"While we were talking, Mrs. Mayfield came in and demanded money. She had been listening, and knew that my uncle had given me some money. She didn't know how much.
"I told her I'd give her all I had. I opened my purse and let her take it out. But, before I did that, I had ditched ten of the one thousand dollar bills, because I knew you were going to need some money, and I was saving it for you. That was all I needed money for—just you and her. I thought then that things would be all right, with you representing me, and Mrs. Mayfield keeping quiet. I thought we could work the thing out some way."
"And Crinston had arrived by that time?" asked Mason.
"Yes," she said, "he had come before that. I heard him drive up. In fact, I was leaving my uncle's office when Crinston came up."
"And Graves, the secretary, was in the outer office all the time?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes, he was there all the time, and knows pretty much what happened. He knows a lot more than he lets on. He knows a lot about my uncle's affairs, and I have an idea he knows something about what Mrs. Mayfield is doing."
"All right," said Mason, "then what happened?"
"Well," she said, "Mrs. Mayfield went out, and I went out and sat on the porch with Rob. Then there was a commotion, and I heard running steps from the front of the house, and shouts, and heard something about my uncle having been murdered. I knew that it would never do for Rob to be there, so I told Rob to get in his car and drive away."
"And you went with him?"
"Yes, I went with him."
"Why did you do that?
"Because I didn't want to be there."
"Why?"
"I thought that I could fix up an alibi for Rob."
"How did you get out of the grounds?"
"There's a way out through an alley in the back, to the driveway. We went out there, and nobody heard us, I guess."
"All right, then what happened?"
"Then I came back home; that is, I had Rob drive me to a place about two blocks from the house, and got out there. I sneaked into my bedroom and talked with Don Graves. I found out from him that my uncle had reported the Buick as having been stolen, and they thought that I was driving it. I figured that was a good alibi for me, and would let Rob out of it, so I said that I had been driving the Buick, and nobody questioned my word."
"All right. Then what happened?"
"You know the rest. Everybody took it for granted that I had been driving the Buick, and I thought everything was all right until you came and told me about the speedometer records not checking up. I went out to put some mileage on the Buick, and found an officer there, who grinned at me and told me that the Buick was going to be held for evidence."
"They'd sealed it up?" asked Perry Mason.
"Yes. They put a padlocked chain around the front axle and through the spokes of the wheel, and they'd also locked up the transmission."
"That," said Mason dryly, "makes it nice."
She said nothing.
After a moment Mason resumed his regular pacing of the floor, and the girl watched him with dark, anxious eyes, her head never moving, but the eyes following him back and forth as he paced rhythmically.
"You," he said, at length, "are going to have a nervous breakdown. I know a doctor I can count on. He's going to examine you and order you to a sanitarium."
"What good will that do?" she asked.
"It's going to give me a little time," he said.
"But won't that make them more suspicious when I run away?"
"They can't get any more suspicious," he told her. "The minute they sealed up that Buick, it showed they were working on this other angle of the case. I tried to slip that notebook containing the mileages into my pocket, and make it appear I was doing it casually; but the officer wasn't so dumb. He called me on it, and I had to put the notebook hack."
"Did you know about the mileage then?" she asked.
"I suspected it."
"How did it happen you suspected it?"
"Because I knew you'd been lying to me."
Her eyes blazed.
"Don't talk to me like that!" she said.
He simply grinned at her. After a moment the angry light left her eyes.
"You've got to figure you're trapped on that car business," he told her. "You've got to switch around on that."
"But," she said, "that's going to bring Rob into it. If they know Rob was there, that's going to make an awful mess, because there was bad blood between Rob and my uncle."
"Did Rob see your uncle the night he was murdered?" asked Mason.
She shook her head, hesitated a moment, then nodded it.
"Yes," she said, "he did."
"And the reason you changed your story just now and admitted it," he said, "is that you suddenly remembered there is someone who knows Rob saw your uncle. Who is that someone—Don Graves?"
She nodded her head again.
Perry Mason stepped to the door of the outer office.
"Della," he said, "get me Doctor Prayton on the telephone right away. Tell his nurse that it's vitally important—a matter of life and death. Get him on the telephone personally, and do it now."
"Yes," she said. "There's a Mr. Paul Drake in the office who wants to see you about a personal matter. He won't tell me what it is."
"All right," snapped Perry Mason. "Tell him to wait," and he stepped back into the office, slamming the door.
"Now," he told the girl, "you're going to have a nervous breakdown. You'll be sent to a sanitarium under another name. The police will find you sooner or later. But I want it to be later. Don't let anyone know who you are, don't show any undue interest in the newspaper reports of the case, and, no matter what happens, don't get stampeded."
She stared at him searchingly.
"How do I know I can trust you?" she asked.
He met her gaze with a steady stare.
"That's one of the things you can use your own judgment about," he said, "and it's going to make a hell of a lot of difference what you do."
"All right," she told him, "I'm going to trust you."
He nodded.
"Under those circumstances," he said, "I'll order the ambulance right now before Doc Prayton gets here."
Chapter 12
Paul Drake, the detective, bore no resemblance whatever to the popular conception of a private detective, which was, perhaps, why he was so successful.
He was a tall man, with a long neck that was thrust forward inquiringly. His eyes were protruding, and glassy, and held a perpetual expression of droll humor. Nothing ever fazed him. In his life, murders were everyday occurrences; love nests as common as automobiles, and hysterical clients merely part of an everyday routine.
He sat in the big highbacked leather chair in Perry Mason's office, and turned sideways, so that his long legs were crossed over the right hand arm of the chair. A cigarette was in his mouth, hanging pendulously at an angle from his lower lip.
Perry Mason, seated back of the big desk, stared at the detective with patient eyes that were calmly watchful. His manner was that of a veteran fighter relaxed in his corner, waiting for the sounding of the gong. He looked like a man who would presently lose his relaxed watchfulness, spring from the chair, and engage in swift conflict, with the ferocity of a tiger.
"Well," said Drake, "what's eating you?"
"Awhile back," said Perry Mason, "you were telling me something about a rough shadow."
Paul Drake inhaled placidly on his cigarette. His glassy, protruding eyes watched Perry Mason with an expression of quizzical humor.
"You must have a good memory," he said. "That was a long time ago."
"Never mind when it was," Mason told him. "I want to get the lowdown on it."