Mason shoved the door open. Dick Basset and his mother, engaged in a whispered conversation, jumped guiltily apart.

"Okay," Mason said, "here are the cops. Don't say anything about any trouble either one of you might have had with Hartley Basset. That line isn't going to go over so good under the circumstances. Do you get me?"

Mrs. Basset said slowly, "I get you."

Feet pounded on the porch. Knuckles pounded imperatively against the door.

She opened it, and two broadshouldered men pushed their way into the room.

"Okay," one of them said. "What's going on here?"

"My husband," Mrs. Basset said, "has just committed suicide."

"That wasn't the way we got it over the radio," one of the men said.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "My son was hysterical. He was laboring under a misunderstanding. He didn't know what had happened."

"Well," one of the men said, "what has happened?"

She motioned toward the door.

"How do you know it's suicide?" the other officer asked.

"You can read the note he left in the typewriter."

The men opened the door. One of them produced a flashlight and sent the beam slithering about the room. The other found a light switch, pressed the button and stood staring at the scene which was disclosed as the lights clicked on.

"How long ago did you find him?" he asked.

"About five minutes ago," Perry Mason said, answering the question.

The men turned to him.

"Who are you, buddy?" one of them asked.

The other one gave a sudden start of recognition.

"It's Perry Mason," he said, "the lawyer."

Perry Mason bowed.

"What are you doing here?" the first man asked.

"Waiting for you to get done with the formalities in connection with this suicide," Perry Mason said, "so that I can discuss certain matters with Mrs. Basset."

"How did you happen to be here?"

"I came here to see Mr. Basset on business."

"What kind of business?"

"Not that it makes any difference," Perry Mason said, smiling affably, "but it had to do with the affairs of a young man who had been employed by Mr. Basset. There'd been some misunderstanding between them, and I wanted to get it straightened out."

"Humph!" the officer said, and stood staring down at the corpse.

"Anyone hear the pistol shot?"

No one answered.

"Evidently used the blanket and quilt to muffle the pistol shot," the officer said. "There's the gun that did the killing."

Perry Mason followed the direction of his pointing finger. On the floor, in plain sight, lay a gun, a.38 caliber Colt, Police Positive, very apparently the gun which he had taken from young Basset.

One of the officers stepped to the corpse, picked up a corner of the blanket and raised it.

"Say, look here!" he called in an excited voice. "Here's another gun under this blanket. How the devil could a man commit suicide with two guns?"

The second officer pushed the spectators toward the doorway.

"Get out of here," he said, "and let me use the telephone. I'm calling the Homicide Squad."

Mason stared at Mrs. Basset. "Two guns," he said. She made no answer. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes dark with terror.

The witnesses sat in a huddled group in the outer office. The members of the Homicide Squad busied themselves in the death chamber.

Perry Mason leaned toward Mrs. Basset.

"What did you mean by planting that gun?" he whispered.

"Will it make trouble?" she asked.

"Of course, it'll make trouble. Why did you do it?"

"Because," she said slowly, "there couldn't have been a suicide, without the gun being found there. I didn't think there was any gun. You know, we couldn't see any when we were in the room. We didn't move the blanket, and…"

"But why," the lawyer demanded, "did you put that gun there?"

"I had to," she said. "There had to be a gun there. Otherwise it wouldn't have looked like suicide. It would have looked like murder."

"Don't ever kid yourself," Mason said grimly, "that it wasn't murder, and that was Dick's gun you left there."

"I know," she said rapidly, "but that's all right. Dick and I fixed that all up. We'll say that Hartley borrowed the gun from him more than a week ago and that Dick hasn't seen it since."

"But," Mason said, "the gun is empty. There couldn't have been a suicide with…"

"Oh, no," she said. "I put shells in it before I left it in the room."

"The same shells I took from Dick, including the empty cartridge?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever know," Mason asked, "that the police can tell from an examination of bullets whether a bullet has been fired from a certain gun?"

"No, can they?"

"And did you ever know that the police can develop latent fingerprints on that gun, and that when they do, they will find yours and Dick's and mine?"

"Good God, no!"

"You," Mason told her, "are either one of the cleverest women I've met in a long time, or one of the dumbest."

"I don't know about criminal matters," she said. "I wouldn't know anything about them."

"Look here," Perry Mason said, staring steadily at her, "did you think that Hartley Basset had gone out, or did you know that he was lying in there dead?"

"Why, I thought he'd gone out, of course. I tell you I saw him run out… I thought it was he."

"Now, this girl is your daughterinlaw?"

"Yes, she married Dick. But you mustn't say anything about that marriage."

"Why not? What's wrong with it?"

"Please," she said, "don't ask all those questions now. I'll tell you later."

"Now, listen," Mason said grimly, "there's going to be a lot of questions asked you tonight. Are you ready to answer them?"

"I don't know… No, I can't answer questions."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what to say."

"When will you know what to say?"

"After I've talked with Dick again. I must talk with him once more."

Mason tapped her knee with his forefinger.

"Did you kill him?" he asked.

"No."

"Did Dick?"

"No."

"Why do you want to talk with Dick then?"

"Because I'm afraid they'll find out who did kill him… Oh, I can't talk about it. Please leave me alone."

"Just one question," Mason said, "and tell me the God's truth. Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Can you prove you didn't if it comes to a pinch?"

"Yes. I think so."

"All right. There's only one way to keep the police and the newspaper people from turning you wrong side out. Tell them you are too upset to answer questions. They'll go right ahead and ask them anyway. Then you start in getting hysterical. Tell them any, thing. Contradict yourself every few minutes. Say you saw your husband an hour before the shooting, then say it was a week before the shooting—that you can't remember having seen him for a month. Make wild statements. Say there were voices that warned him that the serpent said he would be killed.

"In other words act crazy. Let your voice get more and more shrill. Keep telling them absurdities. Make a nuisance of yourself. Scream, shout, laugh, have hysterics. Do you understand?"

"Yes'" she said; "I think I do. But won't it be dangerous?"

"Of course, it'll be dangerous, but not half as dangerous as trying to explain things and getting caught in a police trap. Remember now, don't do this unless you're innocent and can prove yourself innocent if it comes to a showdown. And don't be conservative in your statements. Make them sound so absurd you'll seem either drunk or crazy, and throw in a lot of screams and laughter.

"In that way they'll figure you're a nuisance and you'll rate a hypodermic. After they've once drugged you, you play possum. When you wake up, pretend to be groggy. Talk thick. Slur your words together, close your eyes and drop off to sleep between words.