"And padding his expense account," Mason grinned. "So that's why his expenses are so big. Hand over that bottle of Scotch. If you're going to get another one on the expense account I might as well make a hole in this one."
"Hi, Chief," she said, "I hate to do this, but it's necessary."
Mason muttered a mumbling protest in a voice which was thick with sleep.
"Hurry up," she said, "I have to get to the office, because I'm working for a slave driver who insists on my being there by nine-thirty every morning and prefers to have me there to open the mail at nine o'clock."
Mason opened his eyes, blinked in protest against the sunlight and said, "Fire the boss, Della, and get a new one. Why not work for me? I'll let you stay in bed until noon every day."
"Well," she said slowly, as though deliberating his proposal, "I should give the other boss notice, shouldn't I?"
"To hell with the notice," Mason said sleepily, "give him two weeks' salary. And how about my breakfast?"
"All laid out on the table for you," she said. "Coffee in the percolator, orange juice in the ice box, eggs all ready to drop in the boiling water that's on the stove, and a plate of bread by the electric toaster, plenty of butter, strawberry jam and broiled bacon being kept warm in the oven. I let you sleep just as long as I dared, Chief."
Mason sat up in bed, rumpled his hair with his fingers and said, "Young woman, you're begging the question. How about quitting your other boss and going to work for me?"
"I'd have to get in touch with him first," she said, "and no one knows where he is."
He grinned. "You're trying to make me get witty, think up come-backs to your wise-cracks, so I won't go back to sleep after you leave. I'm on to you! Why all the early morning calls?"
"The newspaper," she said, "with an account of the crime, a diagram, a cross marking the spot, a statement from Perry Mason, the attorney, seems to have disappeared, and an awful wallop right between the eyes: one of Drake's men sold out."
"Give me that paper," Mason commanded.
"Not yet, Chief. You shower, breakfast, and think it over. Don't do anything until you've gone over it carefully. I'm going to open up the office. If I don't do that, some smart detective may figure I'm with you and start frisking my apartment."
"Who sold out?"
"George Belgrade."
"Whom did he sell us out to?"
"The newspapers. They paid a top price for his story."
"Let's see, Belgrade was the one who knew Duncan, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was the man who was shadowing Sylvia Oxman. He sure put both of you in a sweet spot. She was in those offices when you went in, and she came out before you did. Therefore, she must have been in there either when the murder was committed, after it was committed, or before it was committed."
He grinned and said, "That's logical. And she must have either been sitting down, standing up or walking around."
"No," Della Street said, "I'm serious, Chief. This is the way the newspaper has doped it out: If she went in there after the murder was committed, there would have been no reason for you to have protected her. If she was in there while the murder was being committed, she must have done the killing. If she left before the murder was committed, you must have done it.
"Belgrade admits he was hired as a detective by Paul Drake, that he knows Paul Drake does your work, and thinks he was working for you on this case; that you apparently were representing Sylvia Oxman because you're trying to cover up for her. The newspaper's dishing out a lot of dirt, and it's putting you in an awful spot.
"Now, here's something else: the eight-thirty Newspaper-of-the-Air announces that the woman in the silver gown was Matilda Benson, the grandmother of Sylvia Oxman. Both women were evidently aboard the gambling ship at the time the murder was committed. Both women have vanished. Matilda Benson apparently committed suicide by jumping overboard."
Mason flung his legs out of bed and made a grab for the newspaper.
She tossed him the paper and said, "That isn't in the newspaper. It came over the radio as a news flash."
"How do they know she committed suicide?"
"They found her fur coat wrapped around the anchor chain of the gambling ship when it came daylight. Her name was in the coat, and it's been identified by some of her friends."
Mason laughed. "I know the answer to that. It isn't suicide."
"Okay, Chief, have breakfast and read the paper. I'm going up to the office and go through the motions of frantically wondering where you are. Now I won't dare to come back here before five o'clock tonight. You may want to get in touch with me in the meantime. If you want to give me any instructions, you can telephone Paul Drake and leave the message with him. He'll see that I get it. I've brought in my portable radio. There's a card with station numbers and the hours of news broadcasts beside it."
"What time is it?" Mason asked.
"Twenty minutes to nine. I want to be up at the office early so I can answer questions about you."
He nodded and said, "Where's the breakfast, Della, in your apartment or here?"
"Here," she told him. "I brought supplies over from my place. You lock the connecting door after I leave and keep it locked, because some smart dick may start prowling around my apartment."
"Okay, Della," he told her, drawing up his feet to sit cross-legged on the bed while he spread the newspaper open.
"Go on and get your breakfast," she told him. "You'll probably want to explode into some action, and you'll need food in your stomach. You can read while you're eating. I'm on my way. Toodle-oo." She blew him a saucy kiss and gently closed the connecting door to her apartment.
Mason found his bedroom slippers placed under the edge of his bed.
"The perfect secretary," he muttered, grinning, thrusting his feet into his slippers and straightening his pajamas. He went into the kitchenette where a coffee pot was sending forth steaming aromas. Water was briskly boiling on the stove. Three eggs were in a saucer near the water. Mason glanced across at the table, with its white cloth, glittering silver, coffee cup, cream, sugar, jam, butter, bread and electric toaster. He dropped the three eggs into the water, poured himself a cup of coffee, noted the time, and stood over the eggs to wait for the three-minute interval to elapse. He spread the paper fiat against the wall, holding it with his left hand pressed against the upper left-hand corner, while his right held the cup of coffee. As he read the paper, he sipped the coffee. The three minutes passed unnoticed, lengthened into five. Mason set down his empty coffee cup. The eggs danced about in the briskly boiling water.
Mason opened the paper to the inside page and studied the diagram of the gambling ship, the photographs of the hull, waded through a lot of extraneous detail concerning the previous history of the ship and its transition from a proud, square-rigged vessel which sailed the seven seas, to a fishing barge and then a gambling ship.
Suddenly he thought of the eggs, and glanced at his watch. The eggs had been in exactly fifteen minutes.
He turned out the fire, dumped eggs and water into the sink with a frown of disgust, poured himself another cup of coffee, took it over to the table, placed two slices of bread in the electric toaster and switched on the current. He buried his nose once more in the paper and studied the statement of George Belgrade with a frowning concentration which prevented him from noticing the wisping streamers which began to drift upward from the bread in the electric toaster. The streamers grew into a cloud. The apartment was filled with the odor of burning toast. Mason groped with his free hand for the handle of his coffee cup, raised the rim of the cup to his lips and then caught sight of the smoke billowing up from the toaster. With an exclamation, he switched off the toaster. He gulped down the rest of his coffee, forgot about the bacon, dropped the newspaper on the floor, divested himself of his pajamas on the way to the bathroom, showered and shaved. While he was shaving, he was staring with unseeing eyes at his reflection in the mirror. The motions of his shaving were purely mechanical.
Mason foraged around in the cupboard and the icebox and found no food. He tentatively opened one of the hard-boiled eggs in the sink, but it presented too substantial a problem for a breakfast dish. He took the charred toast from the toaster, dropped in two more slices of bread and switched on the radio. He kept a watchful eye on the toast, turned it when one side was a golden brown. The voice of the announcer on the radio finished droning through routine news and announced a flash. Officers who had been searching for Perry Mason, the noted criminal attorney, seeking to serve a subpoena on him to appear for questioning before the grand jury, were now seeking him on a much more serious charge. While they would not divulge the exact nature of the charge, informed sources stated that he was to be arrested upon suspicion of murder, criminal conspiracy, and compounding a felony. Following the spectacular statement of George Belgrade, which had been exclusively released through a local newspaper, the Federal Grand Jury had issued a subpoena for Belgrade. There had followed a battle of wits between the newspaper which had paid Belgrade for his exclusive statement, and the United States Marshal's office, which had been seeking to serve the subpoena and bring Belgrade before the grand jury forthwith. The marshal had won out. Belgrade had been found where he had been concealed by representatives of the newspaper which had hoped to print an exclusive follow-up story. A subpoena had also been issued for Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Bureau.
The radio announcer promised to report latest developments in the murder case at the next news broadcasting period. In the meantime, a search of Perry Mason's usual haunts had been fruitless. Perry Mason, Sylvia Oxman and Matilda Benson were all three missing.
By the time the broadcaster had concluded his statement, Perry Mason ruefully inspected the charred remains of his second attempt at toast making and switched off the current.
For more than half an hour, Mason paced the floor in frowning concentration, then, having reached a decision, he dressed, put on his hat, locked the door of the apartment, descended to the street and walked to the boulevard. He called Paul Drake's office from a pay station, asked to be connected with Drake, and a moment later heard the detective's voice on the line.
"Hello, Paul," Mason said. "You know who this is?"
"Yes. Where are you telephoning from?"
"A pay station."
"Where?"
"In a drug store. Is it safe to talk, Paul?"
"I think so. Listen, Perry, I'm sorry as hell about this Belgrade business. You know how it is. I pick my men the best way I can and I never put men on your work unless I've first tested them for honesty and ability and…"
"Forget it," Mason interrupted. "There's no use crying over spilled milk. Hell, Paul, we can't waste time swapping words over what…"
"I know," Drake interrupted. "But I want you to know how I feel."
"I know how you feel. You can't help what happened."
"Well, now I've got that off my chest," Drake said, "I want to see you. Manning's here in the office with some important information. I've been subpoenaed to appear this afternoon at two o'clock before the grand jury. I'm afraid Manning may be subpoenaed, and I think you'd better talk with him. Then you may want to let him stick around and get a subpoena. You know, of course, they're looking for you."
"Yes."
"I want to talk with you about that. You can't…"
"Think you can get away from your office without being followed, Paul?" Mason interrupted.
"I think so. I'll have a couple of the boys tail me, and if anyone's tagging along they can tip me off."
"Okay. You tell Della to leave any messages at your office. You bring Manning with you. Make sure you're not being followed, and go to the corner of Adams and Figueroa. Wait there on the corner. I'll pick up a taxicab, and if no one's on my trail I'll drive by to pick you up. If the coast is clear, take off your hat and stand on the corner with your hat in your hand. If you're at all suspicious, leave your hat on your head and I'll whiz right on by and call your office to pick another meeting place."
"Okay," Drake said. "I think I've got an out for you, Perry."
"That," Mason proclaimed, "will help."
"It's a swell break for you," Drake said. "It's spectacular, dramatic and logical. It clears you and your clients."
Mason said slowly, "Perhaps you think that won't be welcome. How soon can you make it, Paul?"
"If we're not followed, I can be there in ten or fifteen minutes. I'm bringing Manning with me. If we're followed, it'll take a while to ditch the shadows."
"Okay," Mason told him, "… be seeing you," and hung up the telephone. He stopped at the lunch counter in the drug store, ate two soft-boiled eggs, toast and bacon, then waited on the corner for a cruising cab. When one came along, he had it drive to a side street address. He paused there uncertainly, as though debating with himself, then said to the cab driver, "Turn around, go out Figueroa to Adams, turn west on Adams, and then I'll tell you where to go."
The cab driver nodded, turned the car and sent it into speed. Mason leaned forward in the seat, said, "Not too fast as you round the corner into Adams. I want to look at some property there."