"Where had he been before that?"

Drake said slowly, "I'm checking on that, Perry. When the police first talked with him they were investigating the death of Peter Laxter, the grandfather, and later on the death of Ashton, the caretaker. Laxter had a perfectly good alibi on Ashton's death. He'd left the house about nine o'clock and hadn't returned. Ashton was murdered between ten and eleven."

Mason nodded.

"Later on, Shuster did the talking. He gives Laxter an alibi."

"He does?"

Drake nodded. "Shuster says Laxter was in his office."

"Talking about what?"

"Shuster refuses to state."

"What a sweet alibi that is," Mason said scornfully.

"Wait a minute, Perry, I think it checks."

"How?"

"Jim Brandon, the chauffeur, had been with Laxter. He drove him up to Shuster's office. Around eleven o'clock. Laxter told Brandon to take the car and go on home; that he'd come later. Brandon took the green Pontiac back to the house. That's when he saw Keene. It was shortly after eleven."

Mason started pacing the detective's office, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, his head thrust forward. At length, he said, in the mumbling monotone of one who is thinking out loud, "Laxter, then, left the house with Jim Brandon in the green Pontiac, but he returned in Ashton's Chevvy. How the hell did he get that Chevvy?"

Drake stiffened to attention. "That's a thought," he said.

Mason said slowly, "Paul, put out a bunch of men to cover the apartment house where Edith DeVoe lived. Talk with all the inmates. See if any of them noticed the Chevvy parked anywhere near the apartment house."

Drake pulled a pad of paper toward him and scribbled a memorandum.

"That would make a swell break," he said, "but it would take more than that to make Sam Laxter the fall guy. You see, the person who murdered Ashton must have killed him between ten and eleven. Then he must have taken Ashton's crutch with him and sawed it up into sections. Then he must have gone to Edith DeVoe's place. Now, if Sam Laxter can prove he was in Shuster's office…"

"If that's the sketch," Mason interrupted, "and Brandon saw Douglas Keene leaving the house carrying the cat, where was Ashton's crutch? Douglas Keene wasn't carrying it with him."

Drake nodded thoughtfully. "That's so," he admitted, "but, of course, Keene could have tossed the crutch out the window that was always left open for the cat, then driven by in his car and picked it up. I tell you, Perry, you've got a tough case here. If Keene doesn't get in touch with you, it's going to put you in a spot. If he surrenders himself, circumstantial evidence is going to hang him in spite of all you can do."

The telephone rang. Drake answered it, and said, "For you, Perry."

Della Street was on the line. Her voice was excited.

"Come on up quick, Chief," she pleaded. "I've just heard from Douglas Keene."

"Where is he?" Mason asked.

"He's at a public pay station. He's going to call back in five minutes."

"Get a line on that stuff, Paul," he said, "and get it fast. I'm going to be on the move from now on." He dashed out of the office, climbed a flight of stairs and ran down the corridor to his own office. "Is he going to give himself up?" he asked Della Street as he rushed into his private office.

"I think so. He seemed sullen, but I think he's okay."

"Did you give him a good argument?"

"I told him the truth. I told him you were doing everything on earth for him and that he simply couldn't let you down."

"What did he say?"

"He sort of grunted, the way a man does when he's going to do what a girl wants him to but doesn't want to let her think she's having her own way."

Mason groaned, and said, "My God, you women!"

The telephone rang.

"Wait a minute before you answer it," Della Street said. "Do you know who's hanging around the street by the office?"

"Who?"

"Your little playmate—Sergeant Holcomb."

Mason frowned. The telephone rang again.

"Serious?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "they'll try to arrest him before he can surrender and claim they nabbed him as a fugitive from justice, and…"

He picked up the receiver and said, "Hello."

A man's voice said, "This is Douglas Keene, Mr. Mason."

Mason's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Where are you now?"

"Out at Parkway and Seventh Streets."

"Have you got a wristwatch?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"What time does it show?"

"Thirteen minutes to eleven."

"Make it closer than that. How are you on seconds? Say 'thirty' when it's twelve minutes and thirty seconds to eleven."

"I've passed that," Keene said. "I'll say eleven when it's just exactly eleven minutes to eleven."

"Be sure and call it right on the dot," Mason said, "because…"

"Eleven!" Douglas Keene interrupted.

Perry Mason held his watch in his hand. "All right," he said, "you're about twentyfive seconds slow, as compared with my time. But don't change your watch. I'll change my watch so it'll be even with yours. Now, listen, they're going to tail me when I leave the place, hoping I'll lead them to you. You walk down toward my office and stand on the corner of Seventh—that's just west of my office building—you know where that is?"

"Yes."

"At exactly ten minutes past eleven," Mason said, "walk out to the corner and catch the first eastbound street car that comes down Seventh Street. Pay your fare, but don't go inside the car. Stand right by the conductor where you can get off the car when I give you the word. I'll get aboard that car, but won't recognize you or speak to you in any way. A girl will drive right alongside the car in a convertible coupe with the rumble seat open. She'll be going at the same rate of speed the car's going. It may be a block or it may be two blocks after I get aboard, but when I yell, 'Jump, you make a jump for that rumble seat. Can you do it?"

"Sure I can do it."

"Okay, Douglas, can I depend on you?"

"Yes, you can," the young man said in a voice which had lost its sullen tone. "I guess I've made a damn fool of myself. I'll play ball with you."

"Okay," Mason said. "Remember, ten minutes past eleven."

He hung up the telephone, grabbed his hat and said to Della Street, "You heard what I told him. Can you do it?"

Della Street was adjusting her hat in front of the mirror. "And how!" she said. "Do I leave first?"

"No, I leave first," Mason said.

"And you don't want me to get the car out until after you've reached the corner?"

"That's right. Holcomb will tail me. If he thinks I've got a car, Holcomb will use a car. He'll have one parked somewhere near here. If he thinks I'm walking, he'll walk."

"What'll he do when you take the street car?"

"I don't know. How's your wristwatch?"

"I was listening over the extension telephone. I synchronized it with his."

"Good girl. Let's go."

Mason ran down the corridor, caught the elevator and I managed to give the appearance of strolling casually as he crossed the lobby of the building and reached the street. The thoroughfare was well crowded. Mason took the precaution of glancing hastily over his shoulder, but saw no sign of Sergeant Holcomb. He knew, however, that the Sergeant was on his trail. The officer was too old a hand at the game to crowd his quarry too closely, particularly at the start.

Mason walked half a block up the street, paused in front of a store, looked at his watch, frowned, and looked in a show window, ostensibly trying to kill time. After a minute, he looked again at his wristwatch, then turned to look up and down the street. He walked a few aimless steps, lit a cigarette, took two puffs, threw the cigarette away and looked at his watch for the third time.

In the street, directly opposite from the place where Mason was standing, was a safety zone. Mason walked aimlessly toward the corner, as though he had a few minutes to kill.