Mason walked on down the corridor. As he reached the lobby, he heard an automobile pull up to the curb. He hesitated for a moment, standing just back of the street door; then he opened the door a crack and peered out.

Hamilton Burger had just stepped to the sidewalk, and had his back turned to Perry Mason, watching Tom Glassman get out of the car.

Mason stepped back, gently closed the door behind himself, turned and walked down the corridor. He paused at the door where he had heard chips rattling and knocked.

Mason heard the sound of a chair being scraped along the floor, then complete silence from the other side of the door. He knocked again, and, after a moment, the door opened a crack, and a man's voice said, "Who is it?"

Mason smiled affably. "I'm in the adjoining apartment," he said, "and your poker game is keeping me awake. How about getting some sleep, or, if the limit isn't too high, letting me in. I don't care one way or another."

The man hesitated a moment. A booming masculine voice from the interior of the room called, "Open the door and let him in. We can use another player."

The door opened and Mason entered the room. Three men were grouped around a table. The atmosphere of the room was close and stuffy. A vacant chair marked where the man who stood at the door had been seated.

"What's the limit?" Mason asked, taking care to close the door.

"Fiftycent limit, except in jackpots, and then it's a dollar."

Mason took twenty dollars from his wallet. "Could you fellows use twenty dollars of outside money?" he asked.

"Could we," grinned the man with the booming voice. "It would be like manna from heaven. Sorry we kept you awake. Didn't know you could hear us."

"That's all right. I'd rather play poker than sleep, anyway. Mason is my name."

" Hammond 's mine," said the man who had admitted him.

The others introduced themselves.

Mason drew up a chair, took chips, and heard men walking down the corridor toward Edith DeVoe's apartment. Some fifteen minutes later, when he was twelve dollars and thirty cents ahead of the game, he heard the low moan of a siren, and shortly afterwards, the clang of an ambulance bell.

The players looked at each other in dismay.

"Guess we'd better cash in," Mason said, "and get the evidence out of sight."

One of the men looked at him accusingly. "You aren't by any chance a detective, are you?"

Mason laughed good naturedly. "No chance," he said. "I don't think they're coming here, boys. It sounds as though there's something down the corridor that's interesting them; probably a man beating up his wife."

The men paused to listen. They could hear the sound of steps shuffling along the corridor. Hammond took his coat from the back of the chair, thrust his arms into it and said, "Okay, boys. Let's call it quits until next week. It's time to break up, anyway."

Mason stretched and yawned as he cashed in his chips. "Think I might as well go out now and get a waffle and a cup of coffee," he observed.

"I have a car out here. How about giving you a lift?"

Mason nodded. They left the apartment together. Two police cars and an ambulance were drawn up in front of the curb.

Mason's companion showed curiosity. "Wonder what's going on here. Looks as though someone had been hurt."

"It might be a good time to duck out of here," Mason said. "I don't mind putting in my nights sleeping, or playing poker, but I hate like hell to put in my spare time answering the questions asked by a lot of dumb cops."

His companion nodded. "My car's around the corner. Let's go."

Chapter 10

Perry Mason unlocked the door of his private office and switched on the lights. He looked at his wristwatch, crossed to the telephone, dialed the number of the Drake Detective Agency and was informed by the night operator that Paul Drake was not in and had not telephoned. Mason left his name and instructions for Drake to get in touch with him, and hung up the telephone. He hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest and started pacing the office, his head thrust forward in thought.

After a few minutes, fingertips tapped gently on the panels of the corridor door. Perry Mason opened it, and Drake grinned a greeting.

Mason carefully closed the door behind the detective, offered a cigarette, and took one himself. "Get the dope, Paul?" he asked.

"Pretty much of it."

"What happened after I left?"

"Lots of detail stuff. They quizzed Shuster. He wouldn't tell who tipped him off the body had been exhumed, so I rang up Shuster's secretary, and told her I was in a jam on a murder charge and had to see Shuster right away."

"How did you locate her?"

"That's a cinch. Shuster is one of those criminal attorneys who gets calls at all hours of the day and night. The telephone directory carries his office number and says in the event there is no answer at that number to call another one. The other number is the number of his secretary's apartment."

"I see. Did you learn anything from her?"

"Just this—she was expecting Shuster to telephone any minute. She said that someone had given him a hurryup call about an hour before I telephoned. She didn't know the exact nature of the case he'd gone out on, but understood it was a murder case."

"Then it wasn't a tip on this body digging."

"Apparently not."

"But he knew about it by the time he arrived at the house."

"Exactly," Drake said.

Mason, holding his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, drummed silently on his chest with the tips of his fingers. "In other words, Paul, you mean that after Shuster had received that mysterious telephone call he went out and contacted someone who wanted him to rush to Laxter's house."

Drake said, "Why not? Stranger things have happened. You don't think that Shuster just put in an appearance because he thought his clients should know the body had been exhumed, do you?"

"Probably not," Mason said thoughtfully.

"Shuster is cunning," Drake cautioned. "Don't underestimate him."

"I won't," Mason said slowly. "What else do you know, Paul?"

"Lots."

"Spill it."

"Did you know that Frank Oafley and Edith DeVoe were married?"

Perry Mason paused in his pacing back and forth across the office. His eyes were thoughtfully attentive.

"Four days ago," Drake said, "they took out an application for a marriage license. Then they got a marriage license today. One of my men happened to pick it up. We make it a point to file the vital statistics of marriages, births, deaths and divorces, alphabetically. Then we check through them whenever we start an investigation."

Mason said slowly, "You did a good job that time, Paul. How did they keep it quiet?"

"They gave phony residences. Oafley went to an apartment house, rented a bachelor apartment for a few days, and gave that as his address when he took out a marriage license as F. M. Oafley."

"Sure it's the same one?"

"Yes, one of my operatives checked up with a photograph."

"How do you know they're married?"

"I'm not absolutely certain, but I think they got married tonight."

"What makes you think so?"

"Oafley was calling a minister and arranging to meet him at a certain place. The housekeeper kicked through with that information—to me, not to the officers."

"Has Oafley admitted it yet?"

"No, he didn't let out a peep. He said he went out to 'see a friend, and Burger let it go at that."

"Did you find out the name of the minister?"

" Milton 's the name. I got his telephone number, but I don't know the initials. We can get the address from the directory."

Mason resumed his pacing of the room, his head thrust thoughtfully forward.

"The trouble with Shuster, Paul," he said, "is that he always wants to help the police find the 'guilty' party. If they leave Shuster alone, that guilty party is always someone other than Shuster's client.