“With what?” Mason asked.

  “With coronary occlusion?” she asked.

  Mason laughed. “I’ll stay away from Dr. Ewald Carver, and if I show up missing, be sure there’s an autopsy, Della … Dammit, why didn’t I have the presence of mind to steal that Saturday Evening Post out of the Gillett cabin?”

  Della Street said, “Do you suppose Tragg is there yet?”

  “He’ll be getting there any time now,” Mason said. “As soon as he sees that one Saturday Evening Post in the midst of all those true crime magazines, Lieutenant Tragg will be right up with us in his thinking.”

  “That will be bad?” Della Street asked.

  “It will rob us of our lead. I’m sorry about that Post being left there.”

  “Do you dare to take it now?” she asked.

  “Heavens, no. That might be removing evidence. We couldn’t do that.”

  “Well, what could we do?”

  “We might make it somewhat less conspicuous,” Mason said, frowning thoughtfully.

  “Well,” she told him, “you’re a cash customer.”

  A slow smile spread over Mason’s face. “Get Manny G. Bolton up at the Bolton Funeral Home in Pine Haven, Della.”

  Della Street put through the call. A few moments later, she nodded to Perry Mason.

  Mason picked up the telephone, said, “Good morning, Mr. Bolton. How’s everything this morning?”

  “Coming fine,” Bolton said, “just fine.”

  “Any news up at your end?”

  “Not a thing. No more than there was last night.” Mason said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about poor old Gorman up there.”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  Mason said, “You know and I know how those things are, Bolton. We realize that when a person is lonely and gets to reading, he’s apt to do a certain type of reading.”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” Bolton said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I wouldn’t want people to think that my relative didn’t read anything except crime magazines, even if he is only a distant relative.”

  “So what?” Bolton asked. “Just tell me what you want, Mr. Mason. You’re a cash customer.”

  “Oh,” Mason said, “I thought that it might look bad if word got out that there was nothing there in the cabin except those magazines and—”

  “You want me to go down and get them and then burn ‘em up?” Bolton asked.

  “Oh, not that,” Mason said, “but … you must have a bunch of old magazines around your place, haven’t you? You said your wife was interested in travel?”

  “That’s right, got stacks of ‘em. Got a whole woodshed full.”

  “How about taking three or four dozen different types of magazines down there and putting them in with the crime stories?”

  “But not taking out any of the crime stories?”

  “Oh, no,” Mason said. “I don’t think there’s any necessity to take anything out. We just make it appear that Uncle Gorman was a little more varied in his reading.”

  “Uncle Gorman, eh?”

  “I was just calling him that,” Mason said.

  “I understand, Mr. Mason. I’ll take ‘em right now.”

  “Right away?”

  “Right now.”

  “And, of course,” Mason said, “there’s no need to remember just what magazines you take down there.”

  “Now, don’t worry a bit,” Bolton said. “You know, Mr. Mason, I think you’d get along fine up here in this community. I think people would like you. I think you’d get along and you probably wouldn’t have too big a meat bill living up this way.”

  “It’s a fascinating thought,” Mason said.

  “Well,” Bolton told him, “I want you to know we always appreciate people that are understanding.”

  “That’s fine,” Mason said. “I’ll be seeing you one of these days.” And he hung up.

  Della Street watched him with apprehensive eyes. “Is there any crime connected with this?” she asked.

  “Connected with what?”

  “Planting evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “Evidence that would … well, you know.”

  Mason said, “I don’t know of any statute that says it’s a crime to put old reading matter in the cabin of a man who died of coronary occlusion. Remember, there’s a doctor’s certificate stating the cause of death. No foul play there.”

  “But how about planting false evidence? Isn’t there something—”

  “Evidence of what?” Mason asked. “And what’s false about it?”

  “Well, you’re making it so that one issue of the Saturday Evening Post in that cabin doesn’t stand out quite so prominently.”

  “And that’s a crime?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “I’m just wondering.”

  Mason winked. “We’re keeping one jump ahead of the police, Della, and it’s a grand and glorious sensation. Usually we’re one jump behind and they won’t give us the time of day.”

  “But suppose Bolton tells them he took down a lot of other magazines at your request?”

  “Because I didn’t want it to appear there was nothing in the place except crime magazines,” Mason said. “Now, if Bolton remembers each and every magazine he took down there, that might help. But if he should state that there was nothing in the place except the so-called true crime stories and he took down a bunch of family magazines to put in there, Tragg will assume all the magazines other than the crime magazines were taken down there as red herrings, and he’ll read and reread the crime magazines, searching for the particular issue I was trying to cover up.”

  Della Street sighed and said, “Well, you’re the cash customer.”

  “I am for a fact,” Mason said. “And right now we’ve got to get the fingerprints of Collington Halsey and then we’re going to have to make some reasonable excuse so we can get at least one fingerprint of George Belding Baxter.”

  “Such as having an automobile accident and inspecting his driving license?” Della Street asked.

  “That might do it,” Mason said, “but he might be just a little suspicious. I’d like to get some of his fingerprints when he didn’t know he was giving them to me.”

  “And just how are we going to work that?”

  Mason said, “I wish I had my cigarette case back. Della, go down to the jewelry store, get some polished silver cigarette cases and two fine desk lighters and then wipe them all off clean as a whistle with a chamois skin.”

  “And then?” she asked.

  “Then we leave them sitting around the waiting room in the office and we put a duplicate set on the desk in here.”

  “And you think George Belding Baxter is coming to you?”

  “He’s coming to me,” Mason said. “After I serve him with that subpoena, which we should be able to do by noon, George Belding Baxter is going to come in here so fast that he’s apt to take the door right off the hinges.”

  “And while he’s here, he’ll leave fingerprints?” Mason nodded.

  Della Street said, “You’re one jump ahead of the police, all right, but it is anyone’s guess which way you’re jumping and I hope you can see what’s underneath when you come down … How strong do you want me to go on the silverware?”

  “Get whatever’s necessary,” Mason said. “I want it to look tempting and inviting, and get a chamois skin and make sure there isn’t a fingerprint on any of the articles when you put them out in the office … Ain’t we got fun!”

  “We’ve got something,” Della Street said, “but heaven knows what it’s going to be. Let’s hope it’s fun.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was three-twenty-five in the afternoon when the receptionist rang three short rings, the agreed-upon signal.

  Perry Mason smiled. “That,” he said to Della Street, “means that the quarry has walked into our trap. George Belding Baxter is in the outer office. Go out and tell him that I am occupied at the moment but that I will try and see him. Ask him to be seated for a few minutes. Be sure that you put him in the seat that is next to the silver cigarette case and the lighter. Tell Gertie to ring twice as soon as he’s picked up the objects.”

  Della Street said, “Check. We’ve rehearsed it a couple of times. You can count on Gertie for something like that. She loves intrigue.” Della Street went out to the outer office, was gone a couple of minutes, came back and said to Perry Mason, “Boy, is he hopping mad! I had the darnedest time trying to get him to sit down. He wanted to pace the office, and I thought for a minute he was going to just push his way through the door and come in.”

  “But he’s seated now?”

  “He’s seated.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Nervous, angry and … and just plain mad.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “if he’s nervous, he won’t be able to keep his hands off those nice shiny objects and … “

  The phone rang two short rings.

  Mason grinned, said, “That means he’s left his fingerprints. Go out and bring him in, Della, then tell Gertie to slide some cardboard under the cigarette case and the lighter, lift them up and give Paul Drake the signal. That will give Paul something to work on.”

  Della Street nodded, left the office and a few moments later returned with a big man in his fifties, a man who pushed past her as soon as the door was opened and said, “Mason, I’m George Belding Baxter. What the hell’s the idea of serving this paper on me?” Baxter whipped a paper from his pocket and slammed it down on the desk.

  Mason arose from his chair, stood smiling, said, “All right, Baxter, my name’s Mason. What the hell’s the idea of storming into my office this way?”

  “Because I’m mad.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “if you want to stay mad, storm your way out again. If you want to sit down and talk, sit down in that chair and talk.”

  Baxter said, “I’m going to talk!”

  “Then sit down.”

  “I can say what I have to say standing up.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “I can listen standing up. You’ve been served with a subpoena. I want you to testify for the defense.”

  “I don’t know a damn thing about the case.”

  Mason sat down at his desk, pulled some papers over to him and started reading. He might not have heard Baxter’s remark, if his actions were any indication.

  Baxter stood irresolute for a moment, then walked over to the desk. “You can’t get away with this, do you hear?”

  Mason didn’t look up.

  Baxter nervously fingered the cigarette lighter on the desk as if he might be planning to use it as a weapon.

  Mason went right on reading.

  Baxter said, “I’m going to Honolulu.”

  “That’s fine,” Mason said.

  “Tonight.”

  “Then you’ll have to be back in time for the preliminary hearing,” Mason said.

  “Just what the devil are you trying to do?” Baxter demanded. “I don’t know anything that would be of any value to you or your client. I don’t know the defendant, Gwynn Elston. I didn’t know the man who was murdered. I don’t know a thing about the case. I was away at the time. The murder happened to take place on the grounds near my house, that’s all I know. I only know that because someone told me.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “I bought it, there’s no question about that.”

  “Then you can testify to that.”

  “I don’t have to, the records speak for themselves. There’s no question about who bought the gun. I signed for it on the firearms sales register.”

  “That makes it very interesting,” Mason said.

  Baxter said, “Look, I came here to tell you that I simply can’t postpone my trip to Honolulu.”

  “Then come back for the hearing.”

  “I can’t. I can’t go over and then turn around and come right back.”

  “Then stay here.”

  “Look here, Mason,” Baxter said, “I’ve tried to be nice to you. I’ve tried to make it easy for you. Now, if you want to do it the hard way, we’ll do it the hard way.

  “I have a battery of attorneys. They know all the law you do, and perhaps a little you’ve never heard of. You have, for some reason of your own, used the process of the court in order to subpoena me, simply for the purpose of inconveniencing me, not for the purpose of getting any information out of me. There’s some form of legal blackmail connected with this. My attorneys instructed me to explain the circumstances to you and request that you excuse me from attendance at the trail. I’m following their instructions.”

  Mason said, “You’ve explained the circumstances. I haven’t excused you.”

  Baxter said, “All right, Mason. My attorneys anticipated that. I’ve done what they told me to. Now I’ll make them earn their fees.” He turned and strode from the office.

  Mason picked up the telephone, said, “Did you get Paul, Gertie?”

  “Yes, he’s out here in the office now with his fingerprint man.”

  “Tell him to come in here as soon as he’s done,” Mason said. “We have some more prints.”

  A few moments later, Della Street and Drake, accompanied by a slender, nervous individual, entered the room.

  Drake said, “Mason, shake hands with Stan Doyle. He’s one of the best fingerprint men I know—You have some latents here?”

  Mason shook hands and said, “We should have some good ones.” He indicated the big lighter on the desk.

  Doyle inspected the cigarette lighter, then took a small bottle and a brush from his pocket. He brushed dust over the gleaming surface.

  Fingerprints showed immediately with startling visibility.

  “I’ll say. You’ve got some good ones,” he said.

  “What do we do now?” Mason asked.

  “We take these objects down to Drake’s office and photograph them.”

  “And then what?”

  “We have the fingerprints of Mr. X from the FBI,” Drake said, “and we can tell you within ten minutes whether or not your man is Mr. X.”

  Mason said, “That’s what I want,” he said. “I want to be sure. And I want proof.”

  “We can probably do even better than that,” Doyle went on. “I think we have enough fingerprints here so we can combine them with what we secured from the outer office and make a classification.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “What we want is speed, because I have an idea the man who just called on me isn’t going to let any grass grow under his feet.”

  Doyle put cardboard under the cigarette lighter and the cigarette case, said, “All right, Paul, we’ll go down to your office and get to work … I could save time if I could lift these fingerprints, Mr. Mason, instead of photographing them.”

  “No,” Mason said, “then we’d lose the advantage of having the fingerprints in place. Just develop your photographs and then compare them with the prints of Mr. X that Paul Drake has, and let me know.”

  When they had left the office, Della Street said, “What would happen if it should be a mistake, Perry?”

  “Plenty,” Mason said, grinning. “We’re gambling, but I think we’re gambling on a sure thing. The whole history of this case just fits together into a pattern.”

  “It does for a fact,” Della Street said. “Only … it’s circumstantial evidence.”

  “It’s circumstantial evidence,” Mason said, “which is some of the best evidence we have—although that’s not always the way we talk to a jury.” Mason was in high good humor.

  The phone rang, and Della Street picked up the phone, said, “Yes, Gertie?” Then turned to Mason, “Your man, Baxter, works fast. There’s a process server out here wanting to serve you with papers.”

  “Tell him to come right in,” Mason said. “We’re always glad to be served with papers.”

  Della Street went out and ushered in the process server. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Mason,” the man said. “So many people try to take things out. on a process server. After all, I’m just paid to hand you papers.”

  “Go ahead and hand them,” Mason said. “What are they?”

  “George Belding Baxter’s motion to quash a subpoena, and a civil suit for damages against you for a hundred thousand dollars, claiming that you deliberately abused the process of the court in order to interfere with his business and cause him a lot of inconvenience.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “when Baxter does something, he really does it. I suppose he had you waiting down at the entrance to the building?”

  “Well,” the process server said, “I believe I was held in escrow, so to speak. I was waiting by the elevators.”

  Mason said, “All right, you’ve served me. That’s fine.”

  The process server went out, and Mason looked over the papers.

  “When Baxter fights, he really fights,” he said. “This suit for a hundred thousand dollars is designed to frighten me and put me on the defensive—wait until we lower the boom on him.” Ten minutes later the unlisted telephone rang.

  “That’ll be Paul,” Mason said. “He’s a little ahead of time.”

  Mason himself scooped up the receiver, said, “Yes, Paul?”

  Paul Drake’s voice, sharp with worry, came over the line. “Look, Perry, before we photographed those prints we did a little work with a magnifying glass, and I can tell you right now that you’re barking up the wrong tree. George Belding Baxter is not Collington Halsey.”

  Mason sat for a moment digesting that information.

  “You got that?” Drake asked.

  “I got it,” Mason said, “right between the eyes. Get your man to work on the classification of the fingerprints. If he isn’t Halsey, let’s find out who the hell he really is.”

  Mason hung up the telephone.

  Della Street said, her voice showing alarm, “It didn’t pan out?” Mason shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Where does that leave you, Chief?” Della Street asked.

  “Very much behind the eight ball,” Mason said. “Hang it, Della, I can’t be wrong! Too many things point to it, and yet … yet it seems I am wrong, unless that man’s managed to have new fingerprints grafted on his fingers, and they tell me that’s impossible.”

 

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