'd been devoted to her. He'd been searching for her for ten months. He'd been living next door to her for two months, spying on the man he hated, and trying to find out if his wife was happy. He made up his mind he was going to kill Clinton Forbes. He felt that he would be executed for that murder. He wanted his property to go to his wife; not to Forbes' wife, but to Paula Cartright, but he didn't care to make his will in favor of Paula Cartright before he had committed the murder, because he thought that would bring an investigation. So he made his will, or wanted to make his will, so that it would transfer the property to the woman, under the name of Evelyn Foley.
"You can see what he had in mind. He wanted to hush up any scandal. He intended to kill Foley and to plead guilty to murder and be executed. He wanted his will made so that his property would go to the woman who was apparently the widow of the man he had murdered, and he wanted to do it in such a way that no questions would be asked, and her real identity would never be known. He did that to spare her the disgrace of having the various facts become public."
She stood perfectly still, her eyes staring down at the tips of her shoes.
"Yes," she said, "I think I understand."
"And then," said Perry Mason, "something happened, so that Arthur Cartright changed his mind. He knew that there was no use leaving the property to his wife, Paula. He wanted to leave it to some one because he didn't expect to remain alive. He had undoubtedly been in touch with Bessie Forbes, and knew that she was in the city, so he left the property to her."
"What makes you say he had been in touch with Bessie Forbes?" asked Della Street.
"Because the taxi driver says that Bessie Forbes told him to telephone Parkcrest 62945, which was Cartright's number, and tell Arthur to go next door to Clint's place. That shows that she knew where Cartright was, and that Cartright knew that she knew."
"I see," said Della Street, and was silent for several seconds.
"Are you certain," asked Della Street, "that Mrs. Cartright didn't run away with Arthur Cartright and leave Clinton Forbes, just as she had left Cartright in Santa Barbara?"
"Yes," he said, "I'm virtually certain."
"What makes you so certain?"
"The note," he said, "that was left wasn't in the handwriting of Paula Cartright."
"You're certain about that?"
"Virtually," he said. "It's approximately the same handwriting as that which appeared on the telegraph blank that was sent from Midwick. I've had samples of Mrs. Cartright's handwriting sent from Santa Barbara, and the two don't check."
"Does the district attorney's office know that?" she asked.
"I don't think so," he told her.
Della Street stared at Perry Mason thoughtfully.
"Was it Thelma Benton's handwriting?" she asked.
"I've had several specimens of Thelma Benton's handwriting, and those specimens seem entirely different from the handwriting of the note and the telegraph blank."
"Mrs. Forbes?" she asked.
"No, it isn't her handwriting. I had Mrs. Forbes write me a letter from the jail."
"There's an editorial in The Chronicle," she said, "did you see it?"
"No," he said. "What is it?"
"It states that in view of the dramatic surprise that impeaches the testimony of the taxicab driver, it is your solemn duty to put your client on the stand and let her explain her connection with the case. The editor says that this air of mystery is all right for a hardened criminal who is being tried for a crime of which every one knows he is guilty, and who desires to assert his constitutional rights, but not for a woman like Mrs. Forbes.
"I didn't see the editorial," said Perry Mason.
"Will it make any difference in your plans?"
"Certainly not," he told her. "I'm trying this case. I'm exercising my judgment for the best interests of my client; not the judgment of some newspaper editor."
"All of the evening papers," she said, "comment upon the consummate skill with which you manipulated things so that the denouement came as a dramatic finale to the day's trial, and managed to impeach the testimony of the taxi driver before the prosecution had even built up its case."
"It wasn't any particular skill on my part," Perry Mason said. "Claude Drumm walked into it. He started to strongarm my witness. I wouldn't stand for it. I grabbed her and took her into the judge's chambers to make a protest. I knew that Drumm was going to claim I'd been guilty of unprofessional conduct, and I wanted to have it out with him right then and there."