“I don’t know just where to begin.”

“Begin at the beginning. When did he first start sleepwalking?”

“A little over a year ago.”

“Where?”

“In Chicago.”

“What happened?”

She squirmed in the chair and said, “You’re rushing me off my feet. I’d prefer to tell it my own way.”

“Go ahead.”

She smoothed her knitted dress across her knees and said, “Uncle Pete is generous, but eccentric.”

“Go on,” Mason said; “that’s not telling me anything.”

“I’m trying to tell you about his wife.”

“He’s married?”

“Yes. To a hellcat.”

“Living with him?”

“No. She was getting a divorce. Only now she’s changed her mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s living in Santa Barbara. She sued for a divorce after the first sleepwalking. She claimed Uncle Pete was trying to kill her. Now she’s going to have the divorce set aside.”

“How?”

“I don’t know; she’s clever. She’s an alimony hound.”

“Apparently you don’t like her.”

“I hate her! I hate the ground she walks on!”

“How do you know she’s an alimony hound?”

“Her record proves it. She married a man named Sully and bled him white. When he couldn’t keep up the alimony payments and his business overhead, she threatened to have him thrown in jail. That alarmed his creditors. The bank called his loans.”

“Do you mean,” Mason asked, “she deliberately killed the goose that was laying her golden eggs?”

“It wasn’t deliberate. You know how some women are. They think it’s a crime for a man to quit loving them and that the law should inflict punishment.”

“What happened after Sully went broke?”

“He killed himself. Then she married Uncle Peter, and sued him for divorce.”

“Alimony?”

“Fifteen hundred a month.”

“Your uncle’s wealthy?”

“Yes.”

“How long did she and your uncle live together?”

“Less than a year.”

“And a judge awarded her fifteen hundred a month?” Mason asked.

“Yes. You see, she knows how to go about it. She puts on a swell act, and it’s easy for a judge to be generous with a husband’s money.”

“What’s her first name?”

“Doris.”

“Did your uncle really try to kill her?”

“Certainly not. He was sleepwalking. He went to the sideboard and got a carving knife. She rushed back to the bedroom, locked the door, and telephoned for the police. The police found Uncle Peter standing in his nightshirt in front of the bedroom, fumbling with the doorknob, a big carving knife in his hand.”

Mason made gentle drumming noises with his fingertips on the edge of his desk. “So,” Mason said thoughtfully, “if it ever comes to a showdown, it would appear your uncle had tried to murder his wife, that she’d locked the door and called the police, and he’d claimed he’d been walking in his sleep, but the judge hadn’t believed him.”

Edna Hammer tilted her chin upward and said defiantly, “Well, what of it?”

“Nothing,” Mason said. “What happened after this sleepwalking episode?”

“Uncle Pete’s doctor advised a complete change, so Uncle just left his business in the hands of his partner and came back here to California where he’d always maintained his legal residence.”

“And kept up his sleepwalking?”

“Yes. I was worried about him and kept watch, particularly on moonlight nights. You see, sleepwalking is connected with moonlight. Sleepwalkers become more active during the full moon.”

“You’ve been reading up on it?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“What have you been reading?”

“A book by Dr. Sadger, called, Sleepwalking and Moonwalking. He’s a German. I read a translation.”

“When?”

“I have the book. I read it frequently.”

Mason said, “I take it your uncle doesn’t know he’s been sleepwalking again?”

“That’s right. You see, I locked his door, but he got out somehow. I sneaked into his room the next morning to make certain he was all right. I saw the knife handle sticking out from under the pillow. I grabbed it and didn’t say anything to him.”

“The door was unlocked when you went in?”

“Why, yes. I hadn’t stopped to think of it before, but it must have been, because I walked right in. I knew he was in the shower.”

“Go on from there,” Mason said.

“Uncle’s coming in to see you.”

Mason said, “You fixed that up?”

“Yes. At first I wanted you to put him under treatment without his knowing anything about it. Then today at lunch I fixed things so he’d consult you. He’s coming in sometime this afternoon. You see, he wants to get married and…”

“Wants to get married!” Mason exclaimed.

“Yes, to a nurse named Lucille Mays. I like her. She understands nervous temperaments.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirtyfour or five.”

“How do you know she won’t be another alimony hound?”

“Because she won’t marry Uncle Pete until after she’s signed an agreement waiving all claim to alimony and lawyers’ fees, as well as all her right to inherit his property. She says if he wants to make a will leaving her something, he can do that, and he can give her what money he wants her to have, but that’s all.”

Mason said slowly, “That agreement might be against public policy if it’s that broad. They can make a marriage settlement before, and a property settlement after, the marriage. Suppose she’d feel the same way after the ceremony?”

“Sure she would. You can depend on her. She’s grand. She has a little money of her own, enough to keep her, and she says if anything happens and she and Uncle Pete bust up she’ll step back into her present position.”

“Well, why doesn’t your uncle marry her then?… And, if she’s that kind of a woman, and he knows a good thing when he sees it, he’ll give her all the breaks.”

She smiled and said, “Uncle’s going to settle some property on her as soon as the agreements are signed. He’s letting her think she’s signing away her rights, but it’s only a gesture he’s letting her make.”

“What’s holding him up? Why doesn’t he marry her?”

“Well,” she said, twisting uneasily under his stare, “Doris won’t let them.”

“Why not?”

“She’s going to make a lot of trouble. You see, the divorce isn’t final yet and she’s going to claim Uncle Pete lied to her about the extent of his property and a lot of other stuff. And then she’s going to claim he’s insane and has homicidal tendencies and that he’ll kill someone if he isn’t placed in a sanitarium. You see, what she wants is to be appointed the custodian of his property.”

“And that’s what’s worrying your uncle now?”

“That’s part of it. He has other troubles. He can tell you about those. What I want you to promise me is that you’ll see that he gets medical attention and…”

The telephone rang insistently. Della Street picked up the receiver, listened, cupped her hand over the transmitter and said, “He’s in the office now.”

“You mean the uncle?”

“Yes. Peter B. Kent.”

Edna Hammer jumped to her feet. “He mustn’t know I’ve been here. If you ever meet me again pretend we’ve never met.”

“Sit down,” Mason told her. “Your uncle can wait. You can…”

“No, no! He won’t wait. You don’t know him. You’ll see.”

“Wait a minute,” Mason said. “Is there anyone in the house your uncle might want to murder?”

Her eyes were desperate. “Yes, I guess so… Oh, I don’t know! Don’t ask me!”

She started on a run for the door. Della Street glanced up from the telephone. “Mr. Kent,” she announced calmly, “has pushed his way past the girl at the switchboard and is on his way in.”

Edna Hammer slammed the corridor door behind her. The door of the reception room burst open to disclose a tall, thin man. A protesting young woman held on to his coat tails and half screamed, “You can’t go in. You can’t go in. You can’t go in!”

Mason silenced her with a gesture. “It’s all right, Miss Smith,” he said. “Let Mr. Kent come in.”

The young woman released her grasp. The tall man strode across the office, nodded to Mason, ignored Della Street, and dropped into a chair.