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picked up the receiver with his left hand, clamped the last two fingers of the hand against the rubber mouthpiece, raised the receiver to his ear, the telephone to his lips. "What is it?" he asked.
    The receiver made rasping, metallic noises. "Not now," Moxley said. "I've got visitors… I tell you, not now… You should know who the visitor is… I say you should. I'm not mentioning any names, but you can draw your own conclusions… He's a lawyer. His name is Mason."
    Perry Mason jumped to his feet. "If that's Rhoda," he said, "I want to talk with her."
    He strode toward the man at the telephone. Moxley's face twisted with rage. He doubled his right hand into a fist, shouted, "Get back!"
    Mason continued to advance. Moxley grabbed the telephone in his right hand, the receiver in his left, started to hang up. "Rhoda," called Perry Mason in a loud voice, "telephone my office!"
    Moxley slammed the receiver back into position. His face twisted into a snarl of hatred. "Damn you!" he said. "You've got no business butting into this."
    Mason shrugged his shoulders, said, "I've told you what I wanted to say," put on his hat, turned his back on Moxley and walked slowly down the long flight of stairs. Moxley came to the head of the stairs, stood staring with silent hostility at the broad shoulders of the departing attorney. Mason slammed the front door shut, stepped into his cab, drove three blocks to a drug store and telephoned Della Street. "Anything new?" he asked.
    "Yes," she said, "we've chased back the records on Rhoda Montaine. She was Rhoda Lorton, wife of Gregory Lorton, and Gregory Lorton died in February of nineteen hundred and twenty-nine of pneumonia. The attending physician was Dr. Claude Millsap. He signed the death certificate."
    "Where does Dr. Millsap live?"
    "The Teresita Apartments – nineteen twenty-eight Beechwood Street."
    "What else?" he asked.
    "We've traced the gun that was in the purse."
    "What did you find out?"
    "The gun," she said, "was sold to Claude Millsap, who gave the address as nineteen twenty-eight Beechwood Street."
    Perry Mason gave a low whistle. "Anything else?" he asked.
    "That's all so far. Drake wants to know how much work you want him to do."
    "He can lay off on the other stuff," Mason said, "but I want him to find out all he can about a man named Gregory Moxley, who lives in the Colemont Apartments, three sixteen Norwalk Avenue."
    "Want him to put a shadow on Moxley?"
    "No," Mason said, "that won't be necessary. In fact, it would be very inadvisable, because Moxley has got a brittle disposition and I don't know just what his tie-up in the case is."
    Della Street's voice showed she was worried. "Listen, chief," she cautioned, "aren't you getting in rather deep on this thing?"
    Perry Mason's tone was once more good-natured and light-hearted. "I'm having the time of my life, Della," he said. "I'm earning my retainer."
    "I'll say you are!" she exclaimed.

5.
    Perry Mason left the telephone and approached the drug counter. "What's 'Ipral'?" he asked.
    The clerk studied him for a moment. "A hypnotic."
    "What's a hypnotic?"
    "A species of sedative. It induces sleep, not a drugged sleep, but a restful slumber. In proper doses there's no after effect."
    "Would it act like knock-out drops?"
    "Not at all – in any proper dose. I told you, it induces a natural, restful and deep slumber. Can I?…"
    Mason nodded, turned away from the counter. "Thanks," he said.
    He emerged from the drug store whistling light-heartedly. The cab driver jumped to the sidewalk, opened the door of the cab. "Where to?" he asked.
    Perry Mason frowned speculatively, as though weighing two possible plans of campaign in his mind. Three blocks down the street a car swung into Norwalk Avenue, the body swaying far over on the springs with the momentum of the turn. Mason's eyes focused on it, and the eyes of the cab driver followed those of Mason. "Sure is coming," said the cab driver.
    "A woman driving," Mason