"Yes," Mason said sarcastically, "he's your alibi, Janice. He swears you were with him when the murder was committed, so you couldn't have done it, and you swear he was with you, so he couldn't have done it."

Stockton grinned and said, "And don't forget my wife. She was there, and a notary public who lives across the hall that I'd called in to make an additional witness." Stockton finished the last of his drink. His grin was slow, deliberate and unfriendly. "I've told you enough so you can see what you're up against," he said, "and that's all you're going to find out from us."

"What do you want?" Mason asked.

"Nothing."

"What's your proposition?"

Stockton grinned and said, "We haven't any. And what's more, we aren't going to make any. You're going to be too much on the defensive from now on to rig up any more blackmailing schemes."

Mason said sarcastically, "I presume that after Pete Sacks broke into Bishop Mallory's room, sapped the bishop with a blackjack and stole the bishop's private papers, the D.A. will consider it a felony for someone who's representing Bishop Mallory to recover the papers?"

Stockton shook his head. "Don't be funny. You know why you framed Pete into that trap just as well as I do. You wanted the key."

There was genuine surprise in Mason's voice. "The key?" he asked.

Stockton nodded.

"What key?"

"The one you got," Stockton said grimly. "Don't play so damn innocent."

"I got a bunch of keys," Mason said.

"As well as a hundred dollars in cash and a few other things. But what you wanted was the key."

Mason kept his face without expression. Stockton studied him for a moment and said, "Don't act so damn innocent.-Hell, you may be just a sucker, at that. How the hell do you suppose we knew the inside of this blackmail racket? We had a line into Julia Brownley before she even came to California. She figured Pete was a torpedo who was willing to bump anyone off, and she played right into his hands. She put up a proposition to Pete to kill Brownley before he could make another will. She had a man who was going to pose as Bishop Mallory long enough to make a deposition which would identify Janice Seaton as the real granddaughter. This bishop was a phoney who had been carefully rehearsed in the part he was to play. She might have fooled the old man, or she might even have been able to get a shake-down from Janice here, if she hadn't spilled the whole dope to Pete. She was playing Pete to be her right-hand man. She was going to get some lawyer who could put up a good fight, sell him on her story, and let him contact Brownley. If Brownley was willing to kick through in order to avoid a stink, she'd settle. If Brownley got tough she was going to bump him off, and Pete was the one she'd picked to do the dirty work. She gave Pete a key to her apartment and promised him twenty-five percent of whatever she and Janice Seaton got out of the deal. And, just to show you what a sucker you are, she'd even planned to contact the old man behind your back after you'd broken the ice. She was going to make a settlement with him and leave you out in the cold, and if she couldn't scare the old man into a settlement she was going to try and shake the granddaughter down for a few thousand and leave you holding the sack.-At that she might have had us worried if we hadn't had Pete in on the ground floor.

"After the murder, you were mixed in so deep you had to get her out in order to get yourself out. You had to get that key from Pete, because that key corroborated his testimony. So you trapped Pete into an apartment where you could beat him up and grab the evidence, but we've got just a little more on Julia Branner than you figured. You've made your bed, and now you can lie in it."

Mason got to his feet. Stockton set down the empty glass, took a step toward Mason and said, "And don't come here any more. Do you get that?"

Mason stared at the man moodily. "I have," he said, slowly, "already smashed one nose, and I'd just as soon smash another."

Stockton stood still, neither retreating nor advancing. "And you have already stolen some papers which were evidence in the case," he said. "When Pete tried to get back that evidence you swung on him and pulled a gun on me. Don't forget that. And if you keep on playing around with this bunch of blackmailers you're tied up with, you'll probably find yourself mixed in a murder charge."

Mason strode toward the door, but turned in the doorway. "How much of a cut are you supposed to get out of the inheritance for having dug up an heir to the estate?" he asked.

Stockton grinned mirthlessly and said, "Don't bother about it now, Mason. Write me a letter from San Quentin. You'll have more time to think things over when you get up there."

Mason left the room, took the elevator to the lobby, and was halfway across the sidewalk when someone touched him on the arm. He whirled to encounter Philip Brownley. "Hello," he said, "what are you doing here?"

Brownley said grimly, "I'm keeping watch on Janice."

"Afraid something's going to happen to her?" Mason asked.

Brownley shook his head and said, "Look here, Mr. Mason, I want to talk with you."

"Go on and talk," Mason told him.

"Not here."

"Where?"

"My car's parked at the curb. I saw you go in, and called to you, but you didn't hear me. I was waiting for you to come out. Let's sit in my car and talk."

Mason said, "I don't like the climate around here. A man by the name of Stockton is playing smart… Do you know Stockton?"

Brownley said slowly, "He's the one who helped Janice kill Grandfather."

Mason's eyes bored steadily into Brownley's. "Are you just talking?" he asked. "Or are you saying something?"

"I'm saying something."

"Where's your car?"

"Over here."

"All right. Let's get in it."

Brownley opened the door of a big gray cabriolet and slid in behind the steering wheel. Mason climbed in beside him, sitting next to the curb, and pulled the door shut.

"This your car?" he asked.

"Yes."

"All right, what about Janice?"

There were dark circles under Brownley's eyes. His face was white and haggard. He lit a cigarette with a hand that trembled, but when he spoke his voice was steady. "I took the message the cab driver left last night-or rather this morning," he said.

"What did you do with it?"

"Took it up to my grandfather."

"Was he asleep?"

"No. He'd gone to bed, but he wasn't sleeping. He was reading a book."

"So what?" Mason asked.

"He read the message and got excited as the devil. He jumped into his clothes and told me to have someone get his car out, that he was going down to the beach to meet Julia Branner; that Julia had promised to give him back Oscar's watch if he'd come alone without being followed and go aboard his yacht where she could talk with him without being interrupted."

"He told you that?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

"I advised him not to go."

"Why?"

"I thought it was a trap."

Mason's eyes narrowed slowly. "Did you think someone would try to kill him?"

"No. Of course not. But I thought they might try to trap him into some compromising situation, or into making statements."

Mason nodded. There was a moment or two of silence, and then the lawyer said. "Go on. This is your party. You're doing the talking."

"I went down personally and opened the garage so Grandfather could get his car out. When he came down I begged him to let me drive him. It was a mean night, and Grandfather isn't… wasn't… so much of a driver. He couldn't see well at night."

"And he wouldn't let you drive?" Mason asked.

"No. He said he must go alone; that Julia's letter insisted he must be alone and that no one must follow him, otherwise he'd have his trip for nothing."