A space near one corner had been cleaned out, and broken packing cases and chairs piled in such a manner as to conceal it. On the floor were spread two blankets and a pillow made by stuffing papers into a flour sack. A sheet was pinned to the blanket.
Paul Drake's flashlight threw brilliant light into the corner, and held the square of note paper in the center of its beam.
"A note," he said, "pinned on that blanket."
Winifred made a dive for the note. Perry Mason's rigid right arm thrust in front of her held her back.
"Just a minute, sister," he said. "You take too many liberties with the truth. I'll read this one first."
The note was a scrawl, as though it had been penciled in the dark. It read:
"I can't do it, Winnie, dear. Probably they'd never find me. But if they did it would make it tough on you. I'd feel that I was hiding behind you as a shield. Perhaps if things come out all right I'll get in touch with you. But I know they'll be watching you and watching your mail, so you won't hear anything from me for a while. Lots of love and kisses to you, sweetheart. Your own Doug."
Mason read the note out loud, folded it and said to Della Street, "Catch her, quick. She's going to faint."
Winifred sagged toward Della Street 's protecting arm, then straightened. Her eyes were wan and pathetic. "I shouldn't have left him alone," she said. "I should have known he'd do that."
Perry Mason moved toward the door, kicked aside a broken packing case, walked down the passageway, entered Winifred's room, picked up a telephone and dialed a number. "I want to talk with District Attorney Burger," he said.
After a moment he said, "It's Perry Mason talking. I've got to see him on a matter of importance. Where can I reach him?"
The receiver made squawking noises, and Perry Mason, with an exclamation of disgust, hung up the receiver. He dialed another number, and said, "Police Headquarters?… Is Sergeant Holcomb where you can put him on the phone?… Hello, Sergeant Holcomb? This is Perry Mason… Yes, I know it's late… No, it isn't past my bedtime. If you're trying to be funny, you can skip it, and if you're wisecracking you can go to hell. I rang up to tell you that I personally will guarantee Douglas Keene will surrender to the police at five o'clock tonight… No, not at Police Headquarters. That would give you a chance to pick him up en route, and claim he was a fugitive from justice. I'll telephone you from some place which I'll select. You can come there and pick him up. Don't try to keep the information from the newspapers, because I'm going to tell them… Yes, I'll surrender him at five o'clock …"
Winifred Laxter lunged toward the telephone. "No, no!" she screamed. "No! You can't…"
Perry Mason pushed her away. " Five o'clock," he said, and hung up.
Della Street held one of the girl's arms. Paul Drake held the other. She was wrestling with them, her eyes fastened on Perry Mason's face with an expression of stark fear.
"You can't do it!" she screamed. "You mustn't. You…"
"I said I'd do it," Perry Mason said slowly, "and, by God, I will."
"You're selling us out."
"I'm selling no one out. You wanted me to represent him. All right, I'm going to represent him. The boy's made a fool of himself. He's just a kid. He got stampeded into running away. Someone's doublecrossed him. I'm going to put him back on the right track.
"He'll read the newspaper. He'll read that I'm representing him. He'll read that I've personally guaranteed to surrender him into custody at five o'clock tonight. He'll know I'm acting for you. He'll come in and give himself up."
"Chief," Della Street pleaded, "suppose he shouldn't get in touch with you, suppose he should read that in the paper and still keep in hiding?"
Perry Mason shrugged his shoulders. "Come on," he said to Paul Drake. "We'd better get up to the office. Newspaper reporters are going to ask us questions."
He turned to Della Street. "You stay here until that girl gets quieted down. Don't let her have hysterics, and don't let her make a fool of herself. As soon as you can leave her, come up to the office."
Della Street, clicking her heels together, made a mock military salute. "Okay, Chief," she said.
She turned to Winifred Laxter. "Come on, baby, snap out of it."
"I'm ssssnapped out of it," Winifred said, fighting back tears. "Mind your own ddddamned bbbbusiness, and gggo on up to his office."
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.