"I understand that all right," Bradbury said, "but the point I'm getting at is that the facts as we know them, don't seem to check up with certain things that must have happened."

"That," Mason said, "is something for us to figure on when we come into court and start analyzing the case of the prosecution."

"I would prefer," Bradbury said, "to figure on them right now."

"Then," Perry Mason said, "you think that Bob Doray is the one who is guilty of the murder?"

"To be frank with you, I do. I have told you all along that the man was a dangerous man. I feel certain that he is the one who is implicated in the murder, and I feel equally certain that Marjorie Clune will try to shield him, if it is possible for her to do so."

"Do you think she loves him?"

"I am not certain as to that. I think she is fascinated by him. It may be that she thinks she is in love with him. You understand, Counselor, there's a distinction."

Perry Mason regarded the hard glittering eyes of J.R. Bradbury with a newfound respect.

"I understand," he said.

"Furthermore," Bradbury said, "in the event Marjorie Clune tries to sacrifice herself, in order to give Dr. Doray a break, I propose to see that she doesn't do it. Have I made myself plain on that point?"

"More than plain," Perry Mason said.

Bradbury tilted the flask over his glass and poured in another generous shot of rye, which he diluted with ginger ale from the bottle.

"No matter what happens," he said, "Marjorie must not be allowed to sacrifice herself for Dr. Doray."

"Then you want me to try and show that Dr. Doray did the crime?" asked Perry Mason.

"On the contrary," said Bradbury slowly. "I want to impress this upon you, Counselor, that in the event it turns out that I am right, and Dr. Doray is either implicated in this or it should appear that he is the one who actually committed the murder, I think I shall instruct you to represent Dr. Doray."

Perry Mason sat bolt upright in his chair.

"What?" he asked.

Bradbury nodded slowly.

"I shall ask you," he said, "to represent Dr. Doray."

"If I'm representing him," Perry Mason said, "I'm going to do my best to get him off."

"That would be understood," Bradbury told him.

Perry Mason ceased eating, and his fingers made drumming motions on the edge of the tablecloth as he stared across at Bradbury.

"No," he said slowly, "I don't think that I'll underestimate you, J.R. Bradbury—that is never again."

Bradbury smiled. "And now, Counselor," he said, "that we understand one another perfectly, we can proceed to forget business and eat and drink."

"You can," Mason told him, grinning, "but I've got to get in touch with my office, and I have an idea there'll be some detectives prowling around the office."

"What will they want?" Bradbury inquired.

"Oh, they'll know that I was out at the apartment, and they'll want to find out what I went there for, and all about it."

"How much are you going to tell them?"

"I'm not going to tell them about you, Bradbury," Mason said. "I'm going to keep you very much in the background."

"That's all right," Bradbury remarked.

"And," Perry Mason said, "if there's any kind of a chance to build up newspaper publicity about a romance with Dr. Doray, I'm going to do that."

"Why?"

"Because," Mason told him, staring steadily at him, "you're an intelligent man, Bradbury, I can be frank with you. You're an older man, much older than Marjorie Clune; you've got money. In the event that Marjorie gets in a jam, and the first newspaper notoriety features her as a woman who won a leg contest, and further, features the rich sugar daddy who came to town to hunt her up, it's going to convey an entirely different impression, than handling it the other way."

"What other way?" Bradbury asked.

"On the theory that Marjorie Clune came to town. That she was bitterly disillusioned. That Dr. Robert Doray, a young dentist, only a few years older than herself, abandoned his practice, borrowed what money he could and came on to the city, determined to find her. That is going to make an entirely different picture, one of young romance."

"I see," Bradbury said.

"We're handicapped in this case," Perry Mason went on, "because of the leg contest. The minute the newspapers get wind of what it's all about, they'll start in publishing pictures of Marjorie Clune and the pictures naturally will be run to leg. That's going to attract the attention of readers, but it isn't going to build up exactly the sort of publicity for Marjorie that we want."

Bradbury nodded his head slowly.

"There is one thing, Counselor," he said, "that we can agree upon."

"What's that," asked Mason.

"That we are determined not to underestimate each other," Bradbury said, smiling. "And don't think for a minute that you have to apologize to me for anything you are doing, Counselor. You go ahead and handle the publicity on this any way you want to, only," and here Bradbury's eyes fixed upon Perry Mason with a hard glitter of businesslike scrutiny, "don't think for a minute that I'm going to let Marjorie Clune take the rap on this without fighting tooth and toenail. I'll drag any one into it in order to get her out. Any one, do you understand?"

Perry Mason sighed as he poured the last of the wine into his glass, and tore off another piece of bread, on which he placed a generous slab of butter.

"Hell," he said moodily, "I heard you the first time, Bradbury."

Chapter 8

Perry Mason waited until Bradbury had entered the elevator in the Mapleton Hotel, and been whisked upward before he turned to the telephone booth and called his office.

Della Street's voice was low and cautious.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Why?" he wanted to know.

"There are two detectives up here."

"That's all right, tell them to wait. I'm coming."

"Are you all right, chief?"

"Of course I'm all right."

"Nothing's happened?"

"Nothing that need bother you."

Her voice came in a rapid rush.

"They're suspicious; they hear me talking on the telephone. They're going to plug in on the other line…" Then, in a higher voice, she said, "… simply can't tell you when he will be in. I think he's going to be in sometime tonight. He told me to wait until I heard from him. I haven't heard from him yet. If you'll leave your name, I'll tell him that you called, or you can leave your number, and he'll call you back if he wants to talk with you."

Perry Mason disguised his voice, said, "No message," and slid the receiver back on the hook.

He paused as he emerged from the telephone booth, to light a cigarette and stare at the glowing end with eyes that were fixed meditatively upon the curling smoke. Then, he suddenly nodded his head as though he had reached some decision, strode across the lobby, hailed a taxicab and went at once to his office. He was serene and jaunty as he pushed the door open, and said, "Hello, Della."

"These two gentlemen…" she began, and turned her head toward the two men who sat in chairs and had them tilted back against the wall.

One of the men flipped back his coat and pulled his suspender through the armhole of his vest far enough to show a gold shield.

"We want to talk with you a minute," he said.

Perry Mason let his face light up with a smile of welcome.

"Oh," he said, "from headquarters, eh? That's fine. I thought perhaps you were a couple of clients, and I'm tired tonight. Come on in."

He held open the door to the inner office and let the detectives go in ahead of him. In closing the door, he caught Della Street's white face, her troubled eyes resting upon him, and closed his own right eye in a swift wink. Then he closed the door to the private office, indicated chairs with a wave of his hand, walked over to the big swivel chair, sat down and put his feet up on the desk.