"I'll have a rye highball," Bradbury told the waiter. "In fact, you'd better bring a pint of rye, some ice, and a couple of bottles of ginger ale. Mr. Mason will probably have a highball when he finishes his wine."

"Not me," said Perry Mason, "wine and French bread, that's all."

"Make it one bottle of ginger ale then," Bradbury told the waiter.

As the curtain clicked back into place, Bradbury looked at Mason and raised his eyebrows.

Perry Mason leaned forward with his elbows on the table, and spoke in a low, confidential, yet rapid voice.

"I located Marjorie Clune. I went out there. She's mixed up in it; I don't know just how badly. There was a friend of hers there, a girl named Thelma Bell. Thelma Bell is in the clear; she's got an alibi, she's going to help Marjorie Clune out.

"I didn't get Marjorie's complete story. I got the story she told me, but it wasn't the complete story. I didn't dare to get the complete story in front of Thelma Bell and I didn't dare to take Marjorie Clune into another room to talk with her, because I was afraid Thelma would think we were planning some sort of a doublecross. Thelma is going to shoot square with Marjorie. I can't tell you all the details. It's one of those cases where the less you know the better off you'll be."

"But Margy is all right?" asked Bradbury. "You can promise that you're going to keep her in the clear?"

"I can't promise anything," Perry Mason said. "I've done the best I could, and I got to her before the police did."

"Tell me about Frank Patton," said Bradbury. "How did it happen?"

"I don't know how it happened," said Mason. "I found out where he lived and went out there."

"How did you find that out?" Bradbury asked.

"Through the detective you employed."

"When did you find it out?"

"This evening."

"Then you knew where he was living when you started out of your office tonight?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you take me along?"

"Because I didn't want you along. I wanted to try and get some sort of a confession or an admission out of Patton. I knew that you'd lose your temper and start making a lot of accusations that wouldn't get anywhere. I wanted to talk to him and lay a trap or two for him and see if he wouldn't walk into one of the traps. Then I was going to get rough with him; after I had softened him up some, I was going to get you and my secretary to come out. My secretary would have taken down the conversation in shorthand."

Bradbury nodded.

"That sounds all right," he said. "I was a little bit hurt at first."

"There's nothing to get hurt over," Mason said. "I'm handling this case for the best interests of all concerned. You've got to have confidence in me, that's all."

"Go ahead," Bradbury said, "tell me what happened."

"Well, I got out there," Mason went on, "and pounded on the door of the apartment. There was no answer. I dropped down and took a peek through the keyhole. There was a light on in the apartment. I looked through the keyhole and saw a table with a hat, a cane and some gloves on it. I feel certain they belonged to Patton. They looked the part, they fitted in with the description of Patton that we had.

"I pounded on the panel again, and went to work on the buzzer. I stopped in between times to listen, but couldn't hear a thing. I was just ready to go away when I noticed a cop standing at the corner of the corridor, he'd evidently been watching me for a little while, I don't know just how long.

"Right away, I figured that perhaps something was wrong and I'd walked into it, but there was nothing I could do then except put a bold front on it, so I walked right on toward the cop, he stopped me and wanted to know what I'd been doing, trying to get in the apartment. I told him that I was looking for Frank Patton. That I understood he lived in the apartment there and that I thought he'd be home. I told the cop who I was and gave him my business card.

"There was a woman with the cop; she said she lived in the apartment across the way. I think she's on the up and up. She looked as though she'd tumbled out of bed and dressed in a hurry. She said she'd gone to bed and hadn't been feeling well. That some woman was raising hell in the next apartment and having hysterics about lots of things, among which she was mentioning the words 'lucky legs, I told you that part on the phone."

"Then what happened?" asked Bradbury.

"Then," said Perry Mason, "the cop went into the woman's apartment and they held a powwow. The cop finally managed to get the room opened. He found that Patton had been stabbed with a big bread knife, one of those triangularbladed affairs that are big and long. I got in touch right away with you because I wanted to find out what you wanted me to do about Margy."

"How did you know Margy was mixed up in it?" Bradbury inquired.

"I saw her—that's what I called you about," Mason told him. "She was coming out of the apartment house just as I went in, and she looked so guilty that she caught my attention. It wasn't guilty as much as it was panic. There was fear in her eyes. She had on that white coat with the white hat, and the red button on the hat, but you're not supposed to know anything about that. It's in confidence. Keep it to yourself."

"Of course I'll keep it to myself," Bradbury said, "but why didn't you speak to her?"

"I didn't know her," said Perry Mason. "I didn't have any idea who she was until afterwards. She looked panicstricken when she went by me and when I checked up what this woman told the cop about the girl having hysterics over her legs, I figured that it must have been Margy who was in the bathroom."

"What would she be doing in the bathroom?" Bradbury asked.

"You can search me," Mason said, "it looks as though the party had got a little rough. Patton had a bathrobe half on, but his outer clothes were off. There's a chance he tried to pull something and Marjorie had barricaded herself in the bathroom. That's the way I figure it."

"Then Patton followed her into the bathroom and she stabbed him?" asked Bradbury.

"No," Mason said, "the body wasn't in the bathroom. The body was in a bedroom on the other side of the bathroom. There's a chance that the girl was in the bathroom and Patton managed to get the door open. They might have had a struggle of some sort, and then she stabbed him in selfdefense. There's another chance that while she was in the bathroom with the door locked, some one else entered the apartment and stabbed Patton."

"Was the door locked?" asked Bradbury.

"Sure," Mason said, "the door was locked. Didn't I tell you that the cop had to go hunt up a janitor or something to get the door open."

"Then," said Bradbury, "if the door was locked, how could any one have walked into the apartment while Margy was in the bathroom?"

"That's easy," Mason said. "Whoever did it, could have locked the door behind him when he went out."

Bradbury nodded again.

"How about the detective, Paul Drake," he said. "Was he around there?"

"Paul Drake was to have followed me out," Perry Mason said. "I told him to give me a fiveminute start. I went down to meet Drake at Ninth and Olive and that took a little while. We figured out our plan of campaign and Drake was to leave Ninth and Olive five minutes after I did. Drake was driving his car. I went in a taxicab. Drake would probably make better time than I did, I haven't had a chance to talk with him. The way I figure it is, that just about the time he started toward the building, he saw the woman and the uniformed policeman going into the building. He figured right away that something was wrong, so he played foxy and jumped in the background until he found out what it was. At any rate that's the way I figure it; I haven't had a chance to talk with him."

The curtains clicked back and the waiter brought in their orders. Bradbury poured himself a stiff jolt of whiskey from the flask, dropped ice into the glass, poured in ginger ale, stirred it with a spoon, and drank half of the glass in three big gulps.