There was a moment of silence, then the rustle of motion, and the door opened a cautious inch.
Mason pushed it open. Emily Milicant fell back in dismay. A white-haired, thin man with cold, gimlet eyes, seated in an overstuffed chair by the radiator, frowned at Mason. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
Emily Milicant answered the question. “Perry Mason, the lawyer.”
The man in the chair said, “Lock the door.”
As Emily Milicant locked the door, Leeds asked, “How’d you find us?”
“Easy,” Mason said. “Too easy. If I found you, the police can find you.”
Emily Milicant, speaking rapidly, said, “Alden was simply terrified by that sanitarium. He was afraid he was going to be railroaded into an insane asylum. So he decided to run away.”
Mason, seating himself on the bed, calmly appropriated pillows with which to bolster his back. He lit a cigarette, and said conversationally to Alden Leeds, “When did you last see John Milicant?”
Leeds said, “It’s been about a week, I guess.”
“Try again,” Mason said.