"This is something I've got to work out alone," he said.

"Are you going to tell the police," she asked, "about the man who wanted to know what effect it would have on his will if he was executed for murder?"

Perry Mason stared steadily at her.

"We," he said, "aren't going to tell the police anything other than what we've already told them."

Paul Drake snapped out words with unaccustomed vehemence:

"Perry," he said, "you've taken enough chances on this thing. If the person who murdered Clinton Foley consulted you beforehand, you've got to go to the police and…"

"The less you know about this situation," Mason said, "the fewer chances you'll be taking."

The detective's voice was lugubrious.

"I know too darn much already," he said.

Mason turned to Della Street.

"I don't think they'll question you," he said slowly, "if you tell them that I left you this handkerchief to give to them and that that's all you can tell them about it."

"Don't worry about me, Chief," she said. "I can take care of myself, but what are you going to do?"

"I'm going out," he said, "and I'm leaving right now."

He strode to the door, paused with his hand on the knob and looked back at the pair in the office.

"The things I've done," he said, "are all going to click together and make sense and they're also going to make one hell of a commotion. I've got to take chances. I don't want either of you to take any chances. I know just how far I can go; you don't. Therefore, I want you to follow instructions and stop."

Della Street 's voice was quavering with worry.

"Are you sure you know where to stop, Chief?" she asked.

"Shucks," rasped Paul Drake, "he never knows where to stop."

Perry Mason jerked the door open.

"Where are you going from here, Perry?" asked the detective.

Mason's smile was serenely untroubled.

"That," he said, "is something it might be better for you not to know."

The door slammed shut behind him.

Chapter 14

Perry Mason caught a cruising cab in front of the office.

"Get me to the Broadway Hotel on Fortysecond Street," he said, "and make it snappy."

He settled back in the cushions and closed his eyes while the cab threaded its way through the streets that were now almost deserted. When the cab pulled up in front of the Broadway Hotel, Perry Mason tossed the driver a bill, strode across the lobby to the elevators, as though going upon important business. He got out at the mezzanine, called the room clerk, and said: "Will you give me the number of the room assigned to Mrs. Bessie Forbes?"

"Eight ninetysix," said the room clerk.

"Thanks," said Mason. He hung up the telephone, went to the elevator, got off at the eighth floor, walked to room 896 and rapped on the door.

"Who is it?" asked Bessie Forbes's frightened voice.

"Mason," Perry Mason said in a low tone. "Open the door."

A bolt clicked, and the door opened. Mrs. Forbes, now fully clothed in a street costume, stared at him with eyes that showed fright, but were rigidly steady.

Perry Mason walked in and closed the door behind him.

"All right," he said, "I'm your lawyer. Now tell me exactly what happened tonight."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean about the trip you made to see your husband."

She shuddered, looked about her, motioned Perry Mason to a seat on the davenport. She came and sat down beside him, and twisted her fingers around a handkerchief. She was redolent of cheap perfume.

"How did you know I went out there?" she asked.

"I guessed it," he said. "I figured that you were about due to put in an appearance. I couldn't figure any woman who answered your description, who would make the kind of a call on Clinton Foley that you made, and then the description the taxi driver gave fitted you right down to the ground."

"Yes," she said slowly, "I went out there."

"I know you went out there," he said impatiently. "Tell me what happened."

"When I got there," she said slowly, "the door was locked. I had a passkey. I opened the door and walked in. I wanted to see Clint without giving him time to prepare for my visit."

"All right," he said. "What happened? You went in there and then what happened?"

"I went in," she said, "and found him dead."

"And the dog?" asked Perry Mason.

"Dead."

"I don't suppose that you've got any way of showing that you didn't do the killing?"

"They were both dead when I got there," she said.

"Had they been dead long?"

"I don't know; I didn't touch them."

"What did you do?"

"I felt so weak I sat down in a chair. At first, all I could think about was running away. Then I remembered that I would have to be careful. I knew that I might be suspected of having done the shooting."

"Was the gun lying on the floor?" asked Perry Mason.

"Yes," she said, "the gun was lying on the floor."

"It wasn't your gun?"

"No."

"Did you ever have a gun like that?"

"No."

"Never saw that gun before?"

"No, I tell you I didn't have a thing to do with it. My God! won't you believe me? I couldn't lie to you. I'm telling you the truth."

"All right," he said; "we'll let it go at that. You're telling me the truth then. So what did you do?"

"I remembered," she said, "that the taxi driver had gone to telephone Arthur Cartright. I thought that Arthur would come over, and I knew that Arthur would know what to do."

"Did it ever occur to you that Arthur Cartright might have been the one who did the shooting?"

"Of course it did, but I knew that he wouldn't come over if he had been the one to do the shooting."

"He might have come over and blamed it on you."

"No, Arthur isn't that kind."

"Okay, then," Perry Mason said. "You sat down and waited for Cartright, and then what happened?"

"After a while," she said, "I heard the taxicab come back. I don't know how long it was. I had lost all track of time. I was all broken up."

"All right," he told her, "go on from there."

"I went out, got into the taxicab and drove back to the vicinity of my hotel. Then I got out. I figured that no one would ever be able to trace me. I don't know how you found out about it."

"Did you know," said Perry Mason, "that you left a handkerchief in the taxicab?"

She stared at him with eyes that kept getting wider and more terrified.

"Good God, no!" she said.

"You did," he told her.

"Where is the handkerchief?"

"The police have it."

"How did they get it?"

"I gave it to them."

"You what?"

"I gave it to them," he said. "It came into my possession, and I didn't have any alternative but to surrender it to the police."

"I thought you were acting as my lawyer."

"I am."

"That doesn't sound like it. Good God, that's the worst evidence that they could get hold of! They'll be able to trace me through that handkerchief."

"That's all right," Perry Mason told her. "They're going to trace you anyway, and they're going to question you. When they question you, you can't afford to lie to them. And you can't afford to tell them the truth. You're in a jam, and you've got to keep quiet. Do you understand that?"

"But that's going to prejudice everybody against me — the police, the public, and everybody."

"All right," he told her, "that's what I'm coming to. Now, I had to surrender that handkerchief to the police because it was evidence. The police are on my trail in this thing and they'd like to catch me doing something that would make me an accessory after the fact. They're not going to have that pleasure. But you've got to use your wits in order to get yourself out of this mess.

"Now here's what you do: The police are going to come here. They're going to ask you all sorts of questions. You tell them that you won't answer any questions unless your lawyer is present. Tell them that your lawyer has advised you not to talk. Don't answer any questions whatever. You understand that?"