"Just a few minutes ago. They took me out of the ward, removed my stiff nightgown, brought me this come-hither creation – or do you notice nighties, Mr. Mason?"

  Mason smiled down at the lace over her shoulders, at the pale blue of the silk which swelled over the contours of her breasts. "Nice going," he said. "And the flowers?"

  "They were delivered just now."

  Mason said, "Apparently, Santa Claus is a gentleman by the name of Max Olger. He is now..." He broke off at the expression on her face. "What's the trouble?" he asked.

  "Uncle Max?" she said. "How in the world did he find out?"

  "Apparently you overlooked the fact that the story is a natural for headlines: Car belonging to Hollywood producer involved in accident. Beautiful blonde accused of theft – Claims she was hitchhiking. Mysterious man makes passes at blonde and vanishes. What is your objection to your uncle?"

  "Oh, he is all right, but he wants to dominate me. He can't get it through his head that I have grown up."

  "When did you see him last?"

  "A little over a year ago."

  "Want to tell me about it?"

  "No, but I suppose I have to."

  Mason sat down on the edge of the bed. "I think he will be in here at any moment," he said, "so you should better hurry. He is in the hospital office now."

  "Was he – alone?"

  Mason regarded her searchingly. "The young gentleman who was with him is the broad-shouldered, masculine type. However, he seemed to have some difficulty making up his mind ..."

  "That will be Jackson," she interrupted. "It is just like Uncle Max to bring him along."

  Mason said, "Let us hear about the uncle first."

  "He was my father's brother, quite a lot older. Uncle Max made money. When Dad and Mother died, Uncle Max took me over. My parents didn't leave me anything. I hadn't been accustomed to much. At first, Uncle Max was afraid I was going to think I was a rich girl and go on a spending spree. He wanted to impress upon me that I was living with him merely by sufferance."

  "And you didn't like it?"

  "I reveled in it," she said. "It was swell while it lasted. I had a job and felt independent, and then Uncle Max got parental complexes, and started being both a father and a mother, as well as an uncle. He began to squander money on me. I was waited on by servants, spent about half of my time being measured for clothes. He talked me into giving up my job because he wanted me with him when he went to Palm Beach. Just a lot of hooey to get me away from work and into the life he thought I should lead."

  "And Jackson Sterne?" Mason asked.

  "Jacks," she said, and smiled. "Another one of the things Uncle Max thought would be good for me. He ..."

  A knock sounded at the door.

  She glanced at Mason, called dubiously, "Come in."

  A nurse, crisply efficient in starched blue and white, swung the door back. Max Olger came marching into the room with little springy steps, his eyes beaming over the top of his half spectacles. "Well, well, well . . . so this is my little runaway!"

  "This is it," Stephane announced.

  "How are you? You are not permanently injured? You are not ..."

  She said, "I feel absolutely all right. I am a little stiff and sore. I have some black-and-blue places on me and a little stitching, but I could leave the hospital right now as far as that is concerned."

  "Then why are you staying here?"

  "A little prescription written by the police," she said. "Uncle Max, this is Perry Mason, the lawyer – my lawyer."

  "Mason," Max Olger said, shot forth his right hand, and let his alert, twinkling eyes study the lawyer over the top of the chopped-off spectacles.

  Mason shook hands with the nervous little man.

  "Don't want to be rude," Max Olger said, "but you are relieved of your responsibilities right now, Mr. Mason. Send in a bill. I shall make out a cheque."

  "Uncle Max!" Stephane exclaimed.

  "What's the idea?" Mason asked.

  "If you want to be frank, I will be frank, Mr. Mason, brutally frank. Stephane is going to have the best money can buy. I know something about lawyers. The lawyer a penniless girl can get ..."

  "Uncle Max, stop! You don't know. You don't understand."

  "I understand quite well, Stephane. I am taking charge. You are too precious to permit any more headstrong ..."

  "Uncle Max, Mr. Mason is famous. He is the highest-priced lawyer in this part of the state."

  Max Olger put his head slightly on one side, peered up at Mason, said, "Humph," walked over to the telephone, picked it up, and said, "This is Max Olger. I will pay all charges. Rush me through a telephone call to Chicago, law firm of Pitcairn, Roxy and Hungerford, and ... no, wait a minute. The office will be closed. Hadn't thought of that. Get Alexander Pitcairn... Yes, Mr. Pitcairn of that firm at his residence.... No one else if he is out."

  He dropped the receiver into place.

  Stephane Claire said to Mason, "You will just have to put up with this, Mr. Mason. It takes more energy to argue with him than it does to let him go and put up with the things he does. You won't mind, will you?"

  Mason sat down again on the foot of the bed. "Not at all," he said, grinning across at her uncle. "What are you going to do, Olger? Get your own attorney to come out here and handle it?"

  "Probably. I don't know how serious it is, but I don't propose to let Stephane get railroaded."

  "That would be tough on her," Mason agreed.

  "I appreciate what you have done. Don't misunderstand me. I won't be niggardly on fees."

  Mason grinned. "Neither will I."

  The little man snapped his head around, "Humph," he retorted. "You can't slip anything over on me, Mason, I warn you."

  "Nor you on me. I happen to have taken too much of an interest in this case to let it get butchered by some corporation lawyer."

  Olger said, "I happen to be paying the bills and ..."

  "You are not paying my bill."

  "No?... Huh... Who is?"

  "The man who was driving the car," Mason said, "… when I find him."

  Olger's eyes blinked rapidly as he sized Mason up. "You may have something to you at that," he said. "I will ask Pitcairn. I ..."

  The telephone rang. Olger lifted the receiver. "Hello, Pitcairn. That's good service. Told you I might want you to come out. Can't tell yet. There is a lawyer on the job, man named Mason, Perry Mason, says he won't get off. How do I make him let loose? Stephane won't help me. Can't count on her. She always was headstrong. She... What is that?... You are certain?... Well, that is different... What do you mean? Midnight. It is only ten o'clock... Oh, that's right. I forgot. All right, send me a bill for the call. Good-bye."

  He snapped the receiver into place, beamed across at Mason, and said, "Pitcairn knows about you, says you are considered one of the best cross-examiners in the country. Says you would make a fortune if you would quit this criminal work and go in for a decent practice."

  "Thank you," Mason said dryly, "I don't care for the decent practice, as Mr. Pitcairn calls it."

  "Oh, he didn't use exactly those words. That was his idea."

  "Well, I don't care for the idea."

  "All right, every man to his taste. Go ahead, get started. You will want expense money. I have got plenty. Call on me for anything you want. But itemize your expense accounts, Mr. Mason. I want them itemized. You understand that?"

  "Mason said, "I am not much of a book-keeper. I..."

  "Well, you will have to learn then. I want it itemized, Mr. Mason. I am sorry to insist, but that's fair. That's ..."

  Stephane Claire said, with what was almost a groan, "There you are, Mr. Mason. Imagine living with that twenty-four hours a day. He squeezes the individuality out of you like apples in a cider press."

  "Don't do anything of the sort," Max Olger snapped. "What do you mean, changing your name, Stephane? Had me fooled until I saw your picture. Good photograph. What the devil do you mean taking a job as hatcheck girl in a San Francisco night spot?"

  "That's tame compared to some of the things I have done."

  "Humph. Should have kept that out of the paper anyway. Looks like the devil. Max Olger's niece a hat-check girl! Humph!"

  "Where is Jacks?" she asked.

  His head tilted quickly to one side as he stared at her. "How should I know?"

  "When did you see him last?" she asked with a significant side glance at the lawyer.

  "Well now, let us see. I got all mixed up on time. Can't remember the difference between..." He broke off, looked quickly at Mason, pursed his lips, said, "Oh, I suppose he told you. Come to think of it, you weren't surprised to see me. Yes, he heard your

  name mentioned. Naturally, being your lawyer, he would have stuck around and listened. I remember seeing him there now... All right. Jacks is outside, waiting. He thought it would be better for you and me to have our chat before he came in."

  "Did he reach that decision all at once, or a little at a time?"

  "Now, Stephane, don't you go making fun of Jacks. He is thinking of your own good. He is cautious."

  "He is a conservative, petrified pelican."

  "Well, he isn't rushing in where angels fear to tread, and he doesn't go jumping around in the dark. But he is a mighty fine boy, well mannered, good foundation, good bringing up, good character, steady, dependable, reliable. The sort of investment that's proof against inflation."

  "Well, he is here," Stephane Claire said. "I may as well see him. Go on down and bring him up. Wait ten minutes, though. I want to talk with Mr. Mason."

  Olger's eyes became instantly suspicious. "Something black about this case you are trying to keep away from me? Don't do it. I shall hire detectives. I shall ferret out anything ..."

  "No," she said. "Mr. Mason's time is valuable. He is tired. He has done a lot for me, and I want to have this Conference with him and get it over so he can go home."

  "I won't interfere. I shall efface myself."

  She laughed. "You efface yourself! Go on out and tell Jacks I want to see him – but don't make it too cordial."

  "He has been upset all the way out here," Olger said. "We came by plane and..."

  "Yes, I know."

  "You can't understand how upset that boy was when he thought something had happened to you... And when you left, Stephane, you never saw anyone as broken up as that boy. He ..."

  "Yes, I understand."

  "You understand," Olger said irritably, "but you don't sympathize. You don't appreciate what it means to a high-strung boy…"

  "High-strung, my eye!"

  "Well, a boy who thinks as much of you as he does."

  "All right, go call him. Let me talk with Mr. Mason."

  Olger got up, started for the door with quick, nervous steps, turned, looked at Mason, said, "Sorry about that call to Pitcairn, Mason, but Stephane is going to have the best there is. I had to check up on you. See you later."

  He popped through the door and was gone.

  Stephane sighed. "Did you ever want to relax and read a paper, with a young Boston bull pup in the room?"

  He smiled. "Doesn't he ever quit?"

  "Quit, nothing! He doesn't even slow up – but tell me about things."

  "What about them?"

  She sat up more erect in bed, pulling a light robe around her shoulders. "You said you would have some news?"

  "I thought I might have."

  She let her eyes search his face, then turned her glance away hastily. "Oh, well, never mind."

  Mason said, "I am on the right track. I know I am on the right track but the road doesn't go where I think it should."

  "What is wrong with it?"

  "I don't know. Just when I am sailing right along, I come to a detour sign – ROAD CLOSED–UNDER REPAIRS – and the damn detour never does come back to the road. It just goes wandering away in an entirely different direction."

  "How bad is it?"

  "It is not exactly encouraging right now, but it is going to get better. I want every single thing you can give me in the line of description – anything that might prove to be a clue. Go back carefully over everything that happened. See if there isn't something you forgot to tell me. You can't remember anything about the name or license number of the man who brought you down to Bakersfield?"

  "No. He was in the forties. It was an old Ford – I should say around a thirty-four or thirty-five, somewhere around in there. I don't know the models well enough to tell, but it had had quite a bit of use. It was still running well, but the upholstery was worn, and there were quite a few rattles. The paint job wasn't much.

  "He didn't give you his name?"

  "Not his last name. He asked me what mine was, and I told him Stephane, so he told me his was Jim, and that is all I know. You know how it is with hitchhikers. A man picks you up. He has never seen you before and you will never see him again. It seems foolish to sit in a car and say 'Miss' and 'Mister.' You can't just call each other 'say.' So when a man gives me a lift and asks me what my name is, I give him my first name, and then he gives me his and usually is pretty much relieved to think that he can be both intimate and partially anonymous."

  "Don't they get fresh?"

  "Sure. Some of them."

  "Not most of them?"

  "No. Taken by and large, they are pretty decent. You know how it is whenever a man comes in contact with a woman anywhere. He puts out little conversational feelers. You can usually tell when a man is just exploring for leads and when he is on the make."

  "All right, now how about this man who picked you up in Bakersfield?"

  "Well, there were four cars coming – all going pretty fast – and this car was coming behind them'"

  "That was up near the traffic circle?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you would have said the car didn't come from Bakersfield?"

  "I don't think it did, not as I understand the way that traffic circle is laid out."

  Mason said, "Homan is pretty apt to be lying. If he is, the thing to trap him on is the time the car was stolen. Tell me again about the man who was driving the car."

  "He was around thirty-one or thirty-two. He was – he had a lot of brass. I guess some girls fall for that sort. I never could. He went past me first. I guess he was looking me over, then he stopped and made me come all the way to the car. He didn't back up. He looked at my legs when I got in. He had an air of assurance as though he expected every girl to fall for him. I can't tell you what it is. It is an impudent lack of recognition of decency. A man of that sort goes through life looking... Oh, you know the kind."

  "I know," Mason said, "but I want more details. I want to know everything about him. Didn't his conversation give you some clue to what he was doing for a living?"

  "No. He didn't say. All I know is that he was hell-bent on getting to Los Angeles – he said he had a job to do. His eyes were dark. I don't think they were a complete black, but some dark shade of brown. I didn't get a real good look at them. He had a little black mustache. His hat was brown felt with a little green feather in the band. He wore a dinner jacket under a black topcoat. When he grabbed me the first time he got my lipstick smeared on his face. The next time, when I took the keys, he got a streak of lipstick across his shirt front, a red smear from my little finger, and also my face was pressed against the starched shirt, so my lips must have left a mark too."

  "What became of your lipstick pencil?"

  "It is back in my purse. You know how a girl puts on lipstick. She touches it to her lips, then applies it with the tip of her finger. A man doesn't like to get smeared up. This fellow was making passes at me, and I was a little afraid of what he might do, so I smeared the lipstick on just as thick as I could. My little finger was all covered with it."

  "But you had put the lipstick back in your purse at the time of the accident?"

  "Just before the accident, yes."

  "Now, you took the ignition keys out of the car?"

  "That's right."

  "And what did you do with them?"

  "I... say, I think I dropped them in my purse."

  "Where is your purse?" Mason asked.

  "They had it for a while. The nurse brought it back to me yesterday."

  "Have you looked in it?"

  "Just for some things I wanted, my compact and ..."

  "Where is it?"

  "In that dresser drawer."

  Mason opened the drawer, took out a worn black purse, and handed it to her. She opened it, groped around in the interior, then, with an exclamation of annoyance, dumped everything out on the counterpane.

  "Here you are," she said, holding up a key ring.

  Mason examined the three keys which were on the ring. "This one," he said, "is a car key. These two look like house keys."

  "That's right."

  "None of these keys is yours?"

  "No."

  "Now, have you told the officers anything about these keys."

  "Not about having them. I told one of the detectives about what had happened, that this man had been making passes at me, and I switched off the ignition, and jerked out the keys."

  "Did he ask you where the keys were?"

  She laughed. "No, because he didn't believe a word I said. He just listened to me to be listening, that's all."

  Mason said, "How good an actress are you?"

  "I don't know. Why?"

  "If I take those keys now and turn them in to the police, it's going to look suspicious. They will wonder why you didn't tell them about the keys before."

  "My gosh, Mr. Mason, I was pretty badly smashed up."

  "I know," Mason said. "Now then, do you suppose if you waited until you were on the witness stand, and I got you to relate the events that had taken place that night and pretended I thought you had had these keys in your hand at the time of the accident, and they had been lost somewhere, and asked you casually if that wasn't the case, and you thought for a moment – then do you suppose you could make your face register just the same puzzled concentration which you did just now, and say that you have a vague recollection of having dropped them in your purse? And then I will ask you about the purse, and you can fish them out in front of a jury?"

  "I don't know. I can try. A girl doesn't get by very long in the looks jobs without learning how to put on an act."

 

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