"The police figure," he said, "that the murderer locked the door when he went out."

"The murderer," said Perry Mason, "might have climbed in by the fire escape and gone out the same way."

"Then who locked the door?" asked Drake.

"Frank Patton," Mason said.

"Then, why didn't he leave the key hanging in the door from the inside?"

"Because he mechanically put it in his pocket."

Paul Drake shrugged his shoulders.

"Sure, that's reasonable," Perry Mason said. "A man frequently locks the door from the inside and drops the key in his pocket."

"You don't need to argue with me," the detective told him. "You can save the argument for a jury. I'm just telling you, that's all."

"How long after the sound of the body falling on the floor before the officer arrived?" Mason asked.

"Perhaps ten minutes," the detective told him. "The woman got up, put on some clothes, went down in the elevator, found the officer, told him her story, convinced him it was something he should look into, and brought him back to the apartment. Then there was the little while that they were talking with you, and then the officer got a key. Make it perhaps fifteen minutes in all; say ten minutes up to the time you first saw the officer in the corridor."

"A person can do a lot in ten minutes," Mason said.

"Not much in the line of cleaning up blood stains. It would mean a pretty hurried job," Paul Drake commented.

"Do the police," asked Perry Mason, "know Bradbury's address?"

"I don't think the police are going to figure Bradbury very heavy one way or another," Drake said. "They don't know where he's staying, but of course they can find out easily enough by making a check of the hotels. Carl Manchester simply knows that he can be reached through you."

"And," Perry Mason said, "I managed to hold him in the background until Doray's name had come in first. I want the newspapers to get the young love angle rather than the sugar daddy viewpoint."

The detective nodded.

The telephone on Perry Mason's desk rang steadily Mason frowned at it.

"Any one know you're here?" he asked, looking at Paul Drake.

The detective shook his head.

Perry Mason reached for the receiver, paused for a moment with his hand held an inch or two from it; then suddenly scooped his hand down, pulled the receiver up to his ear, and said, "Yes, hello. Perry Mason speaking."

A woman's voice said, "I have a telegram for Mr. Perry Mason. Do you wish me to read it over the telephone?"

"Yes," said Perry Mason.

"The telegram," she said, "is filed from this city. It says: CHECK HER ALIBI BEFORE YOU LET HER DO ANY THING. The message," went on the purring voice of the operator, "is signed with a single initial 'M', as in mush."

"Thanks," said Perry Mason.

"Do you want me to send a copy over to your office?"

"In the morning," he told the operator, and continued to hold the receiver in his hand. He severed the connection by pressing the hook with his forefinger.

"That," he said slowly, "is one hell of a funny thing. Why should she send me a telegram, and why should it be that kind of a telegram?"

He moved his hand which held the receiver and dialed rapidly the number of the Bostwick Hotel, Exeter 93821.

The detective watched him with a speculation which seemed almost indolent in its careless scrutiny.

Perry Mason heard a voice saying, "Bostwick Hotel."

"Will you please," he said, "ring room 408."

The voice of the operator said instantly. "The occupant of room 408 checked out just a few minutes ago."

"You're certain?" asked Perry Mason.

"Absolutely certain."

"She was," said Perry Mason, "expecting a call from me. Would you mind ringing the room?"

"I'll ring it," said the operator, "but there's no one there. I tell you she checked out."

Perry Mason waited for a few moments, then heard the voice over the wire confirming the previous statement that no one answered.

He once more pushed down the catch which cut off the contact and stood staring at the telephone. He was still staring at it when the bell exploded into life.

"Looks like your busy night on the telephone," Paul Drake commented.

Perry Mason released the pressure of his fingers, and said, "Hello." He spoke with quick, nervous harshness.

The voice of Della Street came to his ears.

"Thank God I caught you, chief. Are you there alone?"

"Except for Paul Drake, yes. What's on your mind?"

"Get this," she said, "because you're going to figure in it. Two detectives just left me. They tried to give me a shakedown. They got pretty rough."

"What for, Della?"

"They claim that I rang up Dr. Doray and tipped him off that the police were looking for him, and told him to get out."

"What gives them that idea?" inquired Perry Mason.

"Listen," she said, "and get this straight, because I think they're on their way to give you a going over. They say that somebody rang up Dr. Doray at the Midwick Hotel sometime between nine fifteen and nine thirty this evening, and told him that Patton had been murdered; that Doray was going to be picked up as a suspect, and that there were some things in the evidence that looked bad for him and Marjorie Clune; that Marjorie was getting under cover and was going to keep under cover. In other words, that she was skipping out, and that it would be the worst thing on earth for her if Bob Doray should be picked up by the police. He was instructed to get out of town and keep from being questioned by the police."

Perry Mason frowned into the telephone.

"What made them connect that with us?" he said.

"Because," Della Street told him, "the voice was that of a woman. The operator at the Midwick Hotel happened to listen in, and the one who was doing the talking said that she was Della Street, the secretary to Perry Mason."

Perry Mason's eyes became hard as bits of frosted glass.

"The hell she did!" he said.

"You said it," Della Street told him. "And there are two dicks on the way to your office. Get ready to receive them."

"Thanks, Della," said Perry Mason, "did they get rough with you?"

"They tried to."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes," she told him, "I made a flat and indignant denial, and that was all they got out of me, but I'm afraid of what they may do to you, chief."

"Why?"

"Because," she said, "… you know what I mean."

"All right," Perry Mason told her, "you go to sleep, Della, and let me handle it."

"Do you think it's all right?" she asked.

He laughed in a low, reassuring tone.

"Of course it's all right," he said, "night night."

He slipped the receiver back on the hook and turned to face Paul Drake.

"Well," he said, "here's something for you to figure on. Some woman telephoned Dr. Doray at his hotel and told him that she was Della Street, secretary to Perry Mason; that Frank Patton had been murdered in his room at the hotel; that Marjorie Clune was implicated and that the police were looking for Marjorie; that Doray had better get out of town while the getting was good; that if the detectives located him and questioned him, it might look bad for Marjorie; that Perry Mason was going to represent Marjorie and that he wanted Dr. Doray out of town."

Paul Drake whistled.

"And," Perry Mason said, "with two detectives on their way up here to shake me down, you can figure the sweet angles this case is going to have."

"What time did the telephone call come in?" Drake inquired.

"Somewhere around nine o'clock—between that and nine fifteen. Doray had just reached the hotel when the call came through."

Paul Drake stared steadily at Perry Mason.

"How the devil could your office have known that Patton was murdered at that time? The police were just finding it out."