They were some of the stones smuggled out of Russia by the old aristocracy. Peter Laxter showed them to a few friends. They were large, brilliant diamonds."
"What about them?"
"Some of this other stuff," Drake said, "such as the currency, bonds, and all that, might have burnt up when the house was burned. It wouldn't have been possible to find even a trace of them. But the Koltsdorf diamonds haven't been found."
"Diamonds in the wreckage of a burnt house could hide pretty well," Mason said dryly.
"They've taken that wreckage to pieces with a finetooth comb, sifted ashes and done all sorts of things. But the diamonds can't be located. A distinctive ruby ring which Peter Laxter always wore on his left hand was found on the body, but no diamonds."
"Tell me the rest of it," Mason demanded. "Has Ashton shown up with those diamonds?"
"No, not that I've been able to find out. But he's done other peculiar things that are just as incriminating. For instance, shortly before the fire, Laxter had been dickering for a piece of property. He'd taken Ashton out with him to look the property over. A couple of days ago, Ashton called on the owner of that property and made an offer. The offer was for cash on the nail."
"It was refused?"
"Temporarily, yes, but I think the deal's still open."
Mason, frowning thoughtfully, said, "Looks like I'm stirring up a mare's nest. Laxter might have cached his property and Ashton might have had an inside track. In that event he probably wouldn't feel obligated to hand Sam Laxter the coin on a silver platter. Guess we're due for a talk with Ashton."
Drake said tonelessly, "The two grandchildren have been pretty wild, particularly Sam. Oafley's the quiet, unsociable sort. Sam went in for speedy automobiles, polo ponies, women, and all that sort of stuff."
"Where'd the money come from?"
"From the old man."
"I thought the old man was a miser."
"He was tighter than a knot in a shoelace except with his grandchildren; he was very liberal with them."
"How much was he worth?"
"No one knows. The inventory of the estate…"
"Yes," Mason said, "I checked over the inventory of the estate. Apparently the only things that were left were the frozen assets. The other stuff hasn't been discovered yet."
"Unless Ashton discovered it," Drake commented.
"Let's not talk about that," Mason said. "I'm interested right now in cats."
"The day before the fire there was a hell of a fight out at the house. I can't find out exactly what it was, but I think this nurse can tell us. I've talked with the servants. They froze up. I hadn't got around to the nurse yet… Here's her apartment."
"What's her name—Durfey?"
"No—DeVoe—Edith DeVoe. According to the reports I get, she isn't a bad looker. Frank Oafley was pretty much interested in her when she was taking care of the old man, and he's been seeing her off and on since."
"Intentions honorable?" Mason asked.
"Don't ask me; I'm just a detective—not a censor of morals. Let's go."
Mason paid off the cab. They rang a bell, and, when a buzzer had released the door catch, entered the outer door and walked down a long corridor to a ground floor apartment. A redhaired woman with quick, restless eyes, swift, nervous motions, and a wellmodeled figure which was set off to advantage by her clothes, met them at the door of the apartment. Her face showed disappointment. "Oh," she said, "I was expecting… Who are you?"
Paul Drake bowed, and said, "I'm Paul Drake. This is Mr. Mason, Miss DeVoe."
"What is it you want?" she asked. Her speech was very rapid. The words seemed almost to run together.
"We wanted to talk with you," Mason said.
"About some employment," Paul Drake hastened to add. "You're a nurse, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, we wanted to talk with you about some work."
"What sort of a position?"
"I think we could talk it over better if we stepped inside," Drake ventured.
She hesitated a moment, looked up and down the corridor, then stepped back from the door and said, "Very well, you may come in, but only for a few minutes."
The apartment was clean and well cared for as though she had just finished a careful housecleaning. Her hair was perfectly groomed. Her nails were well kept. She wore her clothes with the manner of one who is wearing her best.
Drake sat down, relaxing comfortably, as though he intended to stay for hours.
Mason sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair. He looked at the detective and frowned.
"Now this employment may not be exactly the kind of a job you had in mind," Drake said, "but there's no harm talking it over. Would you mind telling me what your rates are by the day?"
"Do you mean for two or three days, or…"
"No, just one day."
"Ten dollars," she said crisply.
Drake took a billfold from his pocket. He extracted ten dollars but didn't at once pass it over to the nurse.
"I have one day's employment," he said. "It won't take over an hour, but I'd be willing to pay for a full day."
She wet her lips with the tip of a nervous tongue, glanced swiftly from Mason to Drake. Her voice showed suspicion. "Just what is the nature of this employment?" she asked.
"We wanted you to recall a few facts," Drake said, folding the ten dollar bill about his fingers. "It would take perhaps ten or fifteen minutes for you to give us an outline, and then you could sit down and write out the facts you'd told us."
Her voice was distinctly guarded now.
"Facts about what?"
The detective's glassy eyes watched her in expressionless appraisal. He pushed the ten dollar bill toward her. "We wanted to find out all you knew about Peter Laxter."
She gave a start, staring from face to face in quick alarm, and said, "You're detectives!"
Paul Drake's face registered the expression of a golfer who had just dubbed an approach shot.
"Let's look at it this way," he said. "We're after certain information. We want to get the facts—we don't want anything except facts. We're not going to drag you into anything."
She shook her head vehemently. "No," she said. "I was employed by Mr. Laxter as a nurse. It wouldn't be ethical for me to divulge any of his secrets."
Perry Mason leaned forward and took a hand in the conversation. "The house was burned, Miss DeVoe?"
"Yes, the house was burned."
"And you were in it at the time?"
"Yes."
"How did the house burn—rather quickly?"
"Quite quickly."
"Have any trouble getting out?"
"I was awake at the time. I smelled smoke and thought at first it was just smoke from an incinerator. Then I decided to investigate. I put on a robe and opened the door. The south end of the house was all in flames then.