“It’s all right,” the sheriff called, “there’s no one here... You, Mason, shouldn’t have taken chances like that.”
Mason made no reply. He was staring in frowning contemplation at the array of paraphernalia on the inside of the room. What looked like half of a piece of baggage proved to be a radio amplifier. The whole outfit had been neatly tailored so that, when it was fitted together, it was impossible to distinguish between it and any ordinary piece of baggage. There were headphones, elaborate recording devices, a pencil and pad of paper. A partially smoked cigarette was lying on the edge of a pine table. The cigarette, apparently forgotten, had charred through the wood of the table top. A fine layer of dust had settled over it, as well as over everything else in the room.
“Evidently,” the sheriff said, “he ain’t been here for quite a spell. But when he left, he lit out in a hurry. He even forgot his cigarette.”
“How did you know this was here?” Sergeant Holcomb demanded of Perry Mason, his voice harsh in its implied accusation.
Mason shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
Sheriff Barnes stopped him as he started to walk out. “Say, just a minute, Mason,” he said in a quiet tone which was, nevertheless, charged with authority.
Mason stopped.
“Did you know this line had been tapped, Mason?”
“Frankly, Sheriff, I didn’t.”
“How did you discover it?”