"Yes," she said, her voice drifting up from the floor in mumbling acquiescence.

"All right, they're starting to look around now," Mason said. "I'll be talking over the telephone."

He removed the receiver from the hook but did not deposit a coin. He held his mouth against the mouthpiece of the telephone and talked rapidly, ostensibly to some party on the other end of the wire, in reality, giving swift instructions to Rhoda Montaine. "You were a little fool to try to get away on a plane," he said. "Flight is an indication of guilt. If they'd caught you boarding that plane with a ticket to some other city, they'd have strengthened the case against you. Now you've got to work things in such a way that they can't prove you were guilty of flight."

"How did you know I was here?" she asked.

"The same way they did," he said. "You left your house with some light articles of baggage. You shipped a trunk by express. If you'd been going on a train, you'd have checked the trunk.

"Now you're going to surrender, but not to the police. You're going to surrender to some newspaper that will get an exclusive story."

"You mean you want me to tell them my story?"

"No," Mason said. "We'll simply let them think you're going to tell them your story. You'll never have a chance."

"Why?"

"Because the detectives will grab you just as soon as you put in an appearance and before you have a chance to talk."

"Then what?"

"Then," he said, "keep silent. Don't tell any one anything. Tell them that you won't talk unless your attorney is present. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"All right," he told her, "I'm going to telephone the Chronicle. These birds have got me spotted now, but they don't know that I've seen them. I'm going to telephone the Chronicle, and then I'm going to let them know that I've seen them and turn my back, pretending to hide. That'll make them think I'm expecting you here, and waiting for them to leave before I go out of the booth. They'll get some place where they can watch me and stick around waiting for me to come out, or for you to join me."

He dropped a coin in the telephone, gave the number of the Chronicle and, after a moment, asked for Bostwick, the city editor. There was the sound of a man's voice on the wire, and Mason said, "How would you fellows like to have the exclusive story of Rhoda Montaine, the woman who had the two o'clock appointment with Gregory Moxley this morning?… You could also have the credit for taking her into custody… Yes she would surrender to Chronicle reporters. Sure, this is Perry Mason. Of course I'm going to represent her. All right, now get this straight. I'm here at the Municipal Airport. Naturally I don't want any one to know that I'm here or that Mrs. Montaine is here. I'm in a telephone booth. You have a couple of reporters come to the telephone booth and I'll see that Rhoda Montaine surrenders herself to them… I can't guarantee what's going to happen after that. That's up to you, but, at least, your paper can get on the street with the news that Rhoda Montaine surrendered to the Chronicle. But get this straight. You can't have it appear that the Chronicle ran her to earth as she was trying to get away. It's got to be a surrender… That's right, she's going to play it that way. She surrenders to the Chronicle. You can be the first on the street with it.

"No, I can't put her on the telephone and I can't give you her story. I can't even guarantee that you'll get a story. How much more do you want for nothing? You can get an extra ready and have it on the street as soon as your men telephone a release. Frankly, Bostwick, I'm afraid the detectives are going to grab her before your men get a chance to interview her, and she isn't going to say very much to detectives right now… Okay, get your extra ready. Start your boys out here and I'll give you some of the highlights on the situation. Now, mind you, I don't want to be quoted in this. I'll simply give you bits of information that you can get for yourself. Rhoda Montaine married a chap named Gregory Lorton some years ago. You'll find the marriage license in the Bureau of Vital Statistics. Gregory Lorton was none other than Gregory Moxley, otherwise known as Gregory Carey, the man who was murdered.

"A week or so ago, Rhoda Lorton married Carl W. Montaine. Montaine is the son of C. Phillip Montaine, a multimillionaire of Chicago. The family's not only respectable but high hat. In the application for a marriage license, Rhoda Lorton described herself as a widow. Gregory Moxley showed up and started to make trouble. Rhoda had been living with a Nell Brinley at one twentyeight East Pelton Avenue. Moxley sent telegrams to Rhoda at that address, telling her certain things. If you can get those telegrams either from the police files or from the files of the telegraph company, you can use them. Otherwise you can't. Nell Brinley will admit that she received telegrams… That's all I can tell you, Bostwick. You'll have to make up a story from that. You can start running down those angles so that you can have something to put in the special edition you throw on the streets… Yes, she'll surrender herself at the airport. The reason she came to the airport is because I told her to meet me here… No, that's all I can tell you. I've given you all the dope I can. Goodby."

The receiver was still squawking protests as Perry Mason slammed it back on the hook. He turned around as though to leave the telephone booth, looked through the glass, caught sight of one of the detectives, paused, turned his shoulder so that it concealed as much of his face as possible, lowered his head, picked up the telephone receiver and pretended once more to be telephoning.

"They've spotted me, Rhoda," he said, "and know that I've spotted them. They're going to give me a chance to walk into the trap now. They'll get under cover somewhere."

"Aren't they likely to come in here?" she asked in a muffled voice.

"No," he said, "it's you they want. They've got nothing on me. They figure it's a cinch you're going to meet me here and that I'm waiting for you, that I'm trying to keep under cover until they leave. They'll stick around in plain sight for a while and then pretend to leave, figuring that will draw me out in the open."

"How did they know about me?" she asked.

"Your husband," he said.

She gave a quick gasp. "But my husband doesn't know anything!" she said. "He was asleep."

"No, he wasn't," Mason told her. "You slipped some Ipral tablets into his chocolate, but he was too foxy for you and didn't drink the chocolate. He pretended to be asleep and heard you go out and heard you come back. Now go ahead and tell me what happened."

Her voice sounded indistinct as it drifted up from the lower part of the telephone booth. Perry Mason, with the receiver pressed against his ear, cocked his head slightly so that he could hear her words.

"I had done something awful," she said. "Gregory knew about it. It was something that would put me in jail. Not that I was so frightened about going to jail, but it was on account of Carl. His parents thought Carl had married beneath him—a woman who was little better than a street walker. I didn't want to have anything happen that would give Carl's father a chance to say, 'I told you so, and I didn't want to have my marriage to Carl annulled."

"You aren't telling me very much," Mason said, ostensibly into the telephone.

"I'm trying to tell you the best I can," she wailed, her voice sounding as though she were about ready to start sobbing.

"You haven't got any too much time," Mason warned her, "so don't waste any of it feeling sorry for yourself and crying."

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself and I'm not going to waste time crying," she snapped back at him.

"Your voice sounded like it."

"Well, you try sitting down here, with your head pushed up against a metal telephone box and your knees pushed up against your chin, with a man's feet tramping all over your dress, and you'd talk like that too."