"That's right."

"What possible object would anyone have in doing that?"

"That's what I want to know. That's what I'm here to find out."

The lawyer raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Here to find out?" he asked.

Brunold narrowed his lids until they were mere slits. He lowered his voice and said, "Suppose someone stole that eye in order to get me in bad?"

"Just what do you mean?"

"An eye is an individual thing. Very few people have exactly the same colored eyes. Artificial eyes, when they're well made, are as distinctive in style of workmanship as an artist's painting. You know what I mean. Half a dozen artists may paint a tree. All of the paintings will look like the tree, but there'll be something distinctive about each one that will show what artist painted it."

"Go on," the lawyer said, "tell me the rest of it."

"Suppose," Brunold said, "someone who wanted to get me in bad stole one of my eyes and left me a counterfeit? Suppose a crime was committed—a burglary, or, perhaps, a murder, and my eye was left at the scene of the crime? I'd have one hell of a time explaining to the police that I wasn't there."

"You think the police could identify your eye?" the lawyer inquired.

"Sure; they could if they went about it in the right way. An eye expert could tell who the man was that made the eye. He'd recognize the type of workmanship. The police could get in touch with that man and show him the eye. That fellow makes eyes for me right along. He'd take one look at it and say, 'Pete Brunold, 3902 Washington Street. »

The lawyer's eyes were intent in their steady scrutiny.

"Do you think," he asked slowly, "that your eye is going to be left at the scene of a murder?"

Brunold hesitated a minute, then nodded slowly.

"And you want me to fix that?" the lawyer asked.

Brunold nodded again.

"A murder," asked Perry Mason. "of which you are innocent, or of which you are guilty?"

"Innocent."

"How do I know that?"

"You've got to take my word for it."

"And what do you want me to do?"

"Show me some scheme by which I can beat the rap. You're a criminal lawyer. You know the way the police work. You know the way juries think. You know the way detectives work up a case."

Mason swung slowly back and forth in his big swivel chair.

"Has this murder been committed?" he asked. "Or, is it going to be committed?"

"I don't know."

"Is it," Mason asked, "worth fifteen hundred dollars to you to work a trick that will put you in the clear?"

Brunold said slowly, "That depends on how good the trick is."

"I think it's good," Mason told him.

"It's got to be better than good. It's got to be perfect."

"I think it's perfect."

Brunold shook his head and said, "There isn't any perfect scheme. I've gone over it time and time again in my mind. I stayed awake half the night trying to figure out some solution. There isn't any. That eye can be identified, if the police go about it the way I said. Understand, it isn't only a question of proving I'm innocent after the eye is identified. It's a question of not wanting to have the police identify the eye."

Mason pursed his lips, nodded slowly. "I think I understand," he said.

Brunold took fifteen onehundreddollar bills from his wallet and spread them on Perry Mason's desk.

"There's fifteen hundred bucks," he said. "Now, what's the stunt?"

Mason handed Brunold the bloodshot eye, dropped the other in his pocket, picked up the bills and folded them together.

"If," he said slowly, "the police should find your eye first, they'll look it up and identify it in the way that you mention. If they find some other eye first, they'll try to identify that. If they find another eye second, they'll try to identify that. If they find your eye third, they'll take it for granted that it's just like the first two."

Brunold blinked his eyes rapidly. "Give that to me again," he said.

Mason said slowly, "You'll find out what I mean if you think it over long enough. The trouble with your eye is that it's too good a job. It's a work of art. You know that, because you know something about glass eyes. The police won't know that, not unless something happens to direct it to their attention."

Sudden animation lit Brunold's face.

"You mean," he asked, "that you're…?"

His voice trailed away into silence.

Mason nodded.

"That," he said, "is exactly what I mean. That's why I fixed the price at fifteen hundred dollars. I'll have some expense in connection with the matter."

Brunold said, "Perhaps I could save some…"

"You," Perry Mason told him, "aren't going to know a single damn thing about it."

Brunold shot forth his hand, clasped the lawyer's hand and pumped it up and down.

"Brother," he announced, "you're clever! You're clever as the very devil. That's an idea that had never occurred to me, and I've been stewing over this thing all night."

"My secretary has your address?" Mason inquired.

"Yes, 3902 Washington Street. I've got a little jobbing house there—in automotive parts—piston rings, gaskets and that sort of stuff."

"Own it yourself or working for someone?"

"I own it myself. I'm fed up working for other people. I was a salesman for years. I traveled on rattling trains, ruined my stomach eating poor food, and made a lot of money for the smart boys that stayed at home and owned the business."

He winked his glass eye significantly.

"I got that," he said, "in a train wreck, back in 1911. You can see the scar on the side of my head—knocked me out cold. I was in the hospital for two weeks, and it was a month after that before I knew who I was—loss of memory. It lost me my eye and ruined my life."

Mason nodded sympathetically and said, "All right, Brunold; if anything happens, you get in touch with me. If I'm not in the office, you call Della Street, my secretary, and talk with her. She's in my confidence and knows all about the business of the people who call on me."

"Will she keep her mouth shut?" Brunold asked.

Mason laughed. "Torture," he said, "wouldn't get a word out of her."

"How about money?"

"No chance."

"How about flattery? How about someone making love to her? She's a woman, you know, and a mighty attractive one at that."

Mason's shake of his head was accompanied by a frown.

"You worry about the things that concern you," he said. "I'll worry about the things that concern me."

Brunold started toward the door through which he had entered.

"You can'" Mason said, "get out this other way. This door leads directly to the corridor…"

He broke off as the telephone bell on his private line rang insistently. He scooped the receiver to his ear, and heard Della Street 's voice on the other end of the line.

"There's a Miss Bertha McLane here, Chief. She has a younger brother with her—a Harry McLane. They seem to be pretty much excited. She won't tell me the nature of her business. She's been crying, and the brother is surly. They look promising. Will you see them?"

"Okay," he told her; "I'll see them in a minute," and dropped the receiver back into position.

Brunold, halfway through the door, said, "I left my hat in this other office. I'll have to go out that way."

He turned toward the outer office, stiffened suddenly and said, "Hello, Harry; what the devil are you doing here?"

Mason crossed the office in four swift strides, caught Brunold by the shoulder of his coat, jerked him back. "You wait here," he said. "This is a law office, not a club room. I don't want my other clients to see you, and I don't want you to see my other clients."

He pushed his head through the door and said, "Della, bring this man his hat."

When Della Street brought in Brunold's hat, Mason signaled her to close the door.