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Anders’ face showed disappointment.

“However,” Mason said, “if you keep on searching, I feel quite certain you’ll be able to locate her. When did you leave North Mesa?”

“Two days ago.”

“Where is the sister — Sylvia? Is she still in North Mesa, or did she come with you?”

“No, she’s still there, holding down a job. The girls support their mother. Mae has contributed most of the money.”

“She stopped sending cheques a few months ago?” Mason asked.

“No, she didn’t. That’s why I was trying to find Wentworth. Sylvia received three cheques from Wentworth. He said that Mae was working for him and had asked him to send part of her salary direct to Sylvia.”

“I see,” Mason observed thoughtfully.

“Look here, Mr. Mason. I don’t think we should let this thing rest. I think we should — well, do something about Wentworth.”

“So do I,” Mason agreed.

“Well?” Anders asked.

“I don’t like to jump to conclusions when I haven’t sufficient evidence to point the way, but it looks very much as though this is about what happened. Wentworth, as I understand it, is something of a gambler. I don’t know the exact nature of his business. Apparently, he’s rather wealthy. Miss Farr went to work for him. She didn’t care particularly about having her friends know where she was working.”

Anders said uneasily, striving to keep doubt from his voice, “That bill in the department store, that...”

“That undoubtedly means,” Mason assured him, “that she was acting as a hostess in some place which Wentworth controlled, or was doing some work for him which necessitated her coming in contact with the public. He insisted that she should be well dressed and probably sent her to the department store with a letter of guarantee. You’ll notice that he didn’t agree to pay for the merchandise outright, and, in view of the fact that he sent the cheques to Sylvia, it’s reasonable to suppose that he kept the bulk of Mae’s salary, the understanding being that he was to apply part of it toward paying off the bills at the department store and make the remittances to the sister.”

“But she said in her letters that she was working for him and...”

“Exactly,” Mason amended, “but she didn’t say just what she was doing. If she was hostess in a nightclub or something of that sort, it’s quite possible that Mae didn’t want to tell Sylvia about it.”

“I see,” Anders said, and then, after a moment’s thought, his face brightened. “By George,” he said, “that would explain the whole thing. Mae was afraid her mother would find out what she was doing. Her mother’s rather old fashioned and straitlaced. She’s not well, and Mae was afraid she might worry.”

“Exactly,” Mason said.

Anders got to his feet. “Well, Mr. Mason, I won’t make a nuisance of myself. I know you’re a busy man. I’ll— Look here, Mr. Mason, I’m at the Fairview Hotel, three nineteen. If you see Mae, would you tell her that I’m here and want very much to see her?”

“I’ll tell her,” Mason said. He stood up as Anders came across to shake hands. The two men were much the same build, tall, muscular, and rugged of feature. Anders’ bronzed hand gripped Mason’s. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this,” he said. “Look here, Mr. Mason, how about your fees? Can I—”

“No,” Mason interrupted, “I think Miss Farr would prefer to make all arrangements herself. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Anders said, “she would. Please don’t tell her I suggested it.”

Mason nodded.

“And you’ll let me know if you hear anything?”

“I’ll tell her where you are.”

Anders said, “Gosh, Mr. Mason, I’m certainly glad I met Wentworth here. Otherwise I’d probably have made a fool of myself. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Mason said.

Anders hesitated a moment uncertainly, then bowed to Della Street, who had sat silently throughout the conversation. “And thank you very much, Miss...?”

“Street,” Mason said. “Della Street, my secretary.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Street.”

Anders walked to the exit door with the long, free stride of a man accustomed to the outdoors.

When the door had closed behind him, Della glanced up at Perry Mason. “Do you believe that story?” she asked.

“What story?”

“The one you told Anders, the explanation for Mae Farr’s conduct.”

Mason grinned. “Gosh, Della, I don’t know. It was the best I could do offhand. Dammit, I wish I didn’t get so interested in people and so sympathetic with their problems.”

Della Street’s eyes were a trifle wistful. She said thoughtfully, “It was a peach of a story.”

Chapter 4

Mason, relaxed from a hot shower, clad in thin, silk pyjamas and sprawled out in a reclining chair, was immersed in a mystery story. Ominous thunderheads, which had been gathering all afternoon over the high mountains to the north and east, had begun to drift toward the city, and the rumble of distant thunder became increasingly audible as Mason turned the pages of the book.

Abruptly the telephone rang.

Mason, without taking his eyes from the book, stretched out his arm and completed a groping search by closing his fingers around the instrument. He lifted it and said, “Mason speaking. What is it?”

Della Street’s voice said, “I think you’d better come down here, Chief.”

“Where?”

“My apartment.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have a couple of rather excited clients here.”

“You’ve talked with them?”

“Yes.”

“And think I’d better come?”

“If you can.”

“Okay, Della. Be there in fifteen minutes. Remember, apartment walls are thin. Excited voices always attract attention. Put a muzzle on them until I get there.”

She said, “The place is under gag rule right now. I figured you’d want to hear the details firsthand.”

“Good girl,” Mason said. “I’ll be right over.”

He telephoned the night man at the garage to have his car waiting, dashed into his clothes, and beat his promised schedule by a minute and five seconds.

In Della Street’s apartment he found his secretary clothed for the street, a raincoat over her arm, her hat on, a shorthand notebook and a purse under her arm.

Seated side by side on the davenport across from her, looking very white faced and big eyed, were Harold Anders and Mae Farr.

Mason nodded his approval at Della Street’s preparedness and said to Anders, “Well, I see you’ve found her.”

Mae Farr said, “You mean that you really did know all along?”

“About you being Mae and not Sylvia?” Mason asked.

She nodded.

Mason said casually, “Of course. That was all that interested me in the case in the first place. What’s the trouble?”

Anders started to say something. She placed her hand on his forearm and said, “Let me tell him, Hal. Penn Wentworth is dead.”

“What happened?” Mason said.

“Someone shot him.”

“Where?”

“On his yacht, the Pennwent.”

“How do you know?” Mason asked.

“I was there.”

“Who killed him?”

Her eyes faltered.

“I didn’t,” Anders said.

“No,” she said hastily, “Hal didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did it happen?”

She said, “I was struggling with him, and someone leaned down through the open skylight in the cabin and shot him.”

Masons eyes narrowed. “You looked up?” he asked.

“Yes.”