Mason, entering his office shortly after ten o’clock the next morning, found Della Street waiting in the private office, her finger to her lips.
“Hi, Della. What’s up?” Mason said, keeping his voice low in response to her signal.
“There’s someone in the outer office you don’t want to see.”
“Man or woman?” Mason asked cheerfully.
“Woman.”
“What’s the pitch?”
“Mrs. Robert Caddo.”
Mason threw back his head and laughed. “Why don’t I want to see her, Della?”
“She’s on the warpath.”
“What about?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“This Caddo family is becoming a nuisance.”
“I told her you might not be in all day, that you saw people only by appointment, and that you wouldn’t see anyone unless I was able to give you a general idea of the nature of the business.”
“So what?”
“So she plunked herself down in a chair, clamped her lips together and said, ‘I’ll see him if it takes all week.’”
“How long’s she been there?”
“Over an hour. She was waiting in the corridor when Gertie opened the office and as soon as I came in, I went out and talked with her.”
Mason laughed good-naturedly. “What sort of woman is she, Della?”
“She’s younger than he is, not bad looking. But right now she’s not exuding any charm and she isn’t bothering with sex appeal. All she needs is a rolling pin to be perfectly typical.”
Mason elevated one hip on the corner of his big desk, lit a cigarette and regarded Della Street with amused eyes. “What the devil do you suppose she wants here?”
“I suppose Caddo is trying to use you as an alibi.”
“Exactly,” Mason said, “and the alibi will be for his association with Marilyn Marlow. Hang it, Della, I’m going to talk with her!”
“I warn you. She’s on the warpath.”
“Irate women are all part of the day’s work in a law office. Let’s have a look at her, Della.”
“Well, get over in your chair,” Della said. “Rumple up your hair, pull some law books around. Look busy and dignified. You try to meet this woman informally and you’ll have me calling a doctor to pull pieces of rolling pin out of your head.”
Mason laughed, seated himself at the desk, opened some law books and held a fountain pen poised in his hand over a pad of paper. “How does this look, Della?”
She surveyed him with critical eyes and said, “It looks staged. There’s no writing on the paper.”
“Right you are,” Mason said, and immediately scrawled on the pad of yellow foolscap: “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.”
Della Street walked around to place a hand on his shoulder and peer over at what he had written.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“That is perfectly swell. I’ll tell Mrs. Caddo that you’re very busy working on an important matter, but that you’ll give her five or ten minutes.”
“Shoot the works,” Mason told Della Street.
Della left Mason’s private office, returned after a few seconds with Mrs. Caddo in tow.
Mason heard Della Street say, “He’s absorbed in looking up a law point. Don’t interrupt him.”
Following that cue, Mason started to scribble meaningless words on the sheet of foolscap.
Mrs. Caddo pushed Della Street to one side and said in a high, shrill voice, “Well, I’ve got a problem for him to concentrate on. What does he mean by sending my husband out, chasing after some little hussy! If I had my way, a lawyer who does that would be made to pay damages. The idea of breaking up a home!”
Mason glanced up, said somewhat absentmindedly, “Caddo … Caddo? You’re Mrs. Caddo? Where have I heard that name before, Della?”
“You know where you’ve heard it!” Mrs. Caddo screamed at him. “You advised my husband. You told him to go out and cultivate this hussy, and then he tells me, ‘My lawyer will know all about it! A business matter,’ he says. He didn’t think I’d ever find out who his lawyer was but I fooled him. I looked in his checkbook and there it was, big as day, a check stub showing Perry Mason had nicked the family bankroll for five hundred bucks. For what? For sending my husband out fawning around on a snaky-hipped brunette, that’s what for!”
Mason said, “Oh, yes, Robert Caddo, the publisher of the magazine. Sit down, Mrs. Caddo, and tell me what’s bothering you.”
“You know perfectly well what’s bothering me. A publisher! Robert Caddo is running a racket.”
“Indeed,” Mason said, raising his eyebrows.
“And I’ll tell you something else,” she went on, moving toward Mason belligerently. “Such as he is, he’s mine! I’ve got my brand on him and I don’t intend to let him get away. I’ve put up with enough to turn my hair white. I’ve got too much of an investment in him to let him go. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” Mason said.
“If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t marry him for a million dollars, but he had a good line and after he’d talked me into it, I kept tagging along, thinking we’d work it out all right some way.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Seven years. And it doesn’t seem long at all when you look back on it—not over a hundred and fifty or two hundred.”
Mason threw back his head and laughed.
“Go ahead and laugh,” she said savagely. “I suppose it strikes you as funny. I wasn’t bad looking in those days and Robert had a little money. I wasn’t in love with him but I didn’t think he was going to turn out to be a complete heel. So we tied up for better or worse, and I really and truly tried to make a go of it.
“I’ve put up with a lot since then. A couple of times I thought I’d pull out. But I stuck, and gradually, bit by bit, Bob has been getting a little property together. Now he’s getting to the age when he strays off the reservation now and then, and I don’t like it.”
Mason said, “You’re young yet, Mrs. Caddo. You certainly are far from being unattractive. If you think your life has been ruined …”
“I didn’t say my life had been ruined. I’m not one of these women to come wailing around that they’ve given a man the best years of their lives. Bob Caddo never had the best years of my life, although he may think he had. But what gets my nanny goat is to have him go traipsing around after this brunette and pull the line that he’s merely following his lawyer’s advice.”
“That would bother me too,” Mason said. “Suppose you sit down and tell me about it.”
“I’m too mad to sit down.”
Mason said, “Stand up and tell me about it, then.”
She said, “Who’s Marilyn Marlow?”
“What about her?” Mason asked.
“Bob has gone for her, head over heels. She’s got some property. Bob thinks he can sink his grub hooks in that property and throw me overboard.”
“You’re certain?”
“Just as certain as I need to be. He’s been gallivanting around lately and I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m not so dumb, even if I am a big blonde. I tailed along and found out where he was going. Then I gave him a piece of my mind when he finally got back home with the old story about being out on business. He tried to back it up and told me that it was business, that this Marlow girl had been using his magazine and that there were some legal difficulties and he had retained ‘a prominent lawyer’ to advise him and that the lawyer told him that he had better stick close to her and try to work out some sort of a settlement.”
“Your husband told you that?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re certain there’s no opportunity for a misunderstanding?”
“None whatever.”
Mason sighed, and said, “Mrs. Caddo, none of us is perfect. We all of us have our little faults. These are imperfections in character which range from the trivial to the serious, and none of us is free from them, but in addition to what other minor imperfections he may have, your husband is a liar and I would appreciate it if you’d tell him I said so.”
“Humph!” she said, quite evidently surprised at Mason’s frankness.
“And you are free to quote me on that,” Mason went on. “Tell your husband to come in and see me in case he feels aggrieved.”
She regarded Mason quizzically. “Say, I believe you’re regular. I came in here to throw inkwells, but you seem to be on the up-and-up. Who’s Rose Keeling?”
“Are there two women?”
“I don’t get the sketch,” she admitted. “I caught Bob off first base. I snitched a little red notebook he carries in his inside pocket. When he finds that’s gone, he’ll have a fit. He had two names in there, this Marilyn Marlow and Rose Keeling. This isn’t the first time and it isn’t going to be the last time. I know that I have to put up with a certain amount of that stuff, but believe you me, Mr. Mason, once I catch up with him I see that there isn’t any great amount of pleasure left in it for him. I’m a wildcat when I get started.”
Mason said, “Sit down and let’s discuss the matter. Do you think that being a wildcat, as you term it, buys you anything?”
Mrs. Caddo sank down in the big client’s chair and grinned at Perry Mason. “I know very well it does. That’s the way to handle Bob.”
“Of course,” Mason said, “all of these tirades, these fits of temper, gradually leave an indelible mark upon your character.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” she said wearily, “but just between you and me and the guidepost, Mr. Mason, I go through these tantrums just to protect my vested interests. They aren’t fits of temper. They’re an act.
“You see, Bob has piled up quite a little money in this racket of his. He’s smart enough to keep it where I can’t get my hands on it. I don’t mind too much if he philanders around a little, but I don’t want to have some little siren come along and then walk off with my share of the money. So whenever I think anything is getting serious, I raise Cain with Bob, then I find out who the woman is, and I certainly do put on an act with those women! And believe me, I’m good at that.”
“I daresay you are,” Mason said.
She said, “Well, I’m not going to take up any more of your time, Mr. Mason. It was nice of you to see me. You’ve been perfectly splendid about this. I came up here to make a scene and raise a rumpus in general, but somehow I don’t think it would have impressed you too much anyway. That’s the only thing that will hold Bob in line. He knows that about the time he gets to the gooey stage I’m going to come tearing along behind like a tornado and make everyone dig for the cyclone cellar. I knew this Marilyn Marlow wasn’t business, but it isn’t just a philandering proposition either. There’s something back of it all that I don’t like. I think Bob would like to pull a fast one there. Anyhow, I’m going to pay my respects to Marilyn Marlow and I’m going to call on Rose Keeling, and when I get done with those two women they’ll realize that crime doesn’t pay.”
Mason said, “I think, Mrs. Caddo, that perhaps this time it might be better just to work on your husband a little.….”
“Nope,” she said determinedly, “it’s a system I’m playing, Mr. Mason. I don’t ever dare to vary it. The last time Bob did any philandering, I went up to the woman’s apartment, and I really wrecked the place. I tore her clothes off, blacked her eyes, smashed a mirror, just to give her bad luck for seven long years, and threw a few dishes around. The landlady came up and threatened to call the police and I told her to go ahead and call them and let it get put in the papers the sort of place she was running and the kind of tenants she had and the goings on that had been taking place there. Believe me, that put her in her place.
“After that I had the field all to myself and when I left, the landlady canceled the lease on the little tramp and I understand now she’s living in a dirty little bedroom and paying five times what it’s worth.
“Bob is a funny chap. He likes to play the wolf, but he hates a scene, and if I make enough of a scene it’s just like spanking a small kid. He shudders every time he thinks of the punishment…. You’ve been perfectly grand, Mr. Mason. I’m glad now I didn’t slam the inkwells around. I was just going to sit out in the other office until I was certain you were in, and then I was going to push past that receptionist out there, march on in here and spread a little gloom around the place. I knew that would get back to Bob and I figured you’d make him pay for it. Well, thanks for seeing me, Mr. Mason. You’re a good sport.”
“I would respectfully suggest,” Mason said, “that in this particular instance you curtail your righteous indignation and refrain from calling on the two women whose names you have …”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. I’m afraid you’re like Bob. I guess you don’t like a scene.”
“On the contrary,” Mason said, “I love them.”
“Boy, I’d like to have you along on this one,” Mrs. Caddo said. “It’s going to be a humdinger. Well, good-by. I guess I can get out this door all right…. No, don’t get up. And do me one favor, Mr. Mason—if Bob asks if I was here, tell him I raised a row in the office and that you expect him to pay for the damages. Will you do that for me? No, I suppose you won’t. You’re truthful. But anyhow you’re nice and I know you’ll protect my confidence. Good morning.”
The door banged shut behind her.
Mason glanced at Della Street and said, “The joys of matrimony!”
“I don’t blame her a bit,” Della Street said. “You can take a look at Bob Caddo and see what he is. One of these old wolves that run around pawing girls and trying to cut corners. She’s absolutely right. That’s the only way of holding him, and …”
“Get Marilyn Marlow on the phone,” Mason said wearily, “and I guess you’d better tell her to warn her friend, Rose Keeling, that I think a cyclone is on the way and it might be just as well if they weren’t available. I guess we owe that much to a client.”
“She’s going to be a client? You were to call her this morning.”
“That’s right. We’ll kill two birds with one phone call. I’ll tell her I’ll try to handle Rose Keeling for her and that an irate wife is on the warpath. I …”
The office door pushed open. Gertie, the receptionist, white-faced, said, “Gee, Mr. Mason, I heard her go out. Her husband’s out there and he’s worried sick. Gosh, it was just luck he didn’t walk in while she was out there. If he had, I’d have been in the middle of a real domestic battle.”
Mason grinned. “He knows how near he came to getting caught, Gertie?”
“Evidently not. He wanted to know if his wife had been here. I told him that he’d have to ask you about that, and he’s out there pacing the floor like a caged lion.”
“I take it that he’s disturbed at the idea his wife may have been talking with me,” Mason said.
“Disturbed!” Gertie said. “Oh, Mr. Mason, you do use the mildest language! I tell you, the man’s having kittens!”
Mason winked at Della Street, said, “I’ll go out and see him. Hand me that inkwell, Della.”
While Gertie watched with fascinated eyes, Mason dipped his finger in the inkwell, rubbed one smear across the side of his cheek, said, “Now your lipstick, Della, just a faint line that will look like the aftermath of a scratch down from the forehead, across the nose—that’s right. Now I think, Gertie, we’re in a position to add to Mr. Caddo’s discomfiture. After all, I hate a client who’s a chiseler.”
Mason followed behind Gertie, out to the outer office. “Good morning, Mr. Caddo,” he said sternly.
“Oh, my God,” Caddo said, “my wife’s been here!”
“Your wife has been here,” Mason said.
“Now look, Mr. Mason, I’m not responsible for my wife. Honestly, it’s one of those things with her. She is subject to jealousy that amounts almost to insanity. I’m sorry this has happened, but, after all, you can’t blame it on me.”
“Why not?” Mason asked. “Isn’t there any community property?”
“Good heavens, you’re not going to sue a woman for a little fit of temper, are you?”
“A little fit of temper?” Mason asked, raising his brows.
“Now look here, Mason, I’ll do the right thing. I’ll be fair about this. I thought perhaps you were cheating yourself a little bit on that fee you fixed the other day. After all, there’s no reason why you and I can’t get along on this. I want to be fair. I want to do what’s right.”
“Was that the reason you rang up Marilyn Marlow and told her that the man with whom she was about to play tennis was a detective employed by me?”
“Now, Mr. Mason. Mr. Mason, please!”
“Please what?”
“I can explain.”
“Well, go ahead and start explaining.”
“It’s something I prefer not to go into here, not at the present time. Not while you’re in your present frame of mind. I … I’d like to see you later, Mr. Mason, when you’ve had an opportunity to regain your composure and get your office cleaned up. I—I’m sorry this happened, but Dolores will throw inkwells when she gets worked up. Mr. Mason, you didn’t tell her anything about Marilyn Marlow, did you? No, you couldn’t have. You’re a lawyer. You have to preserve the confidences of a client.”
“Certainly,” Mason said.
Caddo’s face showed relief. “I knew I could count on you, Mr. Mason. I’m going to come in and see you in a day or two. You get things straightened out and cleaned up, and we’ll assess the damages and …”
“I didn’t tell her about Marilyn Marlow,” Mason said, “and I didn’t tell her about Rose Keeling. I didn’t need to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that since you had so thoughtfully placed their names and addresses in the little red book you habitually carry in your inside breast pocket, and since your wife had taken possession of that book, she knew….”
Caddo clapped a hand to the breast of his coat, then plunged the other hand down into the pocket. An expression of almost ludicrous panic twisted his features.
“She has that book?”
“She has it,” Mason said.
“Oh, my God!” Caddo said, and, turning on his heel, dashed out of the office.
Gertie, inclined to avoirdupois, good nature, and a highly developed sense of humor, pushed a handkerchief into her mouth, making inarticulate sounds of merriment.
Mason returned to his private office, washed the ink and lipstick from his face, grinned at Della Street and said, “I think now we’re beginning to get even with Mr. Robert Caddo. We don’t have Rose Keeling’s address, do we, Della?”
She shook her head.
“Well, see if we can get Marilyn Marlow on the phone and warn her of what is due to happen.”
Della Street found Marilyn Marlow’s number, called half a dozen times without getting an answer, then finally said, “Here she is on the line, Chief.”
Mason said, “Good morning, Miss Marlow. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”
“What is it?”
Mason said, “It seems that your friend, the responsible businessman who has been giving you such fatherly advice in such a disinterested manner, is a married man. His wife apparently is named Dolores and she has a passion for throwing inkwells. Her husband, it seems, has what might be classified as a philandering complex, and the wife has a nasty little habit of throwing tantrums and ink all over the recipients of his affections and …”
“Mr. Mason, are you kidding me?”
“I’m kidding you on the square,” Mason said. “Mrs. Caddo left my office a half or three-quarters of an hour ago and she was very much on the warpath. It seems that your friend, the magazine publisher, had very carelessly made some notes in a leather-backed memo book he carries, jotting down names and addresses, not in alphabetical, but in chronological order. Therefore, when Mrs. Caddo made an informal and surreptitious search, the last names in the book were those of Marilyn Marlow and Rose Keeling, in that order. And I believe your esteemed friend had placed the addresses opposite the names.”
“Good heavens!” Marilyn Marlow said. “She mustn’t, she simply mustn’t call on Rose Keeling! That would be the last straw.”
“When last seen,” Mason said, “she was looking for new worlds to conquer.”
“And Rose Keeling’s name would have been the last in the book,” Marilyn Marlow said in dismay. “That means she’d go to Rose Keeling first.”
Mason said, “I don’t have Rose Keeling’s address or telephone number. I thought perhaps it would be advisable for you to let her know.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t tell her anything like that.”
“Then you’d better get her out of the way for a while,” Mason said.
“I’ll have to do that. I’ll go to her at once and make some excuse to get her out of the way. We’ll play tennis, I guess.”
“By the way,” Mason said, “you never did give me her address. Perhaps I should have it, since I’m going to be involved in this, both directly and indirectly. I’ve decided to represent you, since you manage to stir up such pleasant asides to vary the routine of a law practice that might otherwise become monotonous.”
“You mean you’ll help me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,that’s fine! I’m so glad.”
“When things quiet down a bit to the point of stability on the domestic front,” Mason said, “I’m going out to see Rose Keeling and have a heart-to-heart talk with her. If she’s attempting to sell her testimony to the highest bidder, I may dampen her enthusiasm for a sell-out. What’s her address?”
“2240 Nantucket Drive. The telephone is Westland 6-3928.”
“Will you telephone her about Mrs. Caddo?”
“I—I think I’d better run over there, Mr. Mason. I’ll invite her to run out for some tennis.”
“You may not have time,” Perry Mason said; “better telephone her to meet you some place.”
“I’ll … all right, I’ll work out something. Thanks for calling, Mr. Mason.”
“Remember,” Mason said, “that there’s a certain method in Mrs. Caddo’s madness. It’s not merely the indignation of an outraged wife; it’s a method she uses. Her system is to make such a terrific scene every time she catches her husband in a philandering expedition that …”
“But this wasn’t philandering.”
“I think that Mrs. Caddo resorts to disciplinary measures purely for the purpose of keeping her husband in line,” Mason said. “It isn’t so much what he has done, as it is a means of keeping his feet on the straight and narrow path in the future.”
“All right, I’ll get in touch with Rose. Thanks for calling, Mr. Mason. Of all the goofy women! Why in the world did I ever let that man Caddo horn in on my business?”
“I’ve wondered that, myself,” Mason said. “And you will doubtless have occasion to ask yourself the question again and again in the near future. Good-by, Miss Marlow.”
“Good-by,” she said, and slammed down the telephone.
Mason glanced at his watch, then frowned. “The trouble with these divertissements,” he said to Della Street, “is that they are so fascinating they take my mind off the other problems that should be uppermost. What about that brief in the Miller case, Della?”
“I have the citations you gave me all arranged in order, and the points you wanted to raise all blocked out.”
“All right,” Mason said, “I’ll take a look at it.”
For a half hour he busied himself with the brief, then abruptly pushing his swivel chair away from the desk said irritably, “I can’t get that woman out of my mind.”
“Marilyn Marlow?” Della Street asked.
Mason shook his head. “Not Marilyn Marlow, Della; Dolores Caddo. There’s a lusty, two-fisted woman for you. She’s teamed up with a heel but she doesn’t intend to have anyone impair the value of her investments in him. She has her own unique methods—and there’s something about her that impresses one.”
“She certainly leaves her mark wherever she goes,” Della Street said.
“Yes. With an inkwell,” Mason commented dryly. “Let’s give Rose Keeling a ring and get acquainted with her over the telephone. Tell you what you do, Della, ring her phone and ask if Marilyn Marlow is there. You can do the talking. Don’t say who you are—simply that you’re a friend of Marilyn’s.”
Della Street consulted the office memo she had made and said, “All right, I have the number—Westland 6-3928.”
She picked up the telephone, said, “Give me an outside line, Gertie,” and dialed the number.
She sat at her desk, the receiver at her ear, waiting.
“No answer?” Mason asked.
“Apparently no answer,” she said. “I can hear the sound of the phone ringing and … wait a minute.”
She was silent for two or three seconds, then said, “Hello—hello.”
She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, turned to Mason and said, “That’s funny. I heard the ringing signal quit right in the middle of the ring. I could have sworn someone picked up the phone, and I thought I heard breathing, but when I said ‘Hello,’ no one answered.”
“Perhaps your connection was broken,” Mason said, “and you imagined the sound of the breathing.”
“I’d have sworn someone took the receiver off the hook,” Della Street said.
“Probably Rose Keeling,” Mason said. “She had been warned and thought perhaps you were the belligerent Dolores Caddo, calling to make certain she was in.”
“Well, if I were Dolores Caddo I’d be on my way up there right now,” Della said, “because I’m satisfied she’s in. Someone took the receiver off the hook.”
Mason said, “It’s twenty minutes to twelve now—too early for lunch—I suppose I’ve got to go back to this confounded brief.”
He picked up the typewritten list of authorities, said, “I guess we’re ready to start dictating the brief in final form, Della. What do you suppose a woman like Dolores Caddo sees in a chiseling two-timer like her husband?”
“Probably she sees a certain element of financial security,” Della Street said. “Caddo can keep a lot of his business stuff under cover, but she has her rights under the community property law, and sooner or later she’ll cash in on them—and perhaps there’s a certain element of affection there. She’s really fond of him but recognizes his weaknesses and she’s trying her best to control them.”
Mason nodded, then said, “In addition to all that, Della, the woman really enjoys violence. She loves to invade some boudoir and start smashing things, throwing things and raising hell generally. Being the wife of a heel gives her that privilege. The average woman who has been making a play with a married man doesn’t have much chance to resent a violent visit from the ‘outraged’ wife. I gather Mrs. Caddo wouldn’t willingly change her partner—although she may have some romantic side dish her husband might like to know about. However, this speculation isn’t getting this brief finished. Gosh, Della, how I hate briefs!”
She laughed and said, “It’s like making a boy practice at the piano. You let your mind seize on every possible excuse to break the monotony.”
Mason said, “Well, we can copy this statement of the case on the rough draft. Then we’ll go on from there. Let’s see…. All right, Della—take this down: ‘At the time of the trial the court permitted the following evidence to be introduced over the objection of the appellant.’ Now, Della, we’ll copy the transcript on page 276, the points that I’m underscoring in pencil.”
Della Street nodded, and Mason busied himself for several minutes with marking up the reporter’s transcript of the trial, then said, “Be sure to copy this evidence and after each excerpt from the evidence, put in the page of the reporter’s transcript, Della. Now let me see that case in the hundred and sixty-fifth California Reports. I want a copy from that. But first I’ll make an introductory statement to show how we think the doctrine laid down in that case is applicable.”
Mason took the book which Della Street handed him, and, having started to read the case, became engrossed in the language of the decision. After some ten minutes he said, “All right, Della, we’ll go ahead with the brief. Now take this: ‘In California there is a long line of cases setting forth the principle that such evidence is admissible only for the purpose of proving intent, and when admitted, it must be limited by the court to a proof of intent. In the case at bar, there was no such limitation. The jury was left to consider the evidence without restriction, nor was there any real attempt to prove intent by this evidence. Present counsel for the appellant was not his counsel at the time of trial, but trial counsel did protest vigorously to the court, although apparently no motion was made to limit the evidence to a consideration of intent, nor was any instruction submitted. However, as was said in one of the leading California cases …’ Now, Della, you can copy the parts of this case in the hundred and sixty-fifth California that I’ll indicate with lines along the margin of the page.”
Della Street nodded, and Mason put in some ten minutes marking the portions of the decision which he wished incorporated in the brief.
The telephone on Della Street’s desk rang and Della Street, picking up the receiver, said, “Gertie, Mr. Mason told you he didn’t want to be disturbed…. How’s that? … All right, just a minute.”
Della Street turned to Mason. “Gertie said Marilyn Marlow is on the line and is almost hysterical. She wants to talk with you, says it’s terribly important.”
Mason said irritably, “Hang it! I just got Dolores Caddo out of my mind. I suppose Marilyn Marlow is covered with ink and filled with contrition and … Oh well, it’s quarter past twelve and almost time to go out to lunch. Let me talk with her.”
Della Street moved the phone on its long extension over to Mason’s desk.
Mason said, “Hello. This is Perry Mason talking.”
Marilyn Marlow’s voice was choked with emotion. “Mr. Mason, something … something terrible has happened. It’s … it’s awful!”
“Did you see Dolores Caddo?” Mason asked.
“No, no. I haven’t seen her. This is something worse than that. Something awful!”
“What is it?” Mason asked.
“Rose Keeling.”
“What about her?”
“She’s … she’s dead!”
“What happened?” Mason asked.
“She’s dead in her apartment. She’s been killed.”
“Where are you?” Mason asked.
“In Rose Keeling’s apartment. It’s a flat, part of a four-flat house, and …”
“Who’s with you?”
“No one.”
“When did you get there?”
“Just now.”
“Are you actually in the house?”
“Yes.”
“She’s been murdered?”
“Yes.”
Mason said, “Don’t touch anything. Are you wearing gloves?”
“No, I …”
“Any gloves with you?”
“Yes.”
“Put them on!” Mason said. “Don’t touch a thing. Sit down in a chair and fold your hands on your lap. Stay there until I get there! That address is 2240 Nantucket Drive?”
“That’s right.”
Mason said, “Sit tight. I’m coming.”
He slammed the receiver back on the telephone, rushed to the cloak closet, grabbed his hat and pulled out a topcoat.
“What is it?” Della Street asked.
“Rose Keeling’s been murdered. You stay here and run the office—no, come along with me, Della. Bring a notebook. I may want a witness and I’ll sure as hell need an alibi.”