"Yes, I thought I locked it, but I didn't. It was unlocked."

"And it was still closed?"

"Yes."

"Just as you had left it?"

"Yes."

"So what did you do?"

"So I opened the door."

"And in order to do that, you had to slide it back along the runway?"

"Yes."

"All the way back?"

"Yes."

"And you did that and then drove your car into the garage, is that right?"

"Yes."

"And you left the garage door open?"

"Yes. I tried to close it, but when I'd pushed it back, I'd shoved it over the bumper of the other car. It caught there, and I couldn't get it loose."

"And you went upstairs to bed?"

"Yes. I was nervous. I took a powerful sedative."

"You had a talk with your husband this morning?"

"Yes, he was up making coffee. I thought it was rather strange, because I'd given him enough hypnotic to keep him sleeping until late."

"You asked him for some coffee?"

"Yes."

"He asked you if you'd been out?"

"No, not that way. He asked me how I'd slept."

"And you lied to him?"

"Yes."

"Then he went out?"

"Yes."

"And what did you do?"

"I went back to bed, dozed a bit, got up, took a bath dressed, opened the door, brought in the milk and the newspaper. I thought Carl had gone for a walk. I opened the newspaper and then realized I was trapped. The photograph of the garage key was staring me in the face. I knew Carl would recognize it as soon as he saw it. What's more, I knew the police could trace me sooner or later."

"So then what?"

"So I telephoned the express company, had them express my trunk to a fictitious name and address, packed up my things, had a cab come, and rushed out here to take a plane."

"You knew there was a plane left about this time?"

"Yes."

Perry Mason pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"Have you any idea," he asked, "who the person could have been that was ringing the doorbell?"

"No."

"Did you leave the doors open or closed when you left?"

"What doors?"

"The door into the hallway from Gregory's apartment, and the door at the foot of the stairs, that leads to the street."

"I can't remember," she said. "I was frightfully excited. I was quivering all over and drenched with perspiration… How did you know about the garage door?"

"Your husband told me."

"I thought you said he told the police?"

"He did. He came to call on me first."

"What did he say?"

"He said he'd recognized the key that was photographed in the newspaper, that he knew you had tried to drug him; that you'd gone out, that he'd heard you come in, that you got the garage door stuck and lied to him when he asked you about it being open."

"I didn't think he was that clever," she wailed, "and that lie about the garage door is going to trap me, isn't it?"

"It won't do you any good," Mason said grimly.

"And Carl told you he was going to tell the police?"

"Yes. I couldn't do anything with him on that. He had ideas of what his duty was."

"You mustn't judge him by that," she said. "He's really nice. Did he say anything about… about any one else?"

"He told me he thought you might try to shield some one."

"Who?"

"Doctor Millsap."

Mason could hear her gasp. Then she said in startled tones, "What does he know about Doctor Millsap?"

"I don't know. What do you know about him?"

"He's a friend."

"Was he there at Moxley's house last night?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Perry Mason dropped another nickel into the telephone, gave the number of Paul Drake's office. "Perry Mason talking, Paul," he said when he heard the voice of the detective on the wire. "You've read the papers, of course."

The receiver made a succession of metallic sounds. Rhoda Montaine, crouched in the cramped position on the floor of the telephone booth, moved a few inches to one side, shifted her knees slightly. "Okay," Mason said. "You know the general situation then. I'm representing Rhoda Montaine. You probably know by this time that she's the woman you saw come out of my office yesterday. I want you to start a general investigation. The police must have taken photographs of the room where Moxley was found. I want to get some of those photographs. Some of the newspaper men should be able to give you a break. I want you to investigate every angle you can uncover. And here's something funny. There were no fingerprints on that doorknob. I want to know why… What if she was wearing gloves?… That would have concealed her fingerprints, but others must have been using that door. Moxley must have opened and closed it a dozen times during the day. I was there earlier in the day. It was a hot day, and my hands were perspiring. There must have been some fingerprints on that doorknob.

"Yes, keep on with Moxley. Find out everything you can about him and about his record. Interview the witnesses. Get all the dope you can. The district attorney will probably sew up the witnesses who are going to testify for him. I'm going to beat him to it if I can. Never mind that now. I'll see you later… No. I can't tell you. You get started. There'll be some developments within a few minutes. G'bye." Mason slammed the receiver back on the hook.

"Now," he said to Rhoda Montaine, "we've got to work fast. The men from the Chronicle will be here any minute. Those fellows drive like the devil. The police are going to question you. They're going to do everything they can to make you talk. They're going to give you all kinds of opportunities to bust into conversation. You've got to promise me that you'll keep quiet. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"No matter what happens you're going to keep quiet?"

"Yes."

"Insist on calling me. Tell them you want me there whenever they get you on the carpet. Will you do that?"

"Of course. I've told you I would half a dozen times. How many more times do I have to tell you?"

"Dozens," he told her, "and that probably wouldn't be enough. They'll…" There was a gentle tap on the door of the telephone booth. Mason broke off and looked through the glass. A young man held a card against the glass. The card showed that he was a reporter from the Chronicle. Perry Mason twisted the knob of the door. "Okay, Rhoda," he said, "let's go."

The door opened. "Where's the girl?" asked the newspaper man.

Another reporter slipped around from behind the corner of the telephone booth. "Hello, Mason," he said.

Rhoda Montaine reached for Perry Mason's hand, got to her feet. The newspaper men stared at her in surprise. "She was in there all the time?" asked one of the reporters.

"Yes," Mason said. "Where's your car? You've got to rush her…"

The second reporter rasped out an oath. "The cops," he said.

Two men emerged from behind the low, glassenclosed partition which separated the ticket office from the lobby. They came up on the run. "This," said Perry Mason, speaking rapidly, "is Rhoda Montaine. She surrenders to you gentlemen as representatives of the Chronicle, knowing that the Chronicle will give her a square deal. She has recognized the garage key which was published in the paper as the key to her garage. She…"

The two detectives swooped down on the group. One of them grabbed Rhoda Montaine by the arm. The other pushed a face that was livid with rage up close to Mason's face. "So that's the kind of a dirty damn shyster you are, is it?" he said.

Mason's jaw jutted forward. His eyes became steely. "Pipe down, gumshoe," he said, "or I'll button your lip with a set of knuckles."

The other detective muttered a warning. "Take it easy, Joe. He's dynamite. We've got the girl. That's all the break we need."

"You've got hell!" one of the reporters said. "This is Rhoda Montaine, and she surrendered to the Chronicle before you ever saw her."