Mason finished his cigarette and looked at his wristwatch. Seconds ticked into minutes. After five minutes, Mason started to smoke another cigarette, but extinguished it after taking no more than two puffs. From across the hall came the sound of a faint thud, a mere hint of muffled noise. Mason jumped down to the floor, sent the chair spinning half across the room with a quick twist of his wrist, jerked the door open, crossed the corridor in three swift strides, and twisted the knob of the door of 1027. The door was locked.
Mason, moving with cat-like agility, stepped back, lowered his shoulder, and went forward in a charge. He flung his full weight against the locked door, like a football player with only seconds to play in the final quarter bucking the line. Wood splintered as the lock gave way. The door slammed back on its hinges, struck against a door-stop, and came to a shivering pause. Mason saw a pair of wildly kicking legs, the broad shoulders of a man bending over a slender, struggling figure. Bedclothes had been dragged out from beneath the studio couch on which the pair were struggling, and the tall man was holding a thick quilt down on Della Street's face, muffling her cries, slowly suffocating her. He jumped to his feet and whirled to face Mason, his mouth distorted with the intensity of his effort, as a sprinter's face is twisted into a spasm when nearing the tape. The man's hand raced back to his hip pocket. "Hold it," he warned. Mason came forward in a charge.
Della Street flung off the guilt. The tall man whipped blued steel from his pocket. Mason, some ten feet away, stared into the ominous dark hole which marked the end of a.38 caliber revolver. The man braced his shoulder as though against an expected recoil. His lips were twisted back from his teeth. Mason stopped abruptly, shifted his eyes to Della Street. "Are you hurt, kid?" he asked.
"Get your hands up," the man with the gun warned. "Back up against that wall. When you get there, turn to face it and hold your hands just as high as…"
Della Street doubled up her body, braced her heels and shot forward. The man jumped to one side, but not in time to keep her from grabbing the arm which held the gun. Mason took two jumps and swung his right fist, catching the man flush on the jaw. The tall man staggered backward. Della Street, clutching for the gun, slid down the man's arm and fell, face forward, on the floor. She jerked the weapon from the man's nerveless fingers. The tall man regained his balance, lashed out a vicious kick at Mason, and picked up a chair.
Della Street, rolling over, the gun in her hand, screamed, "Watch out for him, Chief! He's a killer!"
Mason feinted a rush, stopped abruptly.
The man whirled the chair in a vicious swing, tried to check the momentum of that swing when he realized Mason's rush was a feint, but spun half around, off balance. He dropped the chair, and grabbed for Mason as the lawyer rushed. Mason knocked the man's left aside and sent his fist crashing into the other's nose. He felt the cartilage flatten out under the impact of his fist, saw the man stagger backward and drop abruptly to his hips. The tall man tried to say something, but the words only bubbled through the red smear which had been his nose and lips.
Della Street climbed to her feet, Mason caught the man by the collar, jerked him upright, spun him around, and slammed him down on the couch where he had been struggling with Della. The lawyer's hands made a swiftly thorough job of searching the man for weapons. "All right, buddy," he said, "talk!"
The man made gurgling sounds, pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, carried it to his mutilated face, and lowered it, a sodden, red rag.
Della Street ran from the bathroom with towels. Mason handed the man one of the towels and said to Della, "Get some cold water." She brought in a pan of cold water. Mason sopped one of the towels in the water, held it against the back of the man's neck, dashed cold water over his face. The man said, in a thick, choking voice, the words sounding as though someone was holding a clothespin over his nose, "You've broken my nose."
"What the hell did you think I was trying to do," Mason asked, "kiss you? You're damned lucky I didn't break your neck!"
"I'll have you arrested for this," the man choked out.
Mason told him, "You'd find yourself facing a charge of assault with intent to commit murder. What did he do, Della?"
Della Street was half hysterical. "He got rough, Chief," she said, "and when I tried to blow the whistle to signal you, he jumped on me, punched the wind out of me, jerked the bedclothes out of the closet and tried to smother me. He was going to kill me."
The man groaned as he held towels to his face.
Mason said savagely, "I should have beaten your head in with a club; but, damn it, now I've spoiled your looks so Bishop Mallory can't identify you as the man who knocked him over the head."
Unintelligible words sounded thickly from behind the soggy towels.
Mason said, "Hell, we're not getting anywhere doing this. Let's see who this bird is." He calmly proceeded to go through the man's pockets. The man tried to push Mason away, then clutched his fingers for Mason's throat. Mason said, "Not had enough yet, eh?" and jabbed his fist into the pit of the other's stomach. As the struggle ceased he pulled objects from the man's pockets and handed them to Della Street. He discovered and passed over a wallet, a key container, a knife, a watch, a blackjack, a package of cigarettes, a cigarette lighter, fountain pen, pencil, and then a single key which had not been clipped into the leather key container. "Look 'em over, Della," he said, "and let's see who this bird is."
The man had fallen back on the couch now and lay perfectly motionless, only the hoarse sound of his sputtering breath, coming from behind the towels, showed that he was still alive. Della Street said, "He tried to murder me. I can tell the difference between someone just trying to smother my cries and someone really trying to kill me."
"All right," Mason said, "let's see who he is. Something tells me when we find out how this bird fits into the picture, we'll know a lot more than we do now."
Della laughed nervously as she opened the wallet. "My hand's shaking," she said. "Gosh, Chief, I was sc-c-ared."
Mason said, "We'll settle his hash. He's the one who knocked the bishop on the head. We can send him up for having that blackjack in his possession."
"Here's a driving license," she said, "made out to Peter Sacks. The address is 691 Ripley Building."
"Okay," Mason said, "what else?"
"Here are some business cards," she said, "State-Wide Detective Agency, Incorporated. Here's a license made out to Peter Sacks as a private detective."
Mason whistled.
"There are some papers in the wallet. Do you want those?"
"Everything."
"Here's a hundred dollars in twenties. Here's a wireless addressed to Bishop William Mallory, Steamship Monterey It reads: CHARLES W. SEATON KILLED SIX MONTHS AGO IN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT. I AM SETTLING HIS ESTATE. WRITING YOU IMPORTANT LETTER CARE OF MATSON COMPANY, SAN FRANCISCO. [Signed] JASPER PELTON, ATTORNEY."
"Now we're getting some place," Mason said. "What else, Della?"
"Here's a letter," she said, "from Jasper Pelton, an attorney in Bridgeville, Idaho. It's addressed to Bishop William Mallory, passenger on Steamship Monterey, care of Matson Navigation Company, San Francisco."
"Go ahead and read it," Mason said.
"My dear Bishop [she read], as the attorney settling the estate of Charles W. Seaton, I have received the radiogram which you sent Mr. Seaton, asking him to communicate with you immediately upon your arrival in San Francisco.
"Mrs. Seaton died some two years ago, leaving surviving her Charles W. Seaton and a daughter, Janice. Some six months ago Mr. Seaton was fatally injured in an auto wreck. He died within twenty-four hours after the injuries were received. At his bedside at the time of his death was his daughter, Janice, who is a trained nurse. I am mentioning this to you in detail because, during a lucid interval just before his death, Mr. Seaton very apparently tried to give us some message to be conveyed to you. He said several times, 'Bishop Mallory. Tell him… promise… don't want… read in newspaper…'