"Now, you're willing to help Marjorie out on this thing?"

"Yes."

"Get those things on," he said. "Let's see how you look."

She went to the closet and took down the coat. She put it on, fitted the hat into place.

"Good enough," he said. "Got any white shoes?"

"No," she said.

"He probably won't remember the shoes anyway," Perry Mason said. "What I want you to do is to get out of the apartment and walk around on the other side of the street. Some time tonight you'll see a police car drive up here. You can probably tell it by the license. If you can't, you can tell it by the kind of a car it is. It'll either be a car from the homicide squad, and, in that event, three or four broadshouldered men who look like cops in plain clothes will get out of it; or else it'll be a radio car. In that event, it'll be a light roadster or coupe, and there'll be two men in it. One of them will get out and the other one will stay in the car to keep track of the radio calls."

"I think I can spot it all right," she said. "What am I supposed to do then?"

"As soon as you see the men head for this apartment building," Perry Mason said, "you'll come walking across the street as though you had just returned from an errand somewhere. You can say you've been to the drug store for some aspirin, or any other kind of a stall that you want to make. Walk right into the arms of the police. They'll start asking you questions. Don't tell them that you've got an alibi too soon. Pretend that you're all confused. Answer the questions in a way that'll arouse their suspicions. Get angry with them and tell them that you don't have to tell anybody where you were and what you were doing.

"If the officer on the beat saw anything particularly suspicious about the way Margy acted, he'll have turned in her description. The probabilities are it'll be a description not so much of the girl as of the clothes. She saw his uniform and that threw her into a panic. She stopped and turned her back to him, looking in the display windows. It probably registered with him at the time, but he was going on another job with this woman who had pulled him in to see what was happening in the apartment, and he didn't pay too much attention to her. But after he got in Patton's apartment and found those telephone messages in there, with Margy's name and Thelma Bell's name, he's going to start thinking back, trying to see if he remembers seeing any woman who acted as though she'd been mixed up in a murder. He's pretty likely to remember the coat and the hat.

"Now, that's going to put you right square on the spot. It isn't going to be pleasant. It's going to mean notoriety, and it's going to mean a lot of things. The question is, Can you do it?"

"I can," she said, "and I will."

Perry Mason turned to Marjorie.

"Go through this apartment," he said. "Pick out anything in here that belongs to you. Put it in a suitcase. Beat it out of here just as quick as you can. Go to a hotel somewhere. Register under your own name, but do it in a way that won't make you too easy to find—what's your middle name?"

"Frances," she said.

"All right," he said, "register as M. Frances Clune, also remember not to give your address as Cloverdale. You're here in the city now. Figure that you're a resident of the city, and put that as your address. Here's one of my business cards. The telephone number is on there, Broadway 39251. Call up my office, ask for Miss Street—she's my secretary—she'll know who you are. Don't mention any names over the telephone, simply say that you talked with me earlier in the day, and that I asked you to leave your address. Tell her the hotel that you're registered at. Then lock yourself in your room. Don't go out at all; don't get away from the telephone. Be where I can reach you at any hour of the day or night. Have your meals sent into your room. Don't try to communicate with me unless something happens. If the police should find you, put on your best expression of baby faced innocence and don't answer a single question, except as to whether you've got an attorney. Tell them that I'm your attorney. Demand that you be allowed to communicate with me."

She nodded slowly, her eyes fastened steadily upon him.

"You understand all that?"

"I think so."

"Get started then," said Perry Mason. "And remember that no matter what happens, you aren't to make any statement to any one until you have talked with me. You aren't even to answer questions. You won't even tell them who you are or where you came from. The minute any one puts you under arrest, you demand to be placed in communication with your attorney. Show them the card. Demand that you be allowed to telephone me. If they let you telephone me, I'll talk with you over the telephone and tell you not to say anything. If they don't let you telephone me, get sulky. Tell them that if they won't do what you want them to do, you won't do what they want you to do; that if they won't let you telephone me, you won't answer the questions they ask. And every time they ask you a question and you refuse to answer, use that same formula, that you won't answer questions unless they let you call me. You understand?"

"I understand," she said.

Perry Mason strode to the door. As he passed Thelma Bell, he patted her on the shoulder.

"Good kid," he said.

He stepped out into the corridor and heard the door close behind him and the bolt click into position.

J.R. Bradbury was seated in the lobby of the Hotel Mapleton when Perry Mason pushed his way through the door.

Bradbury looked cool, capable, and efficient, in a suit of gray tweeds which matched the gray of his eyes. He wore a gray shirt, a gray tie flecked with red, gray woolen socks and black and white sport shoes. He was puffing meditatively at a cigar, when his quick eyes lit on Perry Mason's figure.

Bradbury got to his feet and pushed his way toward Mason.

"Tell me about it," he said quickly and eagerly, "how did it happen? Have you found Marjorie? What can you do for her? What —?"

"Take it easy," said Perry Mason. "Let's go where we can talk. How about your room?"

Bradbury nodded, turned toward the elevator, then paused suddenly.

"There's a swell little speakeasy around the corner," he said, "we can get something to eat there, and we can get a drink. I need it; I haven't got anything in my room."

"You lead the way," Perry Mason said.

Bradbury pushed his way through the swinging doors of the lobby, waited a moment for Mason on the sidewalk, caught the lawyer's arm with his hand and said, "Are there any clews that don't point toward Marjorie?"

"Shut up," Perry Mason said. "Let's wait until we can get where we can talk, and if we can't get privacy in this speakeasy, we aren't going to talk there."

"Don't worry," Bradbury said, "we can get a quiet booth. It's very exclusive, I got a card from the bell captain of the hotel."

He rounded the corner, paused before a door, and pushed a button. A panel slid back, a pair of beady black eyes surveyed Bradbury, then the face vanished. There was a sound of a bolt clicking back, and the door opened.

"Right on upstairs," said Bradbury.

Perry Mason led the way up the carpeted stairs. A head waiter bowed a welcome.

"We want a booth," Mason said.

"Just the two of you?" the waiter inquired.

Mason nodded.

The waiter hesitated for a moment. Then at the steady insistence of Perry Mason's eyes, turned and led the way across a small diningroom in which tables had been crowded, across a small square of waxed dance floor, and down a carpeted corridor. He pulled back a curtain and Perry Mason went in and sat down at a table. Bradbury sat opposite him.

"I want some good red wine and some hot French bread with lots of butter," Perry Mason said, "and that's all."