“This must have been a picture frame,” Drake said.
Mason nodded, fished from the garbage can a crumpled, cracked, oval photograph. He smoothed it out. The likeness of Belle Newberry laughed up into the flashlight. The beam of light showed the words inscribed on the photograph in ink, “To Daddy, With Love, from Belle.”
Mason pushed the photograph back into the can, took Drake’s arm, led him back into the flat and said, “That’s all we need, Paul. We’ll leave a few fingerprints and get out.”
“Why fingerprints?”
“So the district attorney can know you’ve been guilty of breaking and entering,” Mason said. “He’ll probably stick you on a kidnaping charge, as well. Here’s a good place on the dresser mirror, Paul. And you can put some fingerprints on that table.”
“Now wait a minute. Perry. If you—”
“Go ahead,” Mason said, pressing his hand against the mirror on the dressing table.
Drake gingerly touched the top of the table as though it were hot.
Mason laughed, lowered his shoulder, pushed his weight against Drake and snapped off his flashlight. The detective, stumbling about in the darkness, grabbed at the table to keep himself from falling, then clung to a chair.
Mason switched on the flashlight and said, “Come on, Paul, you old criminal. Let’s get out of here.”
Drake said, “Perry, will you please tell me what’s the idea of all this horse-play?”
“Wait until you hear the D.A. describe it in court tomorrow,” Mason said. “Come on, Paul. Do you want to leave, or do you want to stay here and argue?”
“I want to leave,” Drake said, “and you can’t make it too snappy for me.”
Mason led the way out the back door, locking it behind them.
“Okay?” Della Street asked, as Mason reached the alley.
“Okay so far,” Mason told her. “You’ve memorized the story you’re to give Scudder?”
“And how!” she told him.
“Let’s go,” Mason said, settling back against the cushions.
Drake closed the door. Della Street lurched the car into motion. They left the alley for the boulevard, drove half a dozen blocks and slowed in front of a drug store.
“Come on, Paul,” Mason said, “You might as well get an earful of this.”
Drake said, “I always get suspicious when you throw it in high and don’t tell me what you’re doing, Perry. You and Della take more chances than any airplane stunters in the world.”
Mason took Drake’s arm, led him into the rear of the drug store where there was a telephone booth. Della dropped a nickel, dialed a number with swiftly competent fingers and said, “Hello... Hello... Let me talk with Mr. Scudder, please, at once... This is very important... Tell him I have some information for him... It’s about a case he’s trying tomorrow.”
She glanced up from the transmitter and nodded to Perry Mason. A moment later she said into the telephone, “Hello, Mr. Scudder. This is Mrs. Morgan Eves talking. I’m the real Mrs. Eves; but I don’t want you to ever tell anyone that I called you. My husband’s a crook. You’ll find his record under the name of James Whitly or James Clerke... Now, wait a minute, don’t interrupt me, please. This is something about the case you’re trying... My husband’s now going under the name of Morgan Eves. He’s divorcing me, but he only has an interlocutory decree. The final decree hasn’t been entered yet. But that hasn’t stopped him any. He’s gone through a marriage ceremony with a nurse. Her name’s Evelyn Whiting. They have a flat at 3618 Stockton Boulevard. Evelyn Whiting is the nurse who came over on the ship on which Carl Moar was murdered. She was nursing a man named Roger Cartman who had a broken neck, and he saw the whole murder... Yes, I say he saw it. The nurse had to give him some treatment. She took him up to the hospital quarters and he was sitting there in the wheel chair when Carl Moar was killed. He saw the whole thing.
“Roger Cartman paid Evelyn Whiting to take care of him. He didn’t know she was married. She took him to the flat on Stockton Boulevard and told him she was renting it for him. She and Morgan Eves were just planning to knock down a little money on the side. Then they found out he was a witness, and they got in touch with Perry Mason, and Perry Mason paid them five thousand dollars to get the witness out of the country.... Cartman wanted to testify, but he’s helpless. Yes, I know what I’m talking about. Mr. Mason and Mr. Drake, the detective, were up there and they moved Cartman out. He has a broken neck and can’t do anything by himself... In case you want an eyewitness who can testify to exactly what happened, all you have to do is to get Mr. Cartman and if it’s against the law for Mr. Mason to pay money to have a witness put into hiding, you can get Mr. Mason, too... But don’t you ever mention my name or they’d kill me.”
She slammed the receiver back on the hook and said, “How did I do, Chief?”
“You did swell,” Mason said. Drake shook his head mournfully. “My God!” he said. “I always lead with my chin.”
“What’s next on the program?” Della Street asked.
Mason said, “We have a couple of hours to kill. How about a picture show?”
“Suits me,” Della Street said.
“How would you like a good mystery play, Paul?” Mason asked.
Drake said, “That’s the first really smart thought you’ve had all evening, Perry. I suppose you have some sort of a plan in mind, but it’s more than I can figure. I think you’ve gone plumb crazy.”
“Not quite that bad, Paul,” Mason told him. “There’s a method in my madness.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Drake said. “To me it seems like one of those goofy dreams, where everybody does cuckoo things. Honest to God, Perry, when Della was telephoning to Scudder, I expected any minute to have you chime in with a station announcement and ask the D.A. how he liked the amateur hour.”
Della Street drove to a neighborhood picture show, and parked the car. The three of them entered the lighted foyer. Mason bought tickets. Drake said, “Well, at least I can have a few minutes’ relaxation... Oh, Lord, Perry, I’ve seen this picture before and didn’t like it.”
Della Street parked her rented car near the hotel. Mason took Della Street’s arm, started across the pavement with her, heard Drake say, “Oh-oh!” and felt a hand grip his shoulder. He whirled around, to confront a tall man who loomed to enormous proportions in a heavy black overcoat. Thick-lensed spectacles distorted the man’s pale green eyes.
“Where you been?” he asked.
Mason turned back toward the entrance of the hotel, the hand of the big man still on his shoulder.
“Who wants to know?” he asked.
“The D.A. does.”
Mason said, “Tell him I’ve been to a picture show.”
A chunky figure materialized from the doorway, to stand at Paul Drake’s arm.
“Inspector Bodfish,” the big man introduced.
Mason unexpectedly reached across in front of Della Street, grabbed Bodfish’s right hand, pumped it up and down, and turned to the big man. “What’s your name?”
“Borge.”
“Nice name,” Mason said, shaking hands.
“We could get along without your wise cracks,” Borge told him.
“So many people can,” Mason complained. “The trouble is that I can’t. Where do we talk?”
“The D.A.’s waiting for you.”
Mason said, “Do you know, I think it would be a swell idea to let him wait.”
Borge said, “I don’t.”
“Is this a pinch?” Drake demanded.