Mason said, “Tragg thinks I had Carver Clements’s key.”

“Where did you get it?”

Mason shook his head.

“Well,” Drake said, “Carver Clements didn’t have a key.”

Mason nodded. “That is the only break we have in the case, Paul. We know Clements’s key is missing. No one else does, because Tragg won’t believe me when I tell him Clements hadn’t given me his key.”

Drake said, “It won’t take Tragg long to figure the answer to that one. If Clements didn’t give you the key, only one other person could have given it to you.”

Mason said, “We won’t speculate too much on that, Paul.”

“I gathered we wouldn’t,” Drake said dryly. “Remember this, Perry, you’re representing a girl who’s going to be faced with a murder rap. You may be able to beat that rap. It’s circumstantial evidence. But, in doing it, you’ll have to think out some explanation that will satisfy an embarrassed lover who’s being pitied by his friends and ridiculed by the public.”

Mason nodded. “We’ll push things to a quick hearing in the magistrate’s court on a preliminary examination. In the meantime, Paul, find out everything you can about Carver Clements’s background. Pay particular attention to Clements’s wife. If she had known about that apartment—”

Drake shook his head dubiously. “I’ll give it a once-over, Perry, but if she’d even known about that apartment, that would have been all she needed. If she could have raided that apartment with a photographer and had the deadwood on Carver Clements, she’d have boosted her property settlement another hundred grand and walked out smiling. She wouldn’t have needed to use any poison.”

Mason’s strong, capable fingers were drumming gently on the edge of the desk. “There has to be some explanation, Paul.”

Drake heaved himself wearily to his feet. “That’s right,” he said without enthusiasm, “and Tragg thinks he has it.”

Della Street, her eyes sparkling, entered Mason’s private office and said, “He’s here, Chief.”

“Who’s here?” Mason asked.

She laughed. “Don’t be like that. As far as this office is concerned, there is only one he.”

“Dane Grover?”

“That’s right.”

“What sort?”

“Tall, sensitive-looking. Wavy, dark brown hair, romantic eyes. He’s crushed, of course. You can see he’s dying ten thousand deaths every time he meets one of his friends. Gertie, at the switchboard, can’t take her eyes off of him.”

Mason grinned, and said, “Let’s get him in, then, before Gertie either breaks up a romance or dies of unrequited love.”

Della Street went out, returned after a few moments, ushering Dane Grover into the office.

Mason shook hands, invited Grover to a seat. Grover glanced dubiously at Della Street. Mason smiled. “She’s my right hand, Grover. She takes notes for me, and keeps her thoughts to herself.”

Grover said, “I suppose I’m unduly sensitive, but I can’t stand it when people patronize me or pity me.”

Mason nodded.

“I’ve had them do both ever since the papers came out this morning.”