Hamlin L. Covington — Imposing district attorney who sets out to cure Mason of using courtroom razzle-dazzle but subsides in a frazzle
Samuel Jarvis — The D. A.’s deputy, whose yessing still adds up to no score
Howard B. Scanlon — An unemployed painter who saw enough with one eye through a crack in the door to jolt an entire courtroom
Harold Otis — Gas-station attendant who worked the swing shift
Señorita Carlotta Delano — She had a new name and a new story, but the same old face
One
Night changed the city’s skyscrapers from hard shafts of steel and concrete to wraithlike fingers etched in light.
The buildings visible from Perry Mason’s office showed, here and there, oblongs of lighted windows, but for the most part were illuminated only by floodlights from without.
Perry Mason, wearied after a hard day in court, had switched out the lights in his office and stretched out in the big arm chair facing his desk. He had intended at first only to rest his eyes, which had become tired from concentrating on the fine print of lawbooks, but fatigue had asserted itself and he had dropped off into the warmth of slumber.
Enough illumination came from the street and alley to show the fire escape outside Mason’s window, the desk, piled with open lawbooks, the quiet figure in the huge overstuffed leather chair where Mason persuaded nervous clients to relax and pour forth their troubles.
It had been a hot day, but now a storm was blowing up and vagrant wisps of wind circling the building swept past the partially opened window.
Mason stirred restlessly, as though twitched by a subconscious reminder of the pile of work on his desk, and the necessity of formulating an opinion upon a difficult legal matter before the next day.
From the dark silence above Mason’s window on the fire escape came the sound of faint motion, then a well-shod, graceful, feminine foot came groping down the iron stair tread. A moment later the other foot followed.
Slowly, cautiously, a young woman descended the fire escape, until her head was on a level with the landing of the office above.
Lights clicked on in the upper office. A rectangle of light sent rays of radiance out into the darkness.
Mason stirred in his sleep, muttered unintelligibly and flung a restless arm over the arm of the chair.
There was a shadow as a figure moved away from the lighted window above.
The girl on the fire escape hastily descended two more steps, apparently intending to reach the landing in front of Mason’s office window.
Then suddenly, as Mason moved his arm again, the girl on the fire escape detected that motion and froze into startled immobility.
A gust of wind, whipping up the alley, billowed her skirts and she instinctively flung down her right hand, fighting against the blowing garment.
The light which sifted in from the street glinted upon reflecting metal.
Mason straightened up in his chair.
The girl on the fire escape turned, started to climb, then stopped, apparently dreading to cross that shaft of light coming from the window of the office above Mason’s. The wind freshened. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously.
Mason yawned, rubbed his eyes, glanced upward, then snapped to incredulous attention as he saw the whipping skirt, the legs of the girl.
He slid out of the chair in a quick, lithe motion and around the desk to the window, peered upward, and said, “Do come...”
The girl on the fire escape held a warning finger to her lips.
Mason frowned up at her. “What’s the idea...”
She shook her head in a frenzy of impatience, motioned imperatively for silence, struggled with her skirts.
Mason beckoned.
She hesitated.
Mason swung one leg out of the office window.
The girl sensed the threat of that motion. She started slowly down the fire escape. Her right hand made a quick, flinging gesture. A metallic object caught the light rays and glittered, then ceased to glitter. She struggled again with her skirts.
“You must have had a free show,” she said laughingly, her voice almost a whisper.
“I did,” Mason said. “Come in.”
Once having decided that surrender was inevitable, she was tractable enough. She slipped a leg over the sill of Mason’s window, then, pivoting lightly, jumped into the room.
Mason walked over toward the light switch.
“Please don’t,” she said in quietly modulated tones.
“Why not?”
“I’d prefer that you didn’t. It might — might be dangerous.”
“For whom?” Mason asked.
“For me,” she said, and then added after a moment, “for you.”
Mason surveyed the figure that was silhouetted against the light of the window. “You don’t look as though you had anything to fear from the light.”
She laughed melodiously, “You ought to know. How long had you been sitting there?”
“An hour or so, but I was asleep.”
“You woke up at the crucial moment,” she laughed. “That wind caught me unaware.”
“I realized that it did,” Mason said. “What was it you had in your right hand?”
“A handful of skirt.”
“Something metallic.”
“Oh that,” she said, and laughed. “A flashlight.”
“And what became of it?”
“It slipped out of my hand.”
“Are you certain it wasn’t a gun?” Mason asked.
“Why, how absurd, Mr. Mason!”
“You know my name?”
She pointed to the frosted glass of the office door, illuminated by the corridor light outside. “It’s all over your door, and I can read backwards.”
“I still think it was a gun. What did you do with it?”
“I didn’t have a gun. Anyway, the thing that you saw slipped out of my hand and went sailing down into the alley below.”
“How do I know?” Mason asked, moving cautiously toward her.
She flung her arms out straight from the shoulder, said, “All right, I suppose I have this coming.”
Mason stepped quickly toward her. His hands slid down her body.
For a moment, at that first touch, she winced, then she stood rigidly still.
“Is it necessary to be that thorough?” she asked.
“I think it is,” Mason said. “Don’t move.”
“The object of this search, Mr. Mason, is to detect a weapon!”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “I wasn’t the one who made this search necessary. It’s going to be sufficiently thorough to assure my protection.”
He could feel her muscles stiffen, but she uttered no word, made no motion.
“Finished?” she demanded coldly, as Mason dropped his hands to his sides.
He nodded.
She put down her hands. Lights, reflected from the street, showed her mouth was hard as she walked over to a chair, sat down and took a cigarette case from her purse. “I don’t like that sort of thing.”
“I don’t like women to shoot me,” Mason said. “You did have a gun, you know. I suppose you tossed it down into the alley.”
“Why don’t you run down and find out, Mr. Mason?”
“I think I can do better than that. I think I can ask the police to make a search.”
She laughed scornfully. “That would make a nice story. I can see the headlines in my mind’s eye: ‘PROMINENT LAWYER CALLS POLICE TO SEE IF THERE IS A REVOLVER IN THE ALLEY BELOW HIS WINDOW.’ ”
Mason watched her thoughtfully. Light from her match showed the oval of a beautiful face. The hand that held the match was steady.
“And then,” she went on, her eyes twinkling with sardonic humor, “there would be a rather humorous story: ‘THE LAWYER REFUSED TO MAKE ANY EXPLANATION WHEN POLICE FAILED TO FIND THE WEAPON. — WAS PERRY MASON PRACTICING A JUGGLING ACT WITH A REVOLVER WHEN THE WEAPON SLIPPED OUT OF HIS HAND AND DROPPED DOWN TO THE ALLEY OR WAS HE PRACTICING AT DISARMING CLIENTS?’ — It would make quite a story.”