“Where was the dog all this time?”
“Locked up in a closet where apparently he stays most of the time when Alder is entertaining visitors in his study. The dog is rather unsocial. He’s been trained as a combat dog … not the type that does much barking, but the kind that goes into action. He had the regular routine Army training, pursuing people, dragging them down, and all that stuff.
“As I understand it, if a person stands perfectly still with his hands up in the air, the dog is trained to crouch and not do anything, but the minute the person moves or assumes a threatening gesture, the dog will tear him apart.”
“And what was the dog doing all the time the murder was taking place?”
Paul Drake looked completely blank. “How the dickens — Oh, I see. I’ll get my man to look into it and let you know later.”
Mason said, “How long ago did all this take place, Paul?”
Drake said, “As nearly as police can tell from a superficial examination, the murder must have taken place around nine o’clock this evening. It was the servant’s night out and she didn’t return until around ten o’clock.”
“So the murderer must have been in there searching for an horn-?”
“Apparently so.”
Mason looked at his watch. “Hell, Paul, it’s twelve o’clock now.”
“I told you,” Drake said, “that I probably made a slipup by not having a man down there covering the house sooner. As it was, I sent this fellow down, told him to go on duty at midnight and keep the place under observation until eight in the morning, when I’d have a relief for him. Cosh, Perry, you wanted dope on Alder, but you didn’t want anybody tailed, and I even debated with myself whether to put anyone on watch at the house or not, but finally decided I’d do it just to get the license numbers of cars that might drive up, and … “
“It’s all right,” Mason said, “I think I'll go get Dorothy Fenner out of bed and tell her about it. That may forestall some interviews with the newspaper, and … “
Della Street, who had been waiting for a break in the conversation, said, “Before you go, Chief, you might take a look at this.”
“What?”
Della Street raised the paper and said, “Here’s a want ad ‘If Carmen Monterrey, who was in South America nine months ago, will communicate with the undersigned, she will receive information to her financial advantage. Box 123J.’”
“Sure,” Drake said, “that’s the ad I put in the paper.”
“And how did you get it in the afternoon paper?” Della Street asked.
Drake suddenly jerked upright to startled attention. “What?” he yelled. “Let me have that paper.”
Mason said, “Looks as though someone might be one jump ahead of us, Paul. Better try to find out if you can what that Box 123J is. Della, get yourself a taxi and go on home and try to get some sleep. I’m going down, get Dorothy Fenner out of bed, and beat the police to the punch.”
“Think they’ll call on her?” Drake asked.
“Oh, sure,” Mason said, “unless they have already. However, I’ll have a nice little heart-to-heart talk.”
“You don’t want me with you?” Della Street asked, somewhat wistfully.
“No. You go get some sleep.”
“Gosh, I don’t feel as if I ever wanted to sleep.”
“Take a pill,” Mason advised. “You’re going to have to be on the job in the morning.”
“But how about you?” she asked.
“I,” Mason said, somewhat grimly, “am going to have to get on the job right now.”
Chapter 10
THE MONADNOCK HOTEL APARTMENTS HAD AN ORNATE front which made an imposing impression of glittering white stucco and red tile. The sides of the building were plain uncovered brick, with narrow windows indicating that most of the apartments were spaced at the conventional cramped intervals required by tenants in the lower economic brackets.
Mason parked his car, ran up the front steps, entered the long, narrow lobby, saw the light over the desk, and approached the night clerk.
“You have a Dorothy Fenner living here,” he said. “I’m Perry Mason.”
The clerk ostentatiously looked at the clock.
“Her lawyer,” Mason said. “Ring her, please, and tell her I’m here.”
The clerk plugged in the line, depressed a key several times, then said, “I’m afraid she doesn’t care to answer, or … Oh, just a minute.”
Into the mouthpiece he said, “Mr. Perry Mason, your attorney, wishes to see you.”
He hesitated a moment, frowned, once more looked at the clock, then said to Mason, rather dubiously, “You may go up, Mr. Mason. It’s Apartment 459.”
Mason took the elevator to the fourth floor, followed the numbers of the apartments down the corridor, tapped on the door of 459.
Dorothy Fenner, attired in a housecoat, opened the door and said, “Why, Mr. Mason.”
Mason said, “Sorry, I have to see you.”
She stood to one side, swinging the door open for him to come in, then closed it behind him.
She said, “The apartment’s a mess. It’s a single and— well, there’s the bed down and—I was sound asleep. I am hardly awake yet.”
“Okay,” Mason told her. “Let’s do some fast talking. George Alder is dead.”
“Dead!”
Mason nodded.
“How in the world? Why … what happened?”
“Murdered.”
“Good heavens! Who killed him? What … “
“They don’t know,” Mason said. “A preliminary re-port states that Sally Bangor, a servant, found his body lying on the floor when she returned from her evening off.”
“Sally Bangorl”
“You know her?” Mason asked.
“I know who she is, yes. I’ve been at the house as a guest several times.”
Mason said, “Well, the police may come here to question you.”
“Why?”
“Because of what happened Saturday night”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Nothing,” Mason said, “except that there’s some indication the person who committed the murder escaped by water. The police may decide they’ll put two and two together. Have you been out anywhere tonight?”
“No, I’ve been in my room ever since I was released.”
“How about dinner?”
“I didn’t want any. I just fixed myself a cup of chocolate and let it go at that. I had all the materials here so I didn’t go out”
“Any proof of that?”
She said irritably, “A single woman is hardly in a position to furnish an alibi for the time she’s in bed.”
“I mean during the evening. Anyone know that you didn’t go out?”
“Why, of course, the man at the desk would have seen me if I’d gone out.”
Mason sat down on the edge of the bed. Dorothy Fenner came over and sat down beside him.
“Alder didn’t try to telephone you or get in communication with you, did he?” Mason asked, “—after court, I mean.”
She crossed her knees. The housecoat fell away from her right leg. She gathered the garment, started to draw it into place, then regarded her flesh contemplatively and said, “You know, Mr. Mason, for an office girl, I really have a nice sunburn, haven’t I?”
She stretched the leg out, and moved the housecoat up so that he could see the bronzed blonde skin.
Mason gave her leg a casual glance, nodded, said, “Nice.”
“Thank you.”
“We were talking about George Alder,” Mason re-minded her.
“Oh, yes, what about him?”
“Whether he telephoned or tried to get in touch with you.”
She touched her bare leg at about the place where the top of her stocking would have been, moved her fingers along it slowly as though tracing some invisible line.