“This is the last time I dare to try it,” she said. “I had an awful time getting away. They tried to follow me. I pulled the same stunt that Mrs. Belter did the first time she came to the office, of going through the dressingroom. It always bothers a man when he’s trailing a woman, and she walks into a ladies’ room. They’ll fall for it once, but not twice.”
“Okay,” said Mason. “I’ve kept under cover almost as long as I can myself. They’ll be picking me up sometime today.”
“I hate her!”Della Street said fervently. “I wish you’d never seen her. She isn’t worth the money. If we made ten times as much money out of it, she still wouldn’t be worth it. I told you just what she was—all velvet and claws!”
“Wait a minute, young lady,” Mason warned. “You haven’t seen the blowoff yet.”
Della Street tossed her head. “I’ve seen enough. I’ll have these things all ready by this afternoon.”
“Okay,” said Mason. “Let her sign them, and see that everything’s in order. I may have to grab them and run, or telephone you and have you meet me some place.”
She flashed him a smile and went out, very trim, very selfpossessed, loyal and very worried.
Mason waited five minutes, and then lit a cigarette, and walked out of the hotel.
Chapter 13
Mason paused at the door of room 946 in the Wheelright Hotel and tapped gently on the panels. There was no sound from within. He waited a moment, then knocked a little more loudly.
After a few moments, he heard a stir from the interior of the room, the creak of bed springs, and then a woman’s voice saying, “Who is it?”
“Telegram,” said Perry Mason.
He heard the door latch click on the inside, and the door open. Mason lowered his shoulder, pushed the door back and walked into the room.
The girl had on pajamas of the sheerest silk which revealed the details of her figure. She had been sleeping, and her eyes were swollen. Her face still had traces of makeup but showed a certain sallow color of skin beneath the cosmetics.
Seeing her in the light of the morning, Mason knew that she was older than he had at first thought. She was, however beautiful, and her figure would have been the delight of a sculptor. Her eyes were large and dark. There was a sullen pout to the mouth.
She stood before him without any semblance of modesty, but with a certain air of sullen defiance about her.
“What’s the idea of busting in here this way?” she asked.
“I wanted to talk with you.”
“That’s a hell of a way to do it,” said the girl.
Mason nodded. “Get back into bed. You’ll catch cold.”
“Just for that,” she said, “I don’t think I will.”
She crossed to the window, raised the shade, and turned to face him.
“Well,” she said, “spill it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mason, “but you’re in a jam.”
“Says you!” she retorted.
“It happens that I’m telling you the truth.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“My name’s Mason.”
“A detective?”
“No, a lawyer.”
“Huh.”
“I happen to represent Mrs. Eva Belter,” he went on. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Well,” he protested, “don’t get hard about it. You might at least be sociable.”
She made a grimace, spat forth a swift comment, “I hate to have my sleep interrupted at this hour in the morning, and I hate men who come busting in the way you did.”
Mason ignored her statement. “Did you know that Frank Locke didn’t own Spicy Bits?” he asked casually.
“Who’s Frank Locke, and what’s Spicy Bits?”
He laughed at her.
“Frank Locke,” he said, “is the man who’s been signing the checks on the special account of Spicy Bits, which you’ve been cashing every two weeks.”
“You’re one of these smart guys, ain’t you?” she said.
“I get around,” Mason admitted.
“Well, what about it?”
“Locke was just a figurehead. A man by the name of Belter owned the paper. Locke did what Belter told him to.”
She stretched up her arms and yawned. “Well, what’s that to me? Have you got a cigarette?”
Mason handed her a cigarette. She came close to him while he applied the match, then strolled over and sat down on the bed, tucked her feet up in under her, and hugged her knees.
“Go on,” she said, “if it interests you. I reckon I can’t get to sleep until after you leave.”
“You’re not going to sleep any more today.”
“No?”
“No. There’s a morning paper outside the door. Would you like to see it?”
“Why?”
“It tells all about the murder of George C. Belter.”
“I hate murders before breakfast.”
“You might like to read about this one anyway.”
“All right,” she said, “go get me the paper.”
He shook his head at her.
“No,” he said, “you get the paper. Otherwise, when I open the door something might happen, and I’d get pushed out.”
She got up, puffing placidly at the cigarette, crossed to the door, opened it, reached out and picked up the paper.
The headlines screamed the news of the Belter murder. She walked back to the bed, sat down with her feet tucked in under her, legs crossed, and read through the paper, smoking as she read.
“Well,” she said. “I still don’t see that it’s anything in my young life. Some guy got bumped. It’s too bad, but he probably had it coming to him.”
“He did,” said Mason.
“Well, why should that make me lose my beauty sleep?”
“If you’ll use your noodle,” he explained patiently, “you’ll find out that Mrs. Belter has come into a position where she controls all of the property in the estate and I happen to represent Mrs. Belter.”
“Well?”
“You’ve been blackmailing Frank Locke,” he said, “and Locke has been embezzling trust funds in order to pay the blackmail. That special account of Spicy Bits was an account that was given him to use in purchasing information. He’s been handing it over to you.”
“I’m in the clear,” she said, tossing the paper to the floor, “I didn’t know anything at all about it.”
He laughed at her.
“How about the blackmail?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes, you do, Esther. You are shaking him down on account of this Georgia business.”
That remark registered with her. Her face changed color, and, for the first time, there was a startled look in her eyes.
Mason went on to press his advantage.
“That,” he said, “wouldn’t look pretty. You may have heard of compounding a felony. It’s a crime in this state, you know.”
She appraised him watchfully. “You’re not a dick, just a lawyer?”
“Just a lawyer.”
“Okay,” she said. “What do you want?”
“Now you’re commencing to talk turkey.”
“I’m not talking; I’m listening.”
“You were with Frank Locke last night,” he said.
“Who says I was?”
“I do. You went out with him, then came back here, and he stayed until long in the morning.”
“I’m free, white, and twentyone,” she said, “and this is my home. I guess I’ve got a right to entertain men friends if I want to.”
“Sure you have,” he said. “The next question is, have you got sense enough to know which side of your bread has got the butter?”