She puckered her forehead for a moment, then said, "I can get them for you. It will be a little trouble and will take a few minutes."

"If you would be so kind," Perry Mason said, smiling. "You can mark them right on the back of this receipted bill."

The cashier took the receipted bill, crossed to the telephone desk and spoke with the operator. A moment later she brought back to the desk a leathercovered notebook, opened it and started writing with nimble fingers. When she had finished, she returned the receipted bill to Perry Mason.

"The calls," she said, "are all marked on there."

Perry Mason thanked her, folded the receipted bill without even bothering to look at it, thrust it into his pocket and turned from the cashier's window.

"Thank you," he said, "very much indeed."

Chapter 17

Perry Mason pushed open the door of his office and stood to one side for Marjorie Clune to enter.

Della Street, who had been seated at the secretarial desk by the switchboard, jumped to her feet and stared from Perry Mason to the blue eyes of Marjorie Clune.

"Della," said Perry Mason, "this is Marjorie Clune, the girl with the lucky legs. Margy, this is Della Street, my secretary."

Della Street made no effort to acknowledge the introduction. She stared at Marjorie Clune, then shifted her eyes back to Perry Mason's face.

"You brought her here?" she said. "You?"

Perry Mason nodded.

"But there have been detectives in," Della Street said. "They'll be coming back. They've got the building watched. You got in, but you can't get out, and Marjorie Clune is wanted for murder. It will simply cinch the case against you as an accessory."

Marjorie Clune clung to Perry Mason's arm.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. Then, facing Della Street, added, "I wouldn't have done it for the world if I'd known."

Della Street crossed rapidly to Marjorie Clune, put an arm around her shoulders.

"There, there, dear," she said, "don't you care. It isn't your fault. He's always doing things like that; always taking chances."

"And," said Perry Mason, smiling, "always getting away with them. Why don't you tell her that, Della?"

"Because," Della Street said, "some day you're not going to be able to get away with them."

Perry Mason glanced meaningly at Della Street.

"Take her in my private office, Della," he said, "and wait there."

Della Street opened the door of the private office.

"You poor kid," she said maternally, "it's been frightful, hasn't it? But don't worry. It's going to come out all right now."

Marjorie Clune paused in the doorway.

"Please," she said to Perry Mason, "please don't let me get you into trouble."

Della Street exerted a gentle pressure with her arm and piloted Marjorie Clune to the inner office and sat her in the big leather chair which flanked Perry Mason's desk.

"Wait there and try and get some rest," she said. "You can lay your head right back against the cushions and curl your feet up in the seat."

Marjorie Clune smiled at her gratefully.

Della Street rejoined Perry Mason in the outer office.

Mason walked to the door of the outer office, opened it and pushed the catch into place which put on the night latch.

"I don't want to be disturbed for a few minutes," he said. "Where's Bradbury? In the law library?"

Della Street nodded her head, then glanced toward the door of Perry Mason's private office.

"Where did you find her?" she asked.

"You can take a lot of guesses," Perry Mason said, "and then you'll miss it."

"Where was she, chief?"

"In Summerville."

"How did she get down there?"

"By train. But I got there before she did."

"You did?"

"Yes. I was following some one else."

"Who?"

"Dr. Doray. He went down on the midnight plane."

"And they were there?" she asked.

Perry Mason nodded.

"Together, chief?"

Perry Mason pulled out his package of cigarettes, regarded them ruefully.

"Two left," he said.

"I've got a package here," Della Street told him.

Perry Mason lit a cigarette, and sucked in a huge drag of smoke.

"Were they together?" asked Della Street.

"In the bridal suite," Perry Mason told her.

"She's married then?"

"No, she wasn't married."

"Were they going to get married?"

"No, she was going to marry Bradbury."

"Then," said Della Street, "you mean… that… that…"

"Exactly," he told her. "She was going to marry Bradbury because Bradbury had jockeyed her into such a position that she had no other alternative. But, before she did that, she was going to give a week of her life to Bob Doray."

Della Street motioned toward the book which stood by the telephone.

Mason nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I got the signal as soon as I came in. That was particularly important. It was something I had to know, but I was afraid there might be some detectives in here and I didn't want you to tell me in front of them."

"Well," she said, "there's the signal that you told me to arrange. Marjorie Clune got a telephone call just about five minutes before she left Thelma Bell's apartment."

"Did Thelma Bell know who was on the other end of the wire?"

"No, she said that Marjorie stood and talked a few minutes and then said, 'I'll call you back within an hour, or words to that effect; that Marjorie didn't seem at all glad to have the telephone call. She was frowning when she hung up the receiver."

Perry Mason studied the curling smoke from the end of his cigarette with thoughtful eyes.

"How about Bradbury?" she asked. "Are you going to follow his instructions?"

"To hell with him," Perry Mason said. "I'm running this show."

The door of the law library swung noiselessly open. J.R. Bradbury strode into the office, his face white and drawn, his eyes cold and determined.

"You may think you're running this show," he said, "but I've got the whip hand. So, the little doublecrossing cheap tart had to twotime me, did she? She went to the bridal suite with Doray, did she? Damn them. I'll show them both!"

Mason regarded Bradbury with sober speculation.

"Were you listening at the keyhole," he asked, "or did you bring a chair up to the transom?"

"Just in case you're interested," Bradbury said in cold fury, "I was listening at the transom, which I'd previously opened so that I could hear."

Della Street turned from Bradbury to Perry Mason, her eyes indignant. She sucked in a rapid breath as though to speak; then, catching Mason's glance, remained silent.

Perry Mason lounged upon the corner of her desk easily, swinging his foot lazily back and forth.

"Looks as though we're going to have a showdown, Bradbury," he said.

Bradbury nodded. "Don't misunderstand me, Mason," he said. "You're a fighter; I've got a great deal of respect for you, but I'm a fighter, myself, and I don't think you have the proper respect for me." His voice was harsh, fiat and strained.

Perry Mason's eyes were steady, calm and patient.

"No, Bradbury," he said, "you're not a fighter; you're the type who takes advantage of another person's mistakes. You've got the banking type of mind. You sit on the sideline, watch, wait and pounce, when you think the time is ripe. I don't fight that way. I go barging out, making my own breaks and taking chances. You don't take any chances; you sit in a position of safety. You never risk your own skin."

There was a swift change of expression in Bradbury's eyes.

"Don't you ever think I don't risk my own skin," he said. "I take plenty of risks, but I'm smooth enough to always cover them."

Perry Mason's eyes were patient and contemplative.

"You're partially right at that, Bradbury," he said. "Perhaps I should amend my original statement."