"You're going back to your office, Paul?"

"Yes."

"And," said Perry Mason, "this woman is there in your office now?"

"Yes, she was with me when you called. I had to wait a few minutes to get away. She was going to wait until I came back."

The cab driver swung the cab into the curb and opened the door. Perry Mason stepped to the sidewalk.

"Listen, Perry," Paul Drake said, "I'm frightfully sorry about this thing. If it's going to make any difference, I'll give her back the two hundred bucks and put her out of the office. I need the money, but —"

Perry Mason grinned at him.

"Paul," he said, "if you really feel remorseful you can pay off the taxicab when it gets back to the office."

He slammed the door and watched the cab turn the corner to the left. Then he sprinted for the all night restaurant he had spotted, where there was a small enameled sign indicating the presence of a public telephone. He rushed to the telephone and dialed a number.

A woman's voice answered, "Cooperative Investigating Bureau."

"Who's in charge of the office tonight?" asked Perry Mason.

"Mr. Samuels."

"Put him on,", said Perry Mason. "This is Mason, the lawyer, speaking—Perry Mason—he'll know me."

A moment later there was the click of connection, and Samuel's oily voice said, "Good evening, Counselor, is there something we can do for you tonight? We have been anxious to get some of your business for —"

"All right," Perry Mason snapped, "you've got some of it. The best way you can show that you can get more is by giving me fast service on this. There's a woman in the Drake Detective Bureau. She's talking with Paul Drake right now. She's about twentyfour or twentyfive, a slender type of beauty, with a figure that's easy to look at. She's brunette, with jetblack eyes and black hair. She's going to leave the office, probably some time soon. I want to know where she goes and what she does; I don't want her out of your sight night or day. Put as many men on the job as you need. Never mind the expense. Don't mail any reports. I'll call you up when I want to know anything. Keep it confidential and get started."

The voice at the other end of the line became crisply efficient.

"Twentyfour or twentyfive, slender, brunette, with black eyes. At the office of the Drake Detective Bureau."

"Check," said Perry Mason. "Make it snappy."

He hung up and dashed out to the curb, looked up and down the street and caught the lights of a cruising taxi. He waved his hand and brought the taxi to the curb.

"Get me to the Gilroy Hotel," he said, "and make it snappy."

The streets were open, the traffic signals, for the most part, discontinued, and the cab made fast time to the Gilroy Hotel.

"Stick around," Mason told him. "I'm going to want you, and I may not be able to pick up another cab in a hurry. If I'm not back in ten minutes, keep your motor warm."

He barged into the lobby, nodded to a sleepy clerk and strode to the elevators.

"Ninth floor," he told the elevator operator.

When the elevator stopped at the ninth floor Perry Mason said, "Which direction is 927?"

The operator pointed down the corridor.

"Just this side of the fire escape light," he said.

Perry Mason strode down the corridor, his feet pounding the carpet. He found 927 at the place the elevator operator had indicated. He swung around to find 925 on the opposite side of the corridor. He banged on the door of 925.

The transom was open. The door was of thin wood. Perry Mason could hear the creaking of bed springs. He knocked again. After a moment there was the sound of bare feet thudding to the floor, then motion from behind the door, and a man's voice said, "Who is it?"

"Open up," said Perry Mason gruffly.

"What do you want?"

"I want to talk with you."

"What about?"

"Open up, I tell you," Mason said.

The bolt clicked, and the door opened. A man, attired in pajamas, with his eyes swollen from sleep, his face wearing a startled expression, switched on lights and blinked dazedly at the lawyer.

Perry Mason crossed to the window, through which a wind was blowing, billowing the lace curtains. He pulled the window down, gave a swift look about the room, then indicated the bed.

"Get back into bed," he said. "You can talk as well from there."

"Who are you?" asked the man.

"I'm Perry Mason, the lawyer," Mason said. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Yes, I've read about you."

"Were you expecting me?"

"No, why?"

"I was just wondering. Where were you tonight from seven o'clock on?"

"Is it any of your business?"

"Yes."

"Just what makes it your business?" asked the man. Perry Mason stared at him steadily. "I suppose you knew," he said, "that Thelma Bell was arrested and charged with murder?"

The man's face twisted with expression.

"Arrested?" he said.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Not very long ago."

"No," the man said, "I didn't know it."

"Your name's George Sanborne?"

"Yes."

"Were you with Thelma Bell this evening?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"From around seven fifteen or seven thirty to around nine o'clock."

"Where did you leave her?"

"At her apartment house—the St. James—out at 962 East Faulkner Street."

"Why did you leave her at that time?"

"We'd had a fight."

"What about?"

"About a man named Patton."

"That's the man she's accused of murdering," Mason said.

"What time was the murder committed?" Sanborne said.

"Around eight forty."

"She couldn't have done it," Sanborne said.

"You're positive?"

"Yes."

"Can you prove she was with you?"

"I think so, yes."

"Where did you go? What did you do?"

"We started out around seven twenty, I guess, and thought some of going to a picture show. We decided we'd wait until the second show. We went to a speakeasy, sat around and talked for a while, and then we got in a fight. We'd had a couple of drinks, I guess I lost my temper. I was sore about Patton. She was letting him drag her down. He thought of nothing except her body. She had won a leg contest, and Patton continually harped on that. To hear him talk, you'd think her legs were her only asset. She couldn't get anywhere working in choruses, posing as an artist model and having her legs photographed for calendar advertisements."

"That was what the fight was about?" asked Perry Mason.

"Yes."

"And then you went home?"

"Yes."

"Do you know anybody at the speakeasy?"

"No."

"Where is the speakeasy?"

Sanborne's eyes shifted.

"I wouldn't want to get a speakeasy into trouble," he said.

Perry Mason's laugh was mirthless.

"Don't worry about that," he said. "That's their lookout. They all pay protection. This is a murder case. Where was the speakeasy?"

"On Fortyseventh Street, right around the corner from Elm Street."

"Do you know the door man?" asked Perry Mason.

"Yes."

"Will he remember you?"

"I think so."

"Do you know the waiter?"

"I don't particularly remember the waiter."

"Had you been drinking before you went there?"

"No."

"When you first sat down what did you order?"

"We had a cocktail."

"What kind?"

"I don't know, just a cocktail."

"What kind of a cocktail? Martini? Manhattan? Hawaiian…?"

"A Martini."

"Both had a Martini?"

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"Then we had another one."

"Then what?"

"Then we had something to eat—a sandwich of some sort."

"What sort of a sandwich?"

"A ham sandwich."

"Both of you had a ham sandwich?"

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"I think we switched to highballs."

"Don't you know?"

"Yes, I know."

" Rye or Scotch or Bourbon?"