"Okay," Mason told him, "I'll do the best I can."
Harry Nevers took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and looked appraisingly at the attorney.
"If we could get her to come down to the STAR office and surrender herself to our custody," he said, "we'd see that she got a better break."
Mason's tone was firm.
"No," he said, "you're going to get the exclusive story and photographs. That's the best I can give you. She's going to surrender to the District Attorney, and I want to be sure there isn't any misunderstanding about that. In other words, I want the newspaper account to tell the public the truth."
Nevers yawned and looked at the telephone.
"Okay," he said. "I wonder if your secretary's got the calls through yet…"
The telephone rang, and Mason took down the receiver. He heard Frances Celane's voice, eager and excited, at the other end of the line.
"What is it?" she asked. "They won't let me have newspapers here."
"All right," said Mason. "The show's starting."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"They've arrested Rob Gleason for murder." He heard her gasp, and went on, "They've identified the club that killed Edward Norton. It was a walking stick that belonged to Rob Gleason."
"Rob Gleason never did it," she replied swiftly. "He called on my uncle, and they had quite an argument. He left that walking stick in Uncle's study, and…"
"Never mind that," interrupted Perry Mason. "There's a chance this line is tapped. They may have detectives listening in on us. You can tell me when you get here. I want you to get in a taxicab and come to the office right away, prepared to surrender yourself for murder."
"You mean they're going to arrest me too?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm going to surrender you into custody."
"But they haven't charged me with murder yet, have they?"
"They're going to," he said. "I'm going to force their hand."
"Must I do it?" she asked.
"You said you were going to have confidence in me," he told her. "I say you must do it."
"I'll be in there," she said, "in just about half an hour."
"Okay," said Mason, and hung up the telephone.
After a moment he jiggled the receiver and said to his secretary: "Get me the office of the District Attorney. I want to talk with Claude Drumm if he's in."
He hung up the telephone and faced the reporter.
"Listen," Nevers told him, "you're going to step on your tonsil there. If you tell the D.A. you're going to surrender the broad, they'll cover your office and pick her up when she comes in. They'd rather have her picked up than have her surrender."
Mason nodded.
"That's why you're going to listen to my talk with the D.A.'s office," he said. "It'll avoid misunderstandings."
The telephone rang, and he picked up the receiver.
"Hello," he said. "Hello, Drumm? This is Mason talking. Yes, Perry Mason. I understand that Rob Gleason has been charged with the murder of Edward Norton."
Drumm's voice came cold and cautious over the telephone.
"He is charged as one of the principals."
"There's another one then?" asked Mason.
"Yes, probably."
"Have charges been filed?"
"Not yet."
"A little birdie," said Mason, "tells me that you want to charge Frances Celane as being the other principal."
"Well?" asked Drumm, his voice still cold and cautious. "What did you call me up for?"
"I called you up to tell you that Frances Celane is on her way to surrender herself into custody at your office."
There was a moment of silence, then Drumm said: "Where is she now?"
"Somewhere between where she is and your office. That is, she's on the road."
Drumm asked cautiously: "Is she going to make any stops in between times?"
"I'm sure I couldn't tell you," said Mason.
"All right," said Drumm. "When she comes in, we'll be glad to see her."
"Will there be bail?" asked Mason.
"We'll have to talk that matter over after she makes a statement to us."
Mason smiled into the telephone.
"Don't misunderstand me, Drumm," he said. "I told you that she was going to surrender into custody. There won't be any statement."
"We want to ask her some questions," said Drumm.
"That's fine," said Mason. "You can ask her all the questions you want. She'll be only too glad to have you do so."
"Will she answer them?" asked Drumm.
"She will not," said Mason. "If there's any talking to be done, I'll do it."
He heard Drumm's exclamation of exasperation, and hung up the receiver.
Nevers looked over at him with bored eyes.
"They'll doublecross you," he said. "They'll figure that she's going to come to the office, and they'll send men to arrest her here. They'll make it appear she was arrested, rather than giving herself up."
"No," Mason said, "they think she's going directly from the sanitarium to the D.A.'s office. And, anyway, you've heard the conversation. That'll eliminate misunderstandings."
Mason opened a desk drawer, took out a flask of rye, and set out a glass. The reporter slid the glass back to him along the desk and tilted the bottle to his lips.
When he lowered the bottle, he grinned at the lawyer. "My first wife hated to wash dishes," he said, "so I got out of the habit of dirtying them. You know, Mason, this may be a hard morning, and I haven't had any sleep for a couple of nights. If I put this bottle in my pocket, it might keep me awake."
Mason reached out and took the bottle.
"If I keep it in the desk," he said, "I'll know that you don't get an overdose."
"Well," Nevers told him, "under those circumstances, there's nothing to keep me from going down and getting the photographer," and he slid down from the arm of the chair and walked through the door which led to the outer office.
He was back in five minutes with a photographer who carried a camera in a canvas case in one hand, and tripod in the other.
The photographer wasted no time in greetings, but scrutinized the office with an eye that soaked in the lighting arrangements.
"What sort of complexion has she got?" he asked.
"Spun silk hair," said Mason. "Dark eyes, high cheeks, and a good figure. You won't have any trouble with her when it comes to posing. She's expert at placing herself where she looks well."
"I want her in that leather chair," said the photographer.
"That's where she'll go," Mason told him.
The photographer raised the shades on the windows, set up the tripod, adjusted and focused the big camera, poured some flashlight powder into a flashgun.
"Why don't you use electric bulbs?" asked Perry Mason, eyeing the photographer with interest. "I understand they do better work, and they don't get a room all filled with smoke."
"Try telling that to the eagleeyed bird that audits the expense account," said the photographer, "and it's your office. I don't care about the smoke."
Nevers grinned at Mason.
"That's the sweet spirit of cooperation that we have over at the STAR," he said.
Mason looked at the ceiling of the room and muttered: "I presume I can move out of here for half an hour just because you fellows want to save the cost of a flashlight globe."
"Give him a shot out of that bottle," said Nevers, "and maybe he won't load the flash quite so heavy."