Della Street said, “Her room might be at the head of the back stairs. At any rate, it’ll be a good place to start.”
Within five minutes they had found it. A room on the second floor, at the extreme back of the house.
“It’s pretty hard to make a search with flashlights,” Della Street said.
Mason nodded, boldly walked over to the light switch, and clicked it on. “Neighbors,” he announced, “get suspicious when they see the beam of a flashlight playing around a room, or even impinging against the drawn shades, but they think nothing of it when lights are on... Just make certain the shades are all drawn, Della.”
Della Street went around the room pulling shades.
“All right,” Mason said, “let’s get to work.”
“What are we searching for?” Della Street asked.
Mason grinned. “That’s the beauty of it. We don’t know, we—” He broke off abruptly. “What was that, Della?”
Della Street said, “Someone tossed gravel up against the window.”
Mason frowned. “Sit tight. See what happens.”
A moment later more gravel was thrown against the window.
“Do I dare to switch out the lights, and take a peek at whoever is below?” Della asked.
Mason thought for a moment, then said, “Give it a try, Della.”
He switched out the lights. Della Street drew back the window shades, stood against the dark window, looking down into the back yard.
After a moment she moved back from the window and said with an odd catch in her voice, “It’s a man. He beckoned to me, and then moved up to the back porch. He’s standing there waiting, as though expecting me to let him in.”
For a long moment Mason deliberated this new development, then he said with sudden decision, “Okay, Della. We let him in.”
“But we can’t afford to be caught here, and—”
“We let him in,” Mason repeated. “It’s a hunch. Maybe Martha Stevens’ boy friend... Come on, Della, unlock the back door, and don’t say a word. I’ll be standing directly behind you. See what he does.”
With the aid of the flashlight, they negotiated the back stairs, crossed the kitchen. Della Street unlocked the back door, Mason switched out the flashlight, stood directly behind her. As the door opened, a slender man, wearing a reefer-type overcoat, pushed his way into the room and slipped a familiar arm around Della Street’s waist. “Cripes,” he said, “thought I wasn’t going to get away. Give us a kiss.”
Mason’s flashlight snapped on.
The man frowned at the annoyance of the flashlight, then caught a glimpse of Della Street’s face and jumped back as though he’d been shot. “Say, what’s the idea?” he demanded.
Mason kicked the back door shut and locked it. “Come on up,” he invited.
“Where to?”
“Martha’s room.”
“Say, who do you think you are?”
Mason said with every assurance of authority. “Come along, my man, I want you to answer questions about what happened the night Jack Hardisty was murdered.”
Every bit of resistance oozed out of the man as though he had been hit hard in the solar plexus. “Who... who are you?” he asked, his shoulders drooping, the coat seeming suddenly much too large.
Mason merely clasped an authoritative hand on the man’s arm. “Come on.”
Silently they climbed the stairs, entered Martha Stevens’ room. Accusingly, Mason turned to regard the frightened man. He fixed him with a steady, penetrating scrutiny that he used at times effectively in his cross-examination.
“All right,” he said, at length. “Let’s have it.”
“Where’s Martha?”
Mason said, “Martha’s having a chance to tell her story to a Los Angeles detective. You can tell yours now.”
The man fidgeted uneasily. “I haven’t done anything.”
Mason merely smiled.
The man settled down in a chair, his body seemingly trying to hide behind the heavy folds of the sagging coat.
Mason said, “We haven’t got all night... What’s your name?”
“William Smiley.”
“Where were you,” Mason asked, “when Martha Stevens broke her glasses?”
“I was right there.”
“How did they get broken?”
“This guy lunged at her.”
“You mean Hardisty?”
“Yes.”
Della Street quietly extracted a notebook from her purse, unscrewed the cap from a small fountain pen, and started making shorthand hieroglyphics.
“Why did you go up to the cabin to meet Hardisty in the first place?” Mason asked.
“It was Martha’s idea. She’d been reading the dope in this magazine about how this drug made people talk. Hardisty had been dipping into funds, and Blane was going to have to make good, so Martha figured that by giving him a shot of this drug, we could make him talk his head off, and get the money back.
“She knew she was going to have to use force. That’s where I came in... I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to. She’ll tell you that herself.”
“I know,” Mason said sympathetically, glancing from the corner of his eye to see that Della Street was keeping up with the conversation. “Just tell me what happened, so that I can check it with Martha’s story.”
“Martha won’t lie, she’ll tell you the truth.”
“I know,” Mason said soothingly.
“Martha and I would have married, only Blane doesn’t want a married housekeeper. He always said he never hired a couple that was any good. Either the man was good and the woman wasn’t, or the other way around... Well, Martha and I was going together secret-like. This thing came up, and she called on me.”
“Where did you get the hypodermic?” Mason asked.
“One she used to give Blane his shots for diabetes.”
Mason waited for the other to go on.
Smiley, recalling what had happened, became less hostile. “Okay,” he said in a nasal, somewhat whining voice as though he were accustomed to registering complaints which did no good, “what was there for me to do? I had to go through with it. Martha got the gun for me.”
“What kind of a gun?” Mason asked with a significant glance at Della Street.
“A thirty-eight. It was Mrs. Hardisty’s gun. Mrs. Hardisty was spending part of the time over here. She kept that gun in her suitcase. Martha got it and gave it to me. We went up to the cabin. Hardisty was there, all right. He’d parked his car and was standing right by this big granite rock. He had a spade in his hands, like he was going to dig. I wanted to try talking with Hardisty, to be reasonable about it, but Martha was all business. She gave him the works right away.”
“Shot him?” Mason asked.
“No. Don’t be silly! I had the gun. She told him she was going to give him this hypo, that it would make him tell the truth, and not to try getting rough. I cut down on him with the gun, and made him get his hands up. He was scared, but not too scared.”
“And what did Martha do?”
“She gave him the hypo.”
“And then what?”
“Then, I guess he came to the conclusion that I wouldn’t shoot. Anyway he made a swing at Martha, and clipped her one that knocked off her glasses, and it gave her a jolt.”
“And you shot?” Mason asked.
“Not me, brother. I got sore when he pasted Martha. I hauled off and hit him.”
“With the hand that was holding the gun?”
“No. I tossed the gun away when I pasted him... Damn little shrimp, hitting a woman. I should have broken his jaw. As it was, I knocked him down and he broke his glasses — we thought we’d picked up all the pieces. Guess we missed some.”
“And then what happened?” Mason asked.