Della Street ’s voice, cutting in on the wire, said, “Just a moment, Chief. I have Jackson on the line. I’m going to switch him over to you.”

Jackson ’s voice, quavering with excitement, said, “I’ve run into a mare’snest up here.”

“What is it?”

“I find that the interlocutory decree of divorce was entered exactly one year ago, on the thirteenth of the month. Hudson, Reynolds & Hunt were attorneys for Mrs. Kent. Hudson was in charge of the case. Mrs. Kent fired him this morning. She’s got some attorney there in Los Angeles to represent her.”

“That interlocutory was entered on the thirteenth?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Absolutely. I’ve checked the records.”

Mason said, “Did you find out where Mrs. Kent ’s living?”

“Yes. It’s 1325a Cabrillo Street.”

Mason said, “Okay, Jackson. Here’s what I want you to do. Park your car where you can watch Mrs. Kent ’s house. Keep the place under observation until I send someone to relieve you. She’s driving a green Packard roadster. Follow her if she goes out, and get the license numbers of any cars that call there. I’ll have someone relieve you shortly after midnight.”

Mason hung up the receiver and strode back to the library. Duncan, suspicious eyes peering out from under bushy eyebrows, was nervously twisting his cigar in his mouth. “I think,” he said, “that the matter can be arranged. My client feels that Mr. Kent, probably through ignorance, disposed of some very valuable partnership assets without consulting my client; that the patents are worth…”

“Forget it,” Mason interrupted, “you’ve said that at least five different times since this conference started.”

Duncan raised his head to peer irritably through the lower part of his glasses at Mason. “I don’t like the tone of your voice, and I don’t like your comment,” he said. Mason grinned at him and said nothing. “My client desires an additional ten thousand if he’s to make a blanket release,” Duncan said grimly.

Kent started to say something but Mason silenced him with a gesture. “I’ll have to discuss this with my client,” he said to Duncan.

“Very well, do you wish me to withdraw?”

“We can’t reach an immediate decision. I’ll want to talk things over. We’ll meet tomorrow night at the same hour.”

“But I thought we were all ready to conclude the matter amicably,” Duncan protested. Mason said nothing. After a moment Duncan remarked, “Well, if that’s final, I presume I have no other alternative but to wait.”

“That,” Mason told him, “is final.”

Duncan turned with slow dignity, paused in the doorway only long enough to say good night in a voice which failed to conceal his disappointment, then, ushering his client into the hallway, slammed the door behind him.

Kent said, “Dammit, Mason, I wanted to settle. Money doesn’t mean much to me, but as you know, I want to get my affairs in order…”

“All right,” Mason interrupted. “Now I’ll tell you something: Maddox is a crook. Tomorrow we’re going to file suit against Maddox alleging that he defrauded you by claiming he was the owner and inventor of the Maddox Valvegrinding Machine, whereas he wasn’t the owner, wasn’t the inventor and had obtained the working model by defrauding a man by the name of Fogg who was the real inventor. You’re going to demand an accounting, have a receiver appointed for the business in Chicago and you’re going to throw Maddox and Duncan out on their ears.”

“You mean Frank didn’t invent that machine?”

“Exactly. He stole the whole business.”

“Why, dammit, I’ll have him arrested! I’ll fix him! I’ll go to him right now and…”

“Forget it,” Mason broke in. “You’ve got more important stuff to think of. Mrs. Fogg’s suing Maddox in Chicago and trying to reach him with a subpoena. He’s out here trying to shake you down for what he can get, grab the cash and skip out. If you tip your hand now, Mrs. Fogg will never be able to take his deposition. You’re going to stall him along and keep him here in the house until the subpoena can be served on him in the Fogg case. But you’ve got other things to think of. Your former wife canned her Santa Barbara lawyers and hired someone here in Los Angeles. It’s going to take a little time for this Los Angeles lawyer to get started. An interlocutory decree was entered in the Santa Barbara divorce case a year ago today. Tomorrow morning I can walk into court—if I walk in ahead of her lawyers—and get a final decree of divorce. As soon as I get it, you can legally marry.”

“But doesn’t that take three days’ notice?”

“In this state, but not in Arizona. I’m going to have you sign the necessary affidavit to get a final decree. The court will grant it as a matter of course. You and Miss Mays fly to Yuma and wait until I telephone you that the final divorce has been granted. Then go ahead and remarry. That marriage will be legal.”

“Does it have to be done that quickly? Couldn’t we wait to give Miss Mays a chance to get packed, and…”

“Can’t you see,” Mason exclaimed, “the minute the former Mrs. Kent files those papers, you can’t get married until the litigation’s disposed of. But if you can beat her to it, get a final decree and remarry, you’ll be in an impregnable position.”

Kent jumped to his feet, started for the door. “Come on, Helen,” he said. “You’ll have to get the plane reservations.” Together, they left the room.

Mason turned to Dr. Kelton. “Well, Jim, what do you think of him?”

Dr. Kelton puffed meditatively on his cigar, took it from his mouth, and said, “Perry, I’ll be damned if I know. That act he put on was a fake.”

“You mean that shaking business?”

“Yes.”

“Then that isn’t a symptom of some nervous disorder?”

“No. Certain involuntary repeated contractions of associated muscles constitute a malady generally known as Tic. Excluding a form of trigeminal neuralgia due to degenerative changes in the nerve, tics aren’t painful. But this isn’t a tic. Watching him closely, I’d be willing to swear he’s faking.”

“But why,” the lawyer asked, “should Kent want to fake a nervous disorder? He’s fighting his wife’s claim that he is deranged. He’s trying to show that he’s perfectly sane. That’s why he had me bring you out here.”

Dr. Kelton shook his head. “He’s the one that suggested you bring a doctor to observe him?”

“Yes. I think that his niece had something to do with the suggestion, but it came from him.”

“He had you bring me out here,” Dr. Kelton said slowly, “so that he could put on that act in front of me. Like most laymen, he exaggerated his ability to fool a doctor. He might have been able to fool a family physician into making a wrong diagnosis, but that shaking business wouldn’t fool a psychiatrist.”

“Then what’s he building up to?” Mason asked. Kelton shrugged his shoulders. “How about the sleepwalking? Does that indicate anything?”

“You mean as a symptom of mental derangement?”

“Yes.”

“No, sleepwalking is usually due to some emotional inhibition, an arbitrary association of ideas with the individual. It isn’t a sign of mental derangement. It comes nearer being a species of individual hypnosis, an autosuggestion of the subconscious.”

“Do sleepwalkers become more active at the full of the moon?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Frankly, Perry, we don’t know.”

“Well,” Mason said, grinning, “this is a new one—a client retains me to prove he’s sane and then tries to act goofy.”

Dr. Kelton took the cigar from his mouth and said dryly, “Not to mention his amiable habit of prowling around the house at night carrying a carving knife.”