“Then,” Mason went on, “when the law does come, you’ll have plenty of excuse for having had a sleepless night and putting on the weep act. Remember, you were to be married. The man’s sister has been trying to break up the match.”
“Should I bring her in?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mason said. “All the way. Don’t forget, Marcia, the records show you were in the apartment for eleven minutes.
“Get out of those clothes. Get into pajamas and litter this apartment with cigarette stubs. Have a drink of whiskey and leave the whiskey bottle and the glass out where the officers can find ’em. See that there are plenty of half-burnt cigarettes in the bedroom — not stubs, mind you, that would make you seem too calm. You want to register as having had one cigarette after another, with only a puff or two from each. Don’t have any make-up on your face. Let your hair string down. Lie in bed long enough and turn around often enough to get the sheets all rumpled. Go into the kitchen, mix salt into a glassful of water. Sprinkle the salt water on the pillow so it’ll be damp to the touch, but don’t overdo it.
“Can you go through with it?”
“Yes,” she said.
Mason took Della Street’s arm.
Marcia Whittaker stood at the head of the stairs, sobbing silently as she waited for the front door to slam before switching out the light.
On the cold pavement in front of the house, with the first streaks of dawn showing in the east, Della Street turned anxious eyes to Perry Mason. “Chief,” she asked, “aren’t we doing a lot for Alden Leeds?”
Mason grinned down at her. “I’ll say we are. Getting cold feet, Della?”