Chapter 12

The electric lights gave a sickly pale illumination to Perry Mason's office. It was that hour of the morning when the concrete caverns of the city cliff dwellers appear to the greatest disadvantage. Outside was the freshness of early dawn, contrasting with the stale air of the office. It was some half hour before sunrise. There was only enough daylight to emphasize the inefficiency of the manmade substitute.

Perry Mason stretched out in his swivel chair, placed his heels on the corner of the desk, lighted a cigarette. "When the newspaper reporters come in, Della, keep them in the outer office and bring them in all at once."

She nodded. Her eyes showed worry.

Paul Drake moved over and sat on the edge of Perry Mason's desk.

"You and I," he said, "had better pool a little information."

Mason's eyes were expressionless. "Such as what?" he asked.

"My men tell me Edith DeVoe was killed. She was beaten over the head with a club. The club was part of a crutch which had been sawed up."

Perry Mason smoked in silence.

"Of course, I knew that you had something in mind when you went up to Doug Keene's apartment. When I saw the bloodstained clothing, I knew it didn't come from the Ashton murder."

"But at that time," Mason asked, "you didn't know anything about the DeVoe murder?"

"Certainly not."

"That," Mason said, "might be a good thing to remember—in case you were questioned."

"Did you know about it?"

Mason stared steadily out of the window into the graying dawn.

After a few moments, when it became apparent he didn't intend to answer the question, Drake went on, "Do you know a man named Babson? He's an expert cabinetmaker. He does all sorts of woodwork, and, as a sideline, makes crutches."

Mason's face showed interest.

"A couple of weeks ago Ashton dropped into Babson's place. Ashton had his crutch made there. He wanted his crutch altered. He wanted a hole bored near the tip of the crutch, wanted it reinforced with metal tubing and lined with chamois skin. He wanted the metal threaded so that a cap could go on the end and the whole business be concealed under the rubber tip of the crutch."

Mason said slowly, "That's interesting."

"About three days ago," Drake went on, "Babson was questioned about that crutch business. A man who gave his name as Smith said he was representing an insurance company that was interested in Ashton's injuries. He wanted to know if Ashton had secured a new crutch or had any alterations made to the old one. Babson started to tell about the changes, then thought better of it and started questioning this man, Smith. Smith walked out."

"Got a description?" Mason asked tersely.

"Five foot eleven, age fortyfive, weight a hundred and eighty pounds, light felt hat, blue suit, and a peculiar scar across the face. He was driving a green Pontiac."

"When did that report come in?" Mason asked.

"The night operator handed it to me when I went past the office. It had been on my desk for some little time. One of the boys turned it in in his report."

"Good work," Mason said. "How'd he happen to call on Babson?"

"You wanted a complete checkup on Ashton, so I told the boys to go the limit. Naturally, we were interested in the place where his crutch had been made."

"Well," Mason told him, "add one more name to your list—put a tail on Jim Brandon. Find out all you can about him. See if he's been flashing any ready money lately."

"Already done," Drake said laconically. "I put a couple of men on him as soon as I got the report. Now let me ask you a few questions."

"Such as what?" Mason inquired.

"Such as where you're going to stand in this thing. Did you have to telephone the police, promising to surrender that kid?"

"Sure I had to do it," Perry Mason said with a savage impatience. "Can't you get the sketch? He's either guilty as hell or else that was a plant. If it's a plant, he can't dodge it. He's got to face it. If he tries to run away, he's going to be picked up. If the police pick him up and he's running away, he's headed for the gallows. He'll stretch hemp in spite of anything I can do. If he's guilty and surrenders and stands up like a man, faces the music, pleads guilty and tells his story to the court, I can probably get him off with life imprisonment."

"But you're gambling that he isn't guilty?" Della Street asked.

"I'm gambling, with everything I've got, that he isn't guilty."

"That's just the point, Chief," Della Street protested in hot indignation. "You're gambling too much. You're staking your professional reputation backing the play of an emotional kid about whom you know nothing."

Perry Mason grinned at her, a grin which held no amusement, but was the savage grin of a fighter coming back into the ring to face a formidable adversary who has already inflicted terrific punishment. "Sure I am," he agreed. "I'm a gambler. I want to live life while I'm living it. We hear a lot about the people who are afraid to die, but we don't hear so much about the people who are afraid to live; yet it's a common failing. I have faith in Winifred, and I have faith in Douglas Keene. They're in a bad spot and they need someone to front for them, and I'm going to do it!"

Paul Drake's voice still held a note of pleading.

"Listen, Perry, it isn't too late to back out. You don't know anything about that kid. Look at the facts against him. He…"

"Shut up, Paul," Perry Mason said without rancor. "I know how the facts stack up just as well as you do."

"But why should you stake your reputation on the innocence of some kid when everything points to his guilt?"

"Because," Mason said, "I play a nolimit game. When I back my judgment, I back it with everything I have. I try not be wrong."

"A nolimit game makes for big winnings and big losings," Della Street pointed out.

Mason said impatiently, with a gesture which included both of them, "What the hell can a man lose? He can't lose his life because he doesn't own that, anyway. He only has a lease on life. He can lose money, and money doesn't mean one damn thing as compared with character. All that really counts is a man's ability to live, to get the most out of it as he goes through it, and he gets the most kick out of it by playing a nolimit game."

A buzzer sounded in the office as the door of the entrance office opened and closed. Drake nodded to Della Street. She rose and slid through the doorway into the outer office. Paul Drake lit a cigarette and said, "Perry, you're a cross between a boy and a philosopher, an impractical, hardhitting visionary, a damned altruistic cynic, a credulous skeptic… and, dammit, how I envy you your outlook on life!"

Della Street opened the door and lowered her voice apprehensively. "Sergeant Holcomb is out there," she said, "with a whole flock of newspaper reporters."

"Did Holcomb bring the newspaper reporters?"

"No. I think he tried to beat them to it. They've been tagging along behind. He seems irritated."

Perry Mason grinned, blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. "Show the gentlemen in," he said.

Della Street ventured a grin. "Does that include Sergeant Holcomb?"

"Just this once, it does," Mason told her.

Della Street flung open the door. "Come in, gentlemen," she said.

Sergeant Holcomb pushed his way through the door. Back of him appeared several men who spread out fanwise as they entered the room, took up positions against the wall. Some of them took out notebooks. All of them had an attitude of listening intently, the attitudes of spectators at the opening round of a prize fight, who scrouge forward to the edge of their chairs lest they miss a single blow in what promises to be an encounter of whirlwind rapidity.

"Where's Douglas Keene?" Sergeant Holcomb demanded. Perry Mason inhaled a lungful of smoke, let it seep out through his nostrils in twin streams. "I'm sure I don't know, Sergeant," he said in the patient tone an elder uses in addressing an excited child.