Paul Drake phoned Mason at about three o’clock.
“Hear the latest, Perry?”
“What?”
“From a quote, undisclosed but authentic source, unquote, the police have been advised that Ned Bain got up from his sick bed last night, kept a midnight appointment with J. J. Fritch; presumably murdered him in order to obtain possession of a master tape recording, which Fritch was using in an attempt to blackmail Bain into paying a large sum of money.”
“That’s been announced to the press?”
“That’s right. It just came over the radio in a newscast.”
“Who gave them the information?” Mason asked.
“A quote, undisclosed source, unquote. Was that you?”
“No.”
“It would be a slick move, making a dead man a murderer. It would get the live ones out from under.”
“I didn’t do it,” Mason said. “Anything else now, Paul?”
“The police recovered the tape recording in question through quote, vigorous, intelligent work, unquote. They ran down a series of clues, decided that the tape recording was in the possession of quote, a prominent downtown lawyer, unquote.
“Police secured a search warrant and entered the office of this lawyer. They found him and his attractive secretary in the lawyer’s private office listening to the very tape recording that has become such a valuable piece of evidence in the case.”
“The lawyer wasn’t named?” Mason asked.
“Wasn’t named,” Drake said, “but the newscaster announced that his initials were P. M.”
“That makes it nice,” Mason said. “Thanks for calling.”
Mason hung up the telephone, said to Della Street, “Well, the beans are spilled all over the stove. Now we’ll have to see what happens.”
“She told the police?” Della Street asked.
“The police announced that an undisclosed source of information gave them the tip-off.”
“They’re investigating?”
Mason nodded.
“Sylvia Atwood might at least have done us the courtesy of telling us what she was going to do,” Della Street said.
“Sylvia Atwood,” Mason observed, getting up from behind the desk and starting to pace the floor, “is adopting the position that she knows more than her attorney.”
“Not her attorney,” Della Street corrected. “The family attorney.”
Mason grinned. “That’s right.”
He continued pacing the floor.
“This,” Della Street said, “will get you off the spot, won’t it, Chief?”
“It might if the police believe her.”
“Do you think they’ll believe her?”
“I would say,” Mason said, “that there was only about one chance in ten. They’ll think that she’s concocting a story in order to get herself out of a jam and get me out of a jam. The public will resent the fact that she was altogether too eager to pin a murder on her dead father before the body was even cold.
“That’s going to have the effect of making for very poor public relations, Della.”
“I’ll say it is,” Della Street blazed, “and when they photograph her with those cold eyes of hers, and when it seems she tried to make her dead father the fall guy just as soon as she knew he’d passed away—Gosh, Chief, when you stop to think of it that way it really ties together, doesn’t it?”
Mason nodded moodily.
“Of course,” Della Street said, “she had the tape recording and—”
“You mean I had it.”
Mason said, “That’s something I’m afraid we can’t admit, Della.”
“Why not?”
“She’s our client.”
“But you can at least tell where you got it.”
“I can’t. Of course, we have Edison Doyle. Presumably he’ll tell the police where he found it. Police, however, have publicly adopted the position that shrewd detective work enabled them to find the tape recording after I had purloined it from Fritch’s apartment.
“If they had to back up on that and if it turned out the tape recording had been given me by someone who had found it, their faces would be red.
“Sergeant Holcomb doesn’t like to have his face become red. Tragg will find the facts and face them. Holcomb will move heaven and earth to keep everyone believing I broke into that apartment and purloined that tape.”
“And where is that going to leave you?” she asked.
He grinned. “Right behind the eight ball, as usual, but we have to protect our clients, Della, regardless of any other consideration.”
“Do you think Brogan really did have the tape recording of what took place in front of his apartment?”
“Sure,” Mason said. “Tragg couldn’t have repeated that conversation as accurately as he did unless they did have such a tape recording.”
The buzzer of the telephone on Della Street’s desk sounded.
Mason said, “Tell Gertie I can’t see any clients today. Tell her to filter out everything except the important calls. Tell her I’m tied up on an emergency matter of the greatest importance.”
Della Street nodded, picked up the telephone, said, “Gertie, Mr. Mason i.… What.… Who.… Just a minute.”
She turned to Mason.
“Jarrett Bain’s out there. He says he simply has to see you, and he seems to be all worked up.”
“He’s alone.”
“I’ll see him,” Mason said. “Go out and bring him in, Della.”
She nodded, hurried through the door to the outer office.
Jarrett Bain, following Della, came striding into Mason’s office, his manner radiating indignation.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bain,” Mason said. “Sit down. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Bain didn’t sit down, but stood towering over Mason’s desk, looking down at the lawyer with blazing, angry eyes.
“What’s all this about trying to blame the murder of J. J. Fritch on Dad?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I received a telephone call just a moment ago from the Drake Detective Agency telling me that the police had announced that a quote, undisclosed but authentic source, unquote, had given them a tip-off.”
“Wasn’t that undisclosed source you?” Bain asked.
Mason shook his head.
Bain glowered at him for a moment, then walked over and sat down in the client’s chair as though some of the anger and much of the strength had eased out of him.
“I should have known it,” he said, disgustedly.
“Known what?” Mason asked.
“Sylvia,” Jarrett said, and there was a world of contempt in his voice.
“You think she was the one who told the police?”
“Of course she was,” Jarrett said. “She had to do it either through herself or through you. I didn’t find out until just an hour or so ago that the tape recording had been found in the drawer of Hattie’s dresser. I wish someone had told me.
“I guess I’m supposed to be a theorist, Mr. Mason. I’ll admit that lots of times I don’t keep up with all the gabble-gabble-gabble of conversation that goes on around me, but—my God, if she’d only talked with me.”
“Just how would that have helped?” Mason asked.
“Why, hang it,” Bain said, “Dad didn’t go out last night. That’s all poppycock.”
“How do you know he didn’t?”
“Because I was sitting with him,” Bain said.
“You were!” Mason exclaimed. “Why, I understood you got home shortly after four this morning and never saw your father alive.”
“That was the surmise,” Bain said,” because no one took the trouble to ask me anything. Sylvia took things for granted and Hattie had been given a hypo.”
“You did see him?”
“Of course I saw him. That’s what I came home for. Sylvia told me on the long-distance telephone that Dad was in bad shape. She told me that this other matter was pending, and if he got word of it the shock might prove fatal. Of course I came home. What would any son have done under the circumstances?”
“Go ahead,” Mason said.
“Well,” Jarrett said, “I got home. I had a latchkey and let myself in. Naturally I didn’t want to break in on Dad. I looked around to try and find one of the girls.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said, his eyes narrowed with interest.
“Neither one of the girls was there,” Jarrett Bain said. “No one was there. Personally I thought that was a hell of a way to take care of a man who had heart trouble.”
Mason exchanged glances with Della Street.
“Go ahead,” Mason said, “tell us exactly what you did. Describe your movements in detail if you can.”
“Well, that’s a big house. It’s full of rooms. There are several guest rooms. I lugged my bags up to the first guest room, trying to be as quiet as possible. I saw at once that that was being occupied by Sylvia. She had some things on the dresser. Her overnight bag with her creams and stuff was there, and a nightdress laid out on the foot of the bed.
“So I went on into another guest room and put my things in there. Then I went back downstairs and thought I’d better wake Hattie up and let her know I was home. I knew where she slept.
“I got to the door of her room. It was ajar. I knocked gently. No one said anything. I listened, couldn’t hear any breathing, so I went in and switched on the light. Hattie wasn’t there.”
“Then I became alarmed about Dad. I tiptoed down the corridor to his room and opened the door just a crack and looked in.”
“Your father was there?”
“Dad was there, awake, reading,” Jarrett said. “He heard the door, looked up and caught my eye and gave a start of surprise and said, ‘Jarrett, what in the world are you doing here?’”
“He hadn’t expected you?”
“Apparently not,” Bain said. “Apparently no one expected me. I had sent a wire stating that I was going to be in on the plane that arrived at four o’clock in the morning, but that wire wasn’t delivered until the next morning.”
“But you got in before four o’clock?” Mason asked.
“Fortunately I was able to catch an earlier plane. By flying from New Orleans to Dallas on a local line I was able to pick up a through plane and got in earlier than would have been the case if I’d waited over in New Orleans and taken the direct plane on which I had reservations.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said. “What happened?”
“Well, Dad and I talked for a while and—well, I could see Dad was terribly worried. He hadn’t been able to sleep much. He said the doctor had given him some medicine to quiet his nerves, but after he’d gone to sleep, he’d wakened and felt pretty jittery. He apparently had no idea he was alone in the house. He said he had a bell that he could ring and one of the girls would bring him anything he needed, but he was doing all right. He had everything right near his hand and he decided to sit up and read a little bit.”
“So then what?”
“Well, I knew I shouldn’t keep Dad up long, but I sat down and talked with him for about half or three-quarters of an hour. Of course I avoided the subject of this blackmail because I didn’t think he knew anything about it, but he brought it up himself, told me about Fritch telephoning and threatening him about you coming into the picture and all that.”
“Then what?” Mason asked.
“I persuaded Dad to take another one of the capsules that quieted his nerves and told him I’d see him in the morning. He was just as wide awake as could be, but I felt he should try to quiet down, particularly after that capsule I gave him, so I told him I was tired and I was going to bed.”
“Then what?”
“Then I went out and fixed myself a sandwich and a glass of milk in the kitchen, and while I was doing that Edison Doyle showed up.”
“You’d met Edison Doyle before?”
“No, I hadn’t. I’d been away from home and—well, of course, I’d heard about Edison Doyle and I knew who he was, and that he was interested in Hattie.”
“And what happened?”
“Edison Doyle told me that the girls had been a little bit worried about their dad and decided to have someone on duty all night, to look in on him every hour or so. I could see that he assumed I had come home and had taken over the job of watching and that the girls were asleep.”
“Did you tell him they weren’t home?”
Jarrett shook his head. “No, it wasn’t any of his business. I just didn’t say anything one way or another.”
“And what happened?”
“Well, Edison and I got acquainted and he told me that he’d come up to help watch, that he’d had some work that had to be out that morning, that he’d been up working in the office. His eyes were pretty tired. He’d been straining them over a drawing board making some preliminary sketches and plans. So I told him to go on up and go to bed.”
“Where?”
“In the third guest room.”
“Did he?”
“That’s right. It didn’t take much urging.”
“Then what?”
“Then,” Jarrett said, “after he went to bed, I tiptoed down the corridor, opened the door a crack and looked in on Dad. He had the reading light turned out, just the night light was on and he was sleeping peacefully. I tiptoed back, sat around for a while, began to feel drowsy myself and decided that there was no need having anyone looking in on Dad. I felt certain the girls would be in pretty quick anyway, so I started on up to bed. I decided to set my alarm clock so I could wake up in an hour and a half after I crawled in. I thought I’d just look in on Dad and see how things were going at that time.”
“And what happened?”
“Just as I started up the stairs I heard the back door being unlocked. I stood there at the top of the stairs wondering what was happening, and Hattie came in.”
“You’re sure it was Hattie?”
“Yes.”
“How was she dressed?”
“She had on a plaid skirt. I remember that. And she must have been wearing a coat because I’d heard her open the door of the hall closet before she came to where I could see her.”
“So what did she do? Did you speak to her?”
“She went to her room. I didn’t say a word to her. I’d begun to realize by that time I was plenty tired. I’d been flying on a plane. I’d been up all night. I’d talked with Dad, and I knew Hattie would want to tell me all about how wonderful Edison Doyle was and how happy she was, and how worried she was about Dad, so I decided it could keep. I’m fond of Hattie, but I don’t like gushing conversation and all this ga-ga business of young love leaves me cold. Hattie was all right. Anything she had to say could wait until morning.”
“So what happened?”
“I went back upstairs. I undressed and took a hot shower. Then just as I’d turned my light off and heaved myself into bed I heard a car door slam out in front of the house. I was curious, so I went to my window and looked out. It was Sylvia’s car. She was coming up the sidewalk. Well, I felt everything was under control. I understood that Sylvia was helping out with watching Dad, so I decided I could shut off my alarm clock. So I got into bed and went to sleep.”
“How long did you sleep?”
“Pretty long. I didn’t get up until around ten in the morning. I was tired.”
“And what happened?”
“By that time my wire had been delivered stating that I was arriving on the four o’clock plane. Evidently everyone thought that I’d arrived then and had come on in and had gone to bed.”
“But Edison Doyle knew what time you got in.”
“Edison Doyle knew that I was there when he arrived, which was around one, I guess, perhaps a little later. But you see, Doyle got up at seven-forty-five and dashed up to his office to meet that client. At least he told me that was what he was going to do.
“Doyle said he was to be there and stand by just in case things got bad. He said Sylvia was able to wake up and then go back to sleep instantly and she’d promised to keep her alarm clock set at intervals, would go down and look in on Dad, then call the others if she felt anyone needed to sit up with him.
“I got up at ten o’clock in the morning, shaved, went downstairs and had some breakfast. I saw Hattie, of course, and had a little talk with her, but she was busy doing chores around the house. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I found out afterward that she’d received my wire and had assumed that I came in on the four o’clock plane. She told me Dad was still sleeping. I had some telephoning to do and, as I say, Hattie was busy with housework and getting Dad’s breakfast ready. Then along about—I don’t know, it must have been nearly eleven, she went in to give Dad his breakfast and that was when she found out he’d passed away.
“Well, of course, after that everything was excitement. We were running around in circles and trying to get Dr. Flasher, and after Dr. Flasher came—I don’t know, the house was full of people. You were there, and Miss Street—I don’t know exactly when she came. Sylvia had gone out to keep a nine o’clock appointment. She got back in the midst of the excitement. Someone telephoned Edison Doyle and he dashed out. Dr. Flasher gave Hattie a hypodermic and put her to sleep, and—well, that’s about it.”
Mason nodded.
“Now then,” Jarrett said, “I can begin to put two and two together and see what happened. Hattie went out some place. It was pretty cold at that hour of the morning and she may have put on Dad’s overcoat. Sylvia may or may not have thought she was following Dad. She might have peeked into his room just as he was in the bathroom, I don’t know. But this much I do know—Dad wasn’t out of the house, he didn’t murder Fritch, and anyone who says he did is a liar.”
“What about this tape recording?” Mason asked.
“The one that was supposed to have been under his pillow?”
Mason nodded.
“I don’t think it was under his pillow when I was there,” Bain said. “It could have been planted there afterward. I don’t know. I’ll tell you this much, Mr. Mason. Sylvia is a regular little manipulator. She always gets the idea she knows more than anyone else, and she loves to scheme and manipulate things. You give that girl her head and she’ll get you into one hell of a mess. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
“It never seems to occur to her that someone else may know something. She wants to be little Miss Fix-It and she’ll twist and distort and plant false clues and all that trying to have things her way.
“Now I don’t know much about law, but I know a lot about Sylvia, and my best guess is that her cute little tendency to manipulate facts and clues could raise merry hell in a murder case.
“Am I right?”
Mason grinned. “You’re very, very right.”
There was silence for a moment while Mason drummed on his desk, then he said, “Let’s try to fix the time as close as we can.”
“Well, my plane got in at eleven-forty-five. It took me a few minutes to get my baggage cleared. I had rented a car from a drive-yourself agency. It was waiting for me at the airport. I got home around twelve-thirty.”
“Did you look at your watch at any time that you remember?”
“I remember it was around—oh, around one o’clock when I was with Dad. I remember after we’d then been talking a little while I thought he should be getting some sleep, so I put on an act of yawning and talking about being tired.”
“How long did you stay after that? I mean in the room with your father.”
“Not very long, a few minutes perhaps.”
“And then you were in the kitchen eating a sandwich and having a glass of milk when Edison Doyle came in?”
“That’s right.”
“Edison Doyle had a key?”
“He said Hattie told him the key to the back door would be left under the back doormat. I guess it was. I didn’t notice. Anyway, he opened the back door and came in. I remember he locked the door behind him. It’s a spring lock, works with a latchkey.”
Mason studied the top of his desk in frowning contemplation. He once more began drumming thoughtfully with the tips of his fingers.
“Now then,” Jarrett Bain said, “what should we do? It looks as though Sylvia may be trying to confuse the issue. But right now she’s certainly started something. Personally I think she has started something she can’t finish.”
“We have Hattie to consider,” Mason said. “And Sylvia.”
“Don’t waste any time worrying about Sylvia,” Bain said. “She’ll take care of herself. Right now she’s managed to put Hattie in something of a spot and has definitely left a great big black mark on Dad’s memory. I like her as a sister, but some of the things she does drive me nuts.
“Now then, she’s spread a cockeyed story and as soon as they interview me it’ll be established that that story’s false.”
Mason studied him thoughtfully. “It probably won’t occur to them to question you. You may not have to be interviewed.”
Jarrett Bain shook his head. “No dice, Mr. Mason. I’m sorry but I’m a damn poor liar. Moreover, I have ideas about telling the truth. I have to live with myself.”
“You intend to tell your story then?”
“Of course. Anyhow, I have a feeling of loyalty to Dad’s memory. I’m doing this much, I’m telling you first.”
“Where are you going to tell it next?” Mason asked.
“I have an appointment with some guy up at headquarters. Let me see, what’s his name now?”
Jarrett took a card out of his pocket, looked at it, said, “A Lieutenant Tragg of Homicide. You know him?”
Mason settled back in his chair and sighed wearily. “I know him.”
“Well, I’m on my way up there,” Jarrett Bain said, heaving up to his feet. “Didn’t realize it was so late. Don’t want to keep the guy waiting. Good day, Mr. Mason.”
“Good day,” Mason said as Jarrett walked toward the door.
Silently Mason and Della Street watched the door click shut behind the departing archaeologist.
Della Street sighed in dismay. “The damnedest things happen to us, Chief,” she said. “I feel like I want to bawl.”
“Who doesn’t?” Mason said with a wry grin.