“Hell, no! You keep me so busy I don’t get any sleep. What do you want this time?”

“I want some good men to look up a Mrs. Doris Sully Kent, living somewhere in Santa Barbara. Don’t shadow her just yet, because she’s smart and I don’t want to tip my hand, but find out all about her past, her friends, finances, morals, dissipations, residence and future plans. Also get the dope on a Frank B. Maddox, of Chicago, inventor and manufacturer. He’s here in the city at present, so don’t bother about anything except the Chicago angle. Find out who owns a green Packard roadster, license number 9R8397.”

“When do you want all this?”

“As soon as I can get it.”

Drake consulted his watch, said, “Okay. Do I keep the Santa Barbara investigation under cover?”

“Yes. Don’t let her or her friends know she’s being investigated.”

Drake yawned, pulled his tall figure from the chair. “On my way,” he said as he started for the door.

Della Street, hearing the door slam, entered the office.

“Where’s Jackson?” Mason asked.

She smiled and said, “Packing his bag, getting ready to go to Santa Barbara and find out the exact status of the case of Doris Kent versus Peter Kent. I took the liberty of reading your mind, and giving him the order. I’ve telephoned the garage to fill his car with gas, oil and water and deliver it here.”

Mason grinned and said, “Good girl. Some day I’ll decide to raise your salary and find you’ve read my mind and already done it. Telephone the county clerk at Santa Barbara. Arrange with some deputy to stay after hours. Tell Jackson to telephone me and let me know what he finds out.” Mason consulted his wristwatch, said meditatively, “It’s about one hundred miles. Jackson should be there in something less than three hours. Tell him to step on it.”

Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour of nine. Duncan was talking. For more than fifteen minutes he had been outlining the position of his client. Maddox, a stoopshouldered man with high cheek bones and a trick of keeping his eyes focused on the tips of his shoes, sat silent. Kent impatiently twisted his long fingers. On his right, Helen Warrington, his secretary, sat with poised pencil. As the clock ceased chiming the hour, Duncan paused. Mason said to the secretary, “What’s the last paragraph, Miss Warrington?”

Looking down at her notebook, she read, “… And, Whereas, the parties hereto desire, once and for all, to settle and adjust the affairs of the said copartnership and each to release the other from any and all claims of any sort, nature, or description which he may have arising from any cause whatsoever…”

“That’s just the point I’m making,” Duncan interrupted doggedly. “My client should only release any claim he may have as a copartner. That release covers all claims. The sole purpose of this compromise is to settle the partnership business. Now my client…”

Mason interrupted impatiently, “What claim does your client have against Peter Kent that isn’t a partnership claim?”

“I don’t know of any,” Duncan admitted.

“Then it won’t hurt to give a general release.”

“If,” Duncan countered suspiciously, “he hasn’t any claim, why should it be necessary to make such a release?”

“Because I’m going to get this thing cleaned up for keeps,” Mason said. “If your client does have any other claim against Kent let him make it now.”

“Don’t answer! Don’t answer!” Duncan exclaimed, turning to Maddox. “Let me do the talking.”

Mason sighed. Duncan pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, removed his bifocals and polished them. Mason taking a letter from a file which lay on the table in front of Kent, said, “Here’s a letter signed by Maddox. Certainly you’re not going back on your own client’s signature. In this letter he claims…”

Duncan hastily took the letter, tilted his head back to peer through the lower half of the lenses, held the letter at arm’s length, read it, reluctantly returned it, and said, “That letter was written before Mr. Maddox was aware of his legal rights.”

Mason got to his feet. “All right,” he said. “I don’t like the way this business is developing. Your client either signs a blanket release or he doesn’t get one damn cent. If you want to quibble him out of a good settlement go ahead.”

Maddox raised his eyes from his shoe tips, flickered a brief glance at Duncan, started to say something, checked himself, remained staring steadily at his lawyer. Duncan ’s face flushed with anger; but he caught the meaning of Maddox’s stare, said, “If you’ll excuse us for a minute, I’ll confer with my client.”

He pushed back his chair. The pair left the room. Dr. Kelton, sitting a few feet back from the table, where he could study Kent ’s features, took a cigar from his mouth long enough to say, “You lawyers!”

Mason said irritably, “It serves me right for getting mixed up in a wrangle over a damned contract. My specialty is murder cases. Why the devil didn’t I have sense enough to stick with them?”

Kent suddenly began to twitch, the twitching, starting at the corners of his mouth, spread to his eyes. He raised his hand to his face to control the twitching and the hand began to shake. Then his whole body was seized with a tremor. Dr. Kelton’s eyes narrowed to watchful slits as he observed the shaking figure. By a visible effort, Kent controlled himself. The trembling ceased. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Don’t pay him a cent,” he said, “unless you get the release we want. He’s a crook. He’s just a greedy…”

The door opened. The butler, standing on the threshold, said, “Mr. Mason on the telephone, please.”

Mason strode from the room, followed the butler down a corridor to a soundproof telephone closet, picked up the receiver, said, “Well?” and heard Della Street’s voice saying, “Paul Drake’s in the office with a report from Chicago. Jackson ’s just coming on the line from Santa Barbara. Stay on after you talk with Paul and I’ll give you Jackson.

Mason said, “Okay,” heard the click of a switch and Paul Drake’s voice saying, “Hello, Perry. I got some dope at the Chicago end of the case. Frank B. Maddox is in hot water back there. He organized the Maddox Manufacturing Company. Apparently the capital came from a Peter B. Kent. The business was built up from nothing to a tidy little industry. Kent kept in the background. Maddox did the managing. About two months ago a suit was filed against Maddox by the widow of a James K. Fogg who claims her husband invented the valvegrinding machine which is the sole product of the Maddox Manufacturing Company. It’s a long story. I’ll only give you the highlights. Fogg was dying of tuberculosis. Maddox posed as a friend who could do something with the invention. He took Fogg’s working model and then obtained patents to it in his own name, assigned the patents to the Maddox Manufacturing Company and never accounted to Fogg for any of the proceeds. Fogg died. He hadn’t been living with his wife for several months, prior to his death; but, after his death, she was rummaging through some old papers and found enough stuff to put her on the right track. She investigated and then filed suit. Maddox has been stalling the suit along. She got an order to take his deposition and has been trying to locate him to serve a subpoena, but she can’t find him. The detective agency I hired to get the dope on Maddox in Chicago is also retained by Mrs. Fogg’s lawyers to locate Maddox and serve the subpoena.”

“Did you,” Mason asked, “tell them where Maddox was?”

“No, but I want to. Can I?”

“You’re damned right,” Mason said gleefully. “Give them the whole story. They can arrange to serve Maddox and take the deposition here, and the sooner they do it, the better I’ll like it.”

“Okay,” Drake drawled. “And here’s something else. Your green Packard roadster is the property of Doris Sully Kent of Santa Barbara.”