Chapter Eight

It was daybreak before the police and Paul finished going over the house. Tragg sighed, weary and exasperated, as he and the others gathered outside at their cars.

"Well, there's certainly no one staying in that house," he said, pushing back his hat. "I'd better check in with headquarters." He reached into the car for the radio handset.

"Maybe they've learned something about that Marlene woman," Brice said.

"They were still trying to crack the code on those transmitters when I reported in last," Tragg said in irritation. "Even with the passcodes the assassins gave us, something still isn't right or we'd be able to lock in on that satellite signal. It's almost as though Bartlett knows we have the transmitters and is now deliberately blocking the signal to keep us from finding out his location!"

"It wouldn't surprise me," Andy frowned. "But we've kept that information from getting out. I don't know how he'd be aware we have those things, unless he has a friend in the police department or the D.A.'s office."

Tragg nodded. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of—a Judas in our midst."

When Tragg hung up from the call to the station several minutes later, he looked both bewildered and deep in thought. He turned away from the car, facing his comrades.

"Well, the transmitters' out-going signals are still blocked," he said, annoyed. "But apparently there was a woman named Marlene who was important in the Travis family history. She was the murdered sister of Ben Travis's grandmother."

Brice stared. "Then Drake hit on it," he gasped.

Paul looked just as surprised. "Well, how about that," he said.

Tragg nodded. "And the body is still a Jane Doe," he said. "The preliminary report likely won't be in until later today. I sent the message for the medical examiner to put it together as soon as possible, that several persons' safety could depend on solving this mystery."

"If she really looked like that Marlene woman, what could it mean?" Brice wondered. "Is she a relation no one even knew about? Is it a wild coincidence?"

"I personally would rather believe she was a relation," Tragg said. "Those sorts of wild coincidences rarely happen. And if she's directly descended from Marlene, or perhaps her sister, it wouldn't be unusual at all for her to bear a striking resemblance to them."

"That's true," Andy consented. "Although it wouldn't surprise me if the 'wild coincidence' happened to Perry and his crew." He glanced at Paul, who rolled his eyes.

Tragg gave a darkly amused smirk. "That wouldn't surprise me, either."

He glanced at his watch. "It should be a reasonable enough hour now for someone to be available at the Altec building. Every lead we've got seems to involve them in some way."

"Are you going there now?" Andy queried.

"Yes," Tragg confirmed. "And if we're still unable to get in I think I'll run down to headquarters and see if there's a way to speed up the process of cracking the satellite code." He started to ease himself into the car. "All we need there is to find out where the original signal is coming from and then we'll have another place to search, maybe even the right place."

Andy looked at him in surprise. "Lieutenant Tragg, do you even know enough about these kinds of technological devices to help in any capacity?" he asked.

Tragg leaned towards the window. "No," he said. "But I'll find something to move it along, even if it's just shouting encouragement."

Andy shook his head, admittedly amused but also touched by Tragg's insistence to be involved. "Carry on, sir," he said, stepping away from the car door. "Sergeant Brice and I will come with you to Altec. With any luck, we might be able to wrap up the entire case there."

"Now isn't that a novel idea," Tragg mused.

"Isn't it," Andy agreed.

xxxx

Mr. Burger had been mostly silent on the drive. Della glanced to him in concern every few moments, wanting to make sure he was still awake. The shadow of his hat's brim concealed his eyes, but when she looked to him again, he turned just slightly to look back.

At last he spoke. "I'm not going to pass out. You don't have to worry, Della."

She sighed. "I still say you should go to a doctor."

"The last thing I need is to be poked and prodded like a science experiment for the next couple of hours," Hamilton said flatly. "I just need to get some rest and I'll be fine."

Once again Della gave up the argument. But as the facts of the case turned over in her mind, something disturbing and frightening stood out to her.

"Are you sure you should go back to your house?" she asked in concern. "The men who were chasing us said that there were others. What if someone's waiting for us?" Although Tragg had assigned a squad car to follow them, to make certain they got to their destination safely, Della still did not want to take any unnecessary chances.

"They probably think I'm out of commission for a while," Mr. Burger remarked. "But I've been thinking about that too. I don't think you should go back to your apartment. At least, not alone." He leaned back, gazing wearily out the windshield. "It might be safer for both of us to check into a hotel until this blows over."

Della bit her lip but nodded. If Perry were here, he would very likely tell her the same thing.

"Let's do that," she said. "We'll take out a couple of rooms for a few hours. We won't even go get any of our things first. The police can investigate later, and if it's safe maybe I can pick something up then."

"I'll be feeling better by then," Hamilton told her. "I can do it." Anyway, he had to go into the office later. At the present time, with this headache bringing out his exhaustion, it was out of the question.

"So," he said, changing the subject, "to which hotel are we going? One of the many where Mr. Mason has sent his clients to keep them out of the way?"

The sardonic tone in his voice brought an ironic smile to Della's lips. "Oh, it could be," she said. "I don't keep track of them all."

She shook her head. "This is a strange situation, isn't it? A prominent defense attorney's secretary traveling with his most noted rival."

Mr. Burger chuckled. "It is strange at that."

But the reason for the team-up soon had them both sobered again. When Della parked at the chosen hotel, the memories of the past few hours were pressing hard against her mind. She turned off the engine, quietly leaning back instead of exiting the car.

"Mr. Burger, I honestly did think you were dead." She faced him, the pain clear in her eyes. "When I saw you lying on the floor, I was horrified. So many thoughts went through my mind. I didn't want anything to happen to you; I've never wanted that." She looked down. "And . . . if they would attack you so brutally and so soon . . . what have they done to Perry?" Her voice cracked.

Hamilton had no answer for that. He looked at her with regret and sorrow. At last he laid a hand on her shoulder, still not speaking.

For a moment they sat in silence. Then Della drew a shaking breath.

"I can usually keep myself together," she said. "Even when I was being tried as an accessory in that murder case, I stayed composed."

"I'm sorry about that time," Mr. Burger said sincerely. "But it was different. You were in trouble then. And when you care about people, it's worse for them to be in trouble than it is for it to be you yourself."

"You're right," Della consented, finally looking back up at him. "Thank you. And . . ." She smiled a bit. "I accept your apology. Even though it's unnecessary. Being a prosecutor must be a difficult job."

Mr. Burger nodded. "It is, especially when the defendant is someone I know. I can't disqualify myself every time that happens. And I can't give special favors either."

"Does it happen a lot?" Della wondered.

"No, thankfully. But it happens too much as it is."

Della was silent a moment. She nodded slowly in understanding before moving to get out of the car. ". . . Let's get inside," she said. "I shouldn't have kept you."

"It's alright," Mr. Burger said as he exited on his side.

xxxx

The Altec Corporation's skyscraper still looked largely deserted when the police and Paul pulled up in front. But there were lights on throughout the building, as well as in the lobby, so Paul hoped that was a good sign.

Tragg led the way up to the doors and pulled on the handle. When the door moved, he hauled it open and stepped inside, followed by the others.

"Hello, Miss," he greeted the receptionist as he held out his badge. "I'm Lieutenant Tragg, Homicide."

She stared at him. "What is this?" she demanded, getting up from her chair. "There hasn't been any trouble here."

"Maybe not, but we're investigating a murder that appears to have a connection with Altec," Tragg said.

"Not to mention the abduction of a very prominent citizen of L.A.," Paul put in.

"What would we have to do with that?" the receptionist exclaimed. She looked honestly bewildered and alarmed.

"Is Mr. Van Pelt in?" Tragg asked, ignoring the question.

She frowned. "Not unless he came up secretly through the back way," she said. "I could try his office."

"Please do," Tragg said. "Several lives may depend on it."

More worried than ever, the young woman pressed the number of the extension with shaking fingers. For a moment it rang with no answer. At last she looked up.

"I don't think he's in," she said. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Lieutenant?"

"Yes," Tragg said. "You can see if Mr. Orson and Mr. Clemens are in. Late last night we went around speaking with all of the top-ranking officers of this corporation. All that is, except those two men and Mr. Van Pelt. They weren't home at the time."

"Well, I don't know anything about that," the receptionist quickly said. "I can't imagine why all three of them would be gone." She went back to the phone, tapping out the first number. After another moment of waiting, she perked up.

"Hello, Mr. Clemens? I'm sorry to bother you so early, but the police are here. . . . Yes, the police. . . . No, I'm not sure what they want. Something about a murder case and someone being kidnapped. . . . Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Goodbye."

She hung up. "Mr. Clemens will see you," she reported. "Should I still try Mr. Orson?"

"Is his office near Mr. Clemens'?" Tragg wondered.

"Yes; right next-door," was the reply.

"Then we'll just pay him a visit while we're up there, if he's in," Tragg said. "Thank you for your help, Miss. You've been most cooperative."

She shrugged as she watched him and the others head toward the elevator. "Well, what could I do?" she said aloud, half to the emptying room. "I don't want to be accused of not cooperating with the police."

Paul glanced back. "You'd be surprised how many people don't feel that way," he said.

xxxx

Charlie Clemens was a small, nervous little man—the type who would never be suspected of a crime, but could be hiding a dark nature. When the door opened and the four men entered, he stood and reached across his oak desk to shake their hands.

"Hello," he greeted. "I . . . I have to say I really don't understand why you're here, Officer. . . ."

"Lieutenant, actually," Tragg said, holding out his badge. "Mr. Clemens, last night a young woman was found murdered in the home of Benjamin Travis. While conducting an investigation of a home where you and other officers of the Altec Corporation have been seen, a photograph was found of a woman who appeared to be the spitting image of the murder victim."

Andy took out a photograph. "Mr. Clemens, have you ever seen this woman before?" Catching a glance at it, Paul noted that it was a picture of the locket.

Mr. Clemens took it, his eyes widening in surprise despite the graininess of the locket's photograph. "Why, that's Iola," he gasped.

"Iola?" Tragg repeated.

"Mr. Van Pelt's niece," Mr. Clemens explained. The color drained from his face. "You're saying she was murdered?"

"We won't know for certain until the medical examiner's report is in," Tragg said. "Tell me, does the name Marlene mean anything to you?"

Mr. Clemens gave him a blank look. "It's a lovely name, but I don't know anyone by it."

Tragg nodded. "It was apparently a woman named Marlene whose photograph we found in that house," he said. "And speaking of the house, we're talking about this one." He held up a Polaroid shot he had taken of the house before their departure.

Mr. Clemens' jaw dropped. ". . . I knew it wasn't likely we could keep that place secret," he said.

"Then it is owned by the Altec Corporation," Tragg prompted.

"Y-yes," Mr. Clemens stammered. "But we weren't using it for any ill purpose! . . . At least, I never thought we were. We just went there to hold private company meetings or sometimes to shoot pool or play cards. It was more comfortable there than in a meeting room here."

"I see." Tragg held up a second photograph. "Are you familiar with this room?"

Again Mr. Clemens looked blank. "I've never seen it before in my life," he said. "What is it?"

"It's a secret room, accessible from an upstairs bedroom," Tragg said. "The woman's photograph was found in there."

Mr. Clemens shook his head, sinking back into his chair. "I had no idea," he said. "And Mr. Van Pelt will be devastated if Iola is dead. He doted on her."

"Where is Mr. Van Pelt?" Tragg demanded. "In fact, where were both of you and Mr. Orson last night?"

"We were all in Santa Monica," Mr. Clemens said. "It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. We decided to go last evening after work, just for some fun. One thing led to another and we found ourselves staying most of the night."

"Have all of you returned now?" Tragg asked. "Mr. Van Pelt still isn't in to work."

"He said he'd be in later," Mr. Clemens said. "I think he wanted to rest a while first. Mr. Orson was of the same mind."

"Yet you came in early," Tragg observed. "Weren't you just as exhausted after a night of painting the town red?"

"Actually, I came in because I forgot some important files," Mr. Clemens said, sheepish. "I was planning to go to bed for a while too."

"Alright, Mr. Clemens," Tragg nodded. "There's also a little matter of a couple of satellite transmitting devices that were taken from two assassins early this morning. According to our research, they are prototypes of something Altec has been designing."

Mr. Clemens leaped out of his seat again. "That's not possible!" he exclaimed. "Those prototypes have been sealed in a vault here in the building. There's no way anyone could have got them out. Only Mr. Van Pelt, Mr. Orson, and I have the combination. And none of us would have a reason to take our own prototypes and give them to . . . to hitmen, did you say?"

"That's exactly what I said," Tragg said. "Mr. Clemens, would you be so good as to unlock this vault and show us whether the prototypes are still there?"

"Of . . . of course." Mr. Clemens came out from around the desk, trembling all over.

He led the group out the door and down the hall to a half-open door at the end. Stunned, he pushed it open farther and hurried in. "This door should have been closed!" he exclaimed, running to the side of a long, oval table. At the opposite end of the room he pressed hard on a blank white wall. A panel popped open, revealing a safe.

"Well, that's handy," quipped Paul. "At least it's not the old cliché of being behind a painting."

"Who designed this panel?" Tragg wanted to know.

Mr. Clemens fumbled with the dial. "It was Mr. Orson's idea," he said.

"Then he might be responsible for that secret room in the house, too," Tragg said.

Mr. Clemens shrugged helplessly. "I wouldn't know about that."

He stood and stared in horror once he had the safe open. "They're gone!" he cried. "Every one of them is gone!" He rifled desperately through the papers, scattering them to the floor, but to no avail.

Tragg stepped closer. "One more thing, Mr. Clemens. Have you seen Perry Mason lately?"

Mr. Clemens stiffened. "I'm not a criminal!" he wailed. "I don't need a lawyer!"

"That's not why I'm asking," Tragg said. "Just answer the question, please, Mr. Clemens."

"No," Mr. Clemens said, forlorn now. "I've never met Perry Mason at all. I've only heard about him."

"I hope for your sake that you're telling us the truth," Tragg said. "You see, it's Mr. Mason who has been abducted."

Mr. Clemens whirled to stare at him, the shock genuine in his eyes.

xxxx

It had been a long, sleepless night. By now Perry was certain his eyes were bloodshot. Bartlett's were. But neither of them cared. The device had not gone off any more, so Perry was forced to cling to the hope that no one else had been attacked. He still did not know who had already been assaulted, or if they were dead. And no matter how he tried to force himself not to think about it, his thoughts kept returning to the grim subject.

How could any one of them be gone? And all because they were trying so desperately to find him? He clutched the gun tightly in his hand.

If Bartlett would just fall asleep, Perry could try to overpower him, tie him up, and then attempt to disable the force field barrier himself. Bartlett's friend had quietly slipped out some time ago, and who knew where he was in this place.

Perry turned his attention back to the monitors, as he had done so many times in the past few hours. Where was this? He had thought it was the basement of some large house. Rich homeowners sometimes installed security rooms such as this one. The other rooms depicted on the screens looked like the rooms of a house.

But he had not actually seen more than a corridor or two. And he knew that Bartlett had placed a fake tape in the camera controlling the room in which he had been held prisoner. Who was to say that every one of the monitors wasn't also showing a fraudulent scene?

"I'm sure you're grateful, Mr. Mason."

Perry started. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

Bartlett's lips curled in a smirk. "That I haven't got news of anyone else kicking the bucket."

"I don't know that anyone is dead," Perry answered coldly. "Nor do I know if what I'm seeing on these monitors is what's actually outside this room."

Bartlett turned to look at him, unconcerned. "What, then?" he asked. "Do you think they're all fakes?"

"Possibly," Perry said. "Perhaps it's part of an elaborate scheme to disorient and prevent me from knowing where you're holding me."

"It could be, Mr. Mason," Bartlett said, "but I don't know how you'd prove it."

Perry fell back against the chair. Aside from getting out of here, how would he prove it? Bartlett was keeping a close watch on him; he would not be able to tamper with the console's controls—nor would he want to without knowing what he was doing. Was there any other clue? Anything at all?

Suddenly he had an idea. Looking down at the console, he examined it for any sign of a current owner or a manufacturer. Usually that information was in a corner. He stood, walking down to the left-hand end of the machine.

There it was. He studied the five letters for a moment, his eyes narrowed. Perhaps the truth of his location of captivity had been staring him in the face all this time—a solution so obvious it had been overlooked.

A slow smile spread over his face. If he was right, maybe there was something he could do after all.