“Why not?”

“He said that it was filled with dynamite.”

“Who’s watching the house now?”

“I think Mr. Harris is. Jackson said that he kept on duty until some time before midnight, when Harris relieved him, and that Harris wants to be relieved.”

“Tell you what you do, Della. I think Drake’s agency has a man up in Santa Barbara. Tell Paul to get some photographs of Mrs. Kent, and a good description of her. Then he can contact Harris and take over the job of watching. I want to know when she leaves the house, and, if possible, where she goes. Tell Jackson to get that final decree just as quickly as he can. Tell him to keep you advised by telephone. I’ll get the information from you. Have you got that straight?”

“Yes,” she said. “What happened out there?”

“A carving knife got stained,” he said.

There was a moment of silence during which only the sound of the buzzing wires came to his ears. Then she said, “I see.”

“Good girl,” Mason told her, and slipped the receiver back on the hook. He left the closet and found Edna Hammer in the hallway.

“Everything okay?” she asked. He nodded. “You’re fixing things so Uncle Peter can get married?” she asked.

“I want to do the best I can for my client,” he told her.

The eyes which regarded him were filled with shrewd appraisal. “You’re a clever lawyer, aren’t you?”

“Meaning what?” he asked.

“Meaning,” she said, “that I happen to know it’s the law of this state that a wife can’t testify against her husband. If Uncle Pete and Lucille Mays are married, then she couldn’t testify to anything against him, could she?”

Perry Mason raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what she could testify to… Here comes Sergeant Holcomb now.”

“Tell me,” she said, grasping Perry Mason’s wrist with cold fingers, “are you going to stand by Uncle Pete?”

“I always stand by a client.”

“How far?”

“If,” he said, “your Uncle Pete committed a coldblooded, deliberate murder, I’m going to tell him to plead guilty or get some other lawyer. If he killed a man while he was sleepwalking I’m going to go the limit for him. Does that satisfy you?”

“But suppose he did commit a coldblooded, deliberate murder, as you call it?”

“Then he can either plead guilty or get some other attorney to represent him.”

“Who’s going to decide whether he committed a coldblooded murder?”

“I am.”

“But you’re not going to decide hastily. You won’t jump at conclusions? Promise me you won’t.”

“I never do,” he said grinning. “Good morning, Sergeant Holcomb.”

Sergeant Holcomb, who had been striding down the corridor toward them, looked from Perry Mason to Edna Hammer. His eyes were glittering with suspicion. “It looks very much,” he said, “as though you’re instructing this young woman what to say.”

“So often appearances are deceptive, Sergeant,” Perry Mason said suavely. “Miss Hammer, permit me to present Sergeant Holcomb.”

The sergeant paid not the slightest attention to the introduction. “How does it happen you’re here?” he asked Perry Mason.

“I’m negotiating an agreement between a chap by the name of Maddox, and Mr. Peter Kent.”

“And where’s Peter Kent?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It would be betraying the confidence of a client.”

“Bosh and nonsense!”

Mason bowed and said, “That’s the way you feel about it, Sergeant. I feel that it would be betraying a professional confidence. That means, of course, it’s merely another one of those differences of opinion we have so frequently.”

“And after you’ve said that,” Sergeant Holcomb said, “then what?”

“After that, I’m quite finished.”

“I still don’t know where Kent is.”

“Doubtless,” Mason said, “there are other sources of information available to you.”

Holcomb swung to Edna Hammer, “You’re his niece?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your uncle now?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you.”

Holcomb’s face darkened with rage. “I’ve sent for Sam Blaine, the deputy district attorney. You two come into the living room.” Sergeant Holcomb turned on his heel and strode down the long corridor toward the living room.

“You,” Perry Mason told Edna Hammer, “had better tell them the truth.”

“I can’t.”

He shrugged his shoulder, placed his hand under her elbow, walked down to the living room with her. They found the others assembled, a solemn, hushed group. Sergeant Holcomb looked at his watch, said, “Sam Blaine, the deputy district attorney, should be here any minute. I want to ask a few questions. Who’s the dead man?”

Duncan, raising his voice, said, “I’m an attorney. I think I can be of some help to you in this. I have some very valuable information.”

“Who’s the dead man?” Holcomb asked.

“He’s Phil Rease, a halfbrother of Peter Kent,” Maddox answered.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Frank B. Maddox. I’m Mr. Kent’s business partner, the President of the Maddox Manufacturing Company of Chicago.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Straightening out some business matters with Mr. Kent, and this is Mr. Duncan, my attorney.”

“You’re the one Mason was dealing with?” Holcomb asked.

“Mr. Mason,” Duncan observed pompously, “represented Mr. Kent. He was here last night, and he spent the night in this house. He had a doctor with him. Dr. Kelton, I believe the name was.”

Holcomb turned to Mason, asked, “Where’s Kelton?”

“He had some important cases. He couldn’t wait. Naturally, you can locate him at any time you desire.”

Maddox volunteered a statement. “This man, Mason,” he said, “Dr. Kelton, and Miss Hammer knew that some one had been murdered. They didn’t know who it was. They were prowling around looking us over this morning. They thought I was the one that had the knife stuck in me.”

“How did you know someone was murdered, Mason?” Sergeant Holcomb asked.

Mason’s eyes widened. “I didn’t.”

The door opened, and Arthur Coulter, the butler, showed a dapper young man, with eye glasses from which dangled a long, black ribbon, into the room. “Here’s Sam Blaine,” Sergeant Holcomb said. “He’ll take charge of things.”

Blaine, freshly shaven, his tan shoes glittering, his white linen gleaming, smiled inclusively, and said, “Just a minute while I get posted.” He led Sergeant Holcomb off to a corner where the two conversed for several moments in low tones. When they had finished, Blaine returned, drew up a chair at the head of the table, opened his brief case, produced a notebook and said, “Did any of you hear anything suspicious during the night?”

Duncan cleared his throat importantly. “I’d like to make a statement,” he said, “I think I can tell you exactly what happened.”

“Who are you?” Blaine asked.

“John J. Duncan, a lawyer.”

“Go ahead,” Blaine invited.

“Shortly after midnight last night I was wakened by someone walking past the French windows. It was moonlight. The shadow fell across me. I am a very light sleeper. I think the person was barefooted.”

“What did you do?”

“I had a glimpse of this person walking past my room. There’s a cement porch in front of the French windows. I jumped to my feet and ran to the windows. It was full moon. I saw someone sleepwalking.”

“How do you know this person was sleepwalking?” Blaine asked.

“From the manner in which the person was attired, and the peculiar walk. The figure wore a nightgown. The head was thrown back. I knew instantly it was a sleepwalker.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“Er—Er—well, you see, it was moonlight and…”

“Never mind answering that question now,” Blaine said hastily, “what did this person do?”

“Walked across the patio, fumbled around with one of the coffee tables for a minute and raised the lid. Then the figure disappeared through a door in the north side of the patio—a door which enters a corridor.”