The Case of The

Purloined Pendant

Or

Steele Relations

People who saw the burly broad-shouldered man in his middle twenties push open the door of the hotel and approach the registration desk, took him for a truck driver or a heavy equipment operator, rather than a lawyer. He wore his tweed sport jacket with a certain self-conscious carelessness and his demeanor marked him as someone more accustomed to working outside in the open air than someone who spent his days closeted in the stuffy confines of a law office.

This apparent contradiction with the accepted stereotype of an attorney made him an ideal associate for Perry Mason, whose own impatience with the conventional was a hallmark of his character.

"I’m Tom Williams," he said, "Mr. Mason’s associate, I think he reserved a room for—"

The desk clerk’s eyes lit up. "Mr. Williams," she said, "there is an urgent telephone call holding for Mr. Mason, but he isn’t in his room, nor has he answered his page; perhaps you can take the call?" she asked.

"Sure thing," he said.

The clerk nodded her head toward the end of the long counter. "You may use the white courtesy phone over there, Sir."

Stepping down to the end of the counter, Tom picked up the receiver. "This is Mr. Williams, Mr. Mason’s associate. Mr. Mason isn’t available presently. May I help you?"

"…When?"

"…Yes, I understand. Thank you."

"…Please give our condolences to the family."

"…Good-bye."

Tom hung up the telephone and moved back to the desk clerk. "Do you know where I can find Mr. Mason?"

"I’m not certain, Sir, but I did overhear Mr. Mason and Miss Street mention going for a walk. We have some very fine nature trails on the grounds."

"And how do I find these trails?"

"Go straight through the lobby and then up one flight to the mezzanine and out the north doors to the sundeck," the clerk said. "You’ll be able to see the trails from there."

Fifteen minutes later, still carrying his briefcase, and looking decidedly out of place among the casually dressed vacationers, Tom stood looking out over the horizon.

He spotted Perry and Della a short distance away, apparently on the hiking trails, walking slowly toward the hotel. He went down the steps; stopped at the bottom and watched them approach.

His wife, Linda, insisted that Mason and Street were engaged to be married, but he’d never heard either of them so much as mention it, let alone act like it.

Tom took a couple of steps toward them as the two of them resumed their progress toward the hotel, hand in hand.

Until Mason and Miss Street has actually left the city last week for this short vacation, he’d have bet his bank account that neither of them ever thought about anything but Mr. Mason’s law practice.

When he’d challenged his wife’s assumption about Mason’s personal relationship with Miss Street, Linda had said he just didn’t have enough romance in his soul to see what was right in front of his nose.

It’s no wonder, he thought. These days, it’s all I can do to stay abreast of the law and keep of with my indefatigable employer. For someone who is well over sixty, Mason has amazing energy, and he expects his staff to match him without hesitation.

Maybe they just believed in long engagements, he thought. Not that I know why they would. Mason and Street have known one another for more than thirty years already, so how much longer would they need to wait before marrying? Then again, I’ve known them both for less than a year, so what do I know?

He narrowed his eyes and studied them. They were a perplexing pair, that much was certain.

Della smiled up at Perry. Her hand brushed his cheek and they stopped walking.

Della turned to face him. Perry put his hands on her shoulders and leaned closer to her as she said something that Tom couldn’t hear.

Tom heard Mason’s replying laugh.

Right now at least, he admitted to himself, I can see that there is…something there. I’m just not exactly sure what it is. He smiled faintly. Whatever it is, they don’t look like they’re exactly dying to dive into the load of work I’ve brought along with me.

He took another step forward as Perry and Della reached the foot of the stairs. Perry’s smile was welcoming as they shook hands. "I’m glad to see you got here, Tom. Before we get to work, come have a drink with us," he said. "All work and no play, will make Tom a dull boy, you know,"

Tom smiled ruefully. "You must have been talking to Linda," he said.

"Perry grinned and slipped his arm around Della’s waist. "I haven’t talked to your wife, but if you’re so guilt-stricken that you think I have, you definitely need to take a break."

Della smiled at Tom. "Join us, Tom. I’ve worked too hard to get Mr. Mason to this point. Please don’t spoil this lovely afternoon by making him jump right into business."

Tom gestured with his briefcase. "I’ve brought the Chesney brief, Mr. Mason, but I could stand a beer to take the travel dust out of my throat before we get down to work."

He followed Perry and Della up the steps to the sundeck, where they settled in at a table and ordered drinks.

They finished the first round of drinks before Tom found an opportunity to shift the conversation toward the telephone call. "There’s something I need to tell you, Mr. Mason."

Della and Perry exchanged a look. "Something’s wrong," Della said.

Tom grimaced. "So much for my poker face."

"If that’s your poker face I want to play a hand against you," Perry said. "What is it?"

"Virgie Palin died this morning. I took the call a few minutes ago."

Della paled. "Oh, Tom, no! She’d been doing so well!"

"Yes, well I guess she took a turn for the worse a week or so ago and the transfusions just weren’t enough to keep her going any longer."

"Dammit, the girl needed that transplant," Perry muttered. "I should have been able to find the truth for her." Della’s hand found his, and she squeezed it reassuringly.

Tom took a drink of his beer, then set the mug down on the table. "Her time just ran out, Mr. Mason. You did everything you could have done."

"Not everything, Tom. I didn’t find her family in time," Perry said.

"Well, her adoptive family want you to know that they appreciate everything that you did do. Her brother said that if you’ll submit an invoice for your time, they’ll pay it immediately."

"There won’t be any charge, Tom," Perry said.

"Mr. Mason, you must have put a hundred hours into her case. You should get paid."

"I said no bill, Tom," Perry repeated.

Tom turned to Della. "Miss Street, can’t you convince him? After all, it’s not Mr. Mason’s fault if some poor woman was victimized by a crooked baby broker who covered his tracks by altering names and creating backgrounds out of whole cloth—"

Della set her glass down on the table with an audible crack. "Excuse me," she said. Both Tom and Perry rose quickly as she stood abruptly, turned and almost ran into the hotel.

Tom looked from Perry’s grim face, to Della’s rapidly retreating figure. "Mr. Mason, what did I say? I didn’t mean to upset Miss Street I only—"

As Perry strode after Della, he flung words over his shoulder. "You’ll never know exactly what you did say, Tom."

Mildred Krebs tapped on the door and poked her head into Laura’s office. "I’m going out to grab a bite, Laura. Do you want to join me?"

Laura looked up from the case file she was reading. "No thanks, Mildred. As soon as Mr. Steele gets back, we’re leaving. We won’t be back until late; we’ve got the meeting with Cell-Tech at 3:00."

"Okay." Mildred waved her hand as she left the room. "See you back here after, Hon."

Just as Mildred reached the elevator, the door slid open, and Remington Steele stepped out into the corridor. "Ahh, Mildred," he said, "off to meet a devastatingly handsome man, I presume."

Mildred slipped past him into the elevator. "Don’t I wish!" Holding the door open, she shook her head in mock disapproval. "You’re late, Boss."

Remington grinned at her. "Ah, yes, so I am. I’d best be hurrying along then. You know how cranky Laura gets when her schedule is upset."

Mildred released the elevator door and it closed over her smile.

Remington continued down the corridor, whistling a jaunty tune. Pushing open the doors, he strode into the reception area. "Laura! Get a move on Love, the day’s dwindling."

I’m not the one who simply had to get my hair done in the middle of a busy day, Mr. Steele," said Laura as she closed the door of her office behind her.

Remington brushed imaginary lint off the lapel of his already immaculate suit. "Really Laura, you can’t expect Remington Steele to meet a potential client with shaggy hair!"

This was an old game between them and Laura pretended outrage. "Oh, most certainly not, Mr. Steele! That would be a tragedy of monumental proportions.

Remington looked down at her. "Somehow, Laura, I feel that you aren’t taking me at all seriously today."

"Why Mr. Steele, that’s not at all true…I take you seriously all the time!" She slipped her arm through his and they moved into the corridor. With a wicked gleam in her eye, Laura slipped her free hand around his back and moved it upward, quickly, mussing his hair. "I wonder what people will say if Remington Steele goes out with messy hair?"

She ran toward the elevator, as Remington made a grab for her with one hand, and ran his fingers through his disarranged hair with the other. "Laura!"

He caught up with her at the elevator. "So that’s the game you’re playing today, eh, Mrs. Steele?"

Laura smiled up at him impudently, her eyes flashing a challenge. "Your move now, Mr. Steele."

He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Knight takes the Queen for a checkmate—"

The elevator door opened and Laura slipped quickly out of his grasp. "Sorry, Mr. Steele. I’m afraid the queen is rescued by the timely arrival of a pawn."

Smiling, she detoured around an exiting passenger and entered the cage. "Don’t dawdle, Mr. Steele. I promised Bernice we’d drive by her place and check on things. I want to get it out of the way before the Cell-Tech meeting."

Remington blew out his breath in frustration, barely clearing the doors as they slid shut. "Coming, Laura, coming."

Laura pulled the Grand Cherokee up to the curb in front of Bernice DuShaine’s bungalow and stepped out to the sidewalk. "Let me grab the mail," she said. As she emptied the mailbox Remington joined her and the two of them headed up the walk toward the front door.

Laura extracted the key from her purse and handed it to Remington. He opened the door and stepped back to allow her to enter first. "When is Bernice expected back from her junket, Laura?"

"In about ten days, if everything goes according to plan," she said. "I hope the South Seas are as relaxing as advertised in the cruise brochures. Heaven knows, she needs the rest."

Remington nodded. "She has been a bit more, shall we say, snappish then usual lately, Laura."

Laura dropped the mail on the coffee table. "Agreed, Mr. Steele. Still, I’m surprised she took her in-laws up on the idea. Up to now, she’s refused every offer of help they’ve made her."

"I presume she has her reasons" Remington said. "You must admit, Laura, that it’s been quite unsettling for her, all the aggravation involved in moving an entire household across several states."

"Personally, I think this cruise was meant to be a bribe," Laura said.

"Isn’t that a bit strong, Laura? A bribe implies sinister motives."

Laura laughed. "Well, all right. Maybe ‘bribe’ is a bit too forceful a term. Call it a lure. Larry’s parents want Bernice and Lauribeth to settle in New Orleans, near them. I think they’re trying to soften her up."

Remington shook his head. "Dreadful business, all of it," he said. "Laura, do you realize it’s already been two years since…"

Laura held up her hand. "Shhh! What’s that?"

Remington’s eyes narrowed. They stood absolutely still and distinctly heard the sounds of movement in the back of the house.

"Come on, Laura," Remington whispered as he headed for the study.

They crept up to the study door. Exchanging a look with Remington and nodding her head, Laura abruptly shoved open the study door. Startled by the sudden motion, the man bent over the open desk drawer whirled around.

"Well," Laura said, "it looks as if we’ve caught someone with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar, Mr. Steele."

She took a quick step into the room. "Who are—"

The intruder slammed the drawer shut and launched himself out the half-open French doors behind the desk. Laura headed after him.

"I’ll head him off from the front, Laura!" Remington called as he turned and retraced his steps through the house.

As Laura cleared the French doors, her quarry plunged through the hedge that surrounded the side yard and bolted toward the boulevard. Laura put on a burst of speed, rounding the hedge just as Remington reached the sidewalk, close on the heels of the thief.

"Hold on there, mate," he yelled, making a futile grab for the man’s jacket.

The thief veered away from him and leapt into the street. Seconds later, as Laura came to a stop beside Remington, the sound of skidding tires and the sickening thump of a body hitting metal filled the air. The man ricocheted off the hood of the automobile and landed on the pavement at Laura’s feet.

"Hey! Stop!" Remington yelled as the driver of the car backed up, threw his car into gear and roared away.

He turned away in disgust and joined Laura at the victim’s side. "Don’t let him move, Laura, I’ll call 911."

The man reached up and grabbed the sleeve of Remington’s coat. "No…don’t…Go…" he whispered. His other hand jerked spasmodically and he pressed something into Laura’s palm. She leaned closer, as he spoke for a second time. "…Go…to the…mountain…" His voice trailed away.

Laura raised her eyes and looked at Remington. He probed the man’s neck and shook his head. "Nothing, Laura."

Detective Arly Dahl tapped her pen on the desk. "I know you, Mrs. Steele. Whenever you’ve got that look in your eye you’re holding something back that I should know."

Laura met her eyes with complete candor. "We’ve told you everything that we know, Detective. We surprised the man inside our office manager’s house and when he ran, he was hit by a car."

"And you didn’t recognize the man?" Dahl asked.

"As we told you before, Detective, no," Remington said. "We recognized neither the thief nor the driver of the car. I did try to get the license number but it was covered with mud."

"Well," detective Dahl sighed, "if robbery was his objective, you two must have stopped him before he took anything. There was next to nothing on the body. Unless, of course, you have any other guesses as to why the victim was inside your office manager’s home?"

Laura and Remington exchanged a flashing glance. "None that would be constructive," Laura said.

Arly stared hard at her. "Any unconstructive ones?"

Remington shook his head. Laura murmured sotto voce, "Not yet, anyway."

Arly rose, indicating the end of the interview. Remington stood and extended his hand to her. "Glad to be of service again, Detective," he said.

"I’m sure you are, however, something tells me I shouldn’t be," Dahl muttered as Laura and Remington left her office.

They pushed through the exit door and Laura glanced at her wristwatch. "Well, we’ve missed the appointment with Cell-Tech. Let’s get back to the office and I’ll see if I can pick up the pieces and reschedule."

As they walked back to where they had parked the SUV, Laura pulled an object out of her pocket. The lotus shaped pendant measured about 2" at its widest point. Green-blue lapis lazuli covered the front of the gold disk; the gold shone through the lotus design that echoed its shape that was etched into its center. A series of glyphs was etched into the back of the gold base.

"Lovely isn’t it?" she said. "How valuable do you think it is?"

Remington plucked the pendant out of Laura’s palm and dangled it from its chain. "Semi-precious gemstone over gold. I’d say it’s worth a fair number of dollars, assuming that the gold is genuine." He held it up to the sunlight. Anywhere from, Oh, $500 to $700 maybe.

He absently traced a finger over the design and grinned slyly at Laura. "It could be worth more than that, if you know where to market it—and aren’t too worried about a proper bill of sale."

Laura rewarded him with a preoccupied smile. "Something tells me our housebreaker wouldn’t have recognized a legal bill of sale if it had walked up and bit him," she said.

They walked along in silence for a while. "I wonder what the significance of the hieroglyphs on the back is?" Laura said.

Remington flipped the pendant over. "Probably the mark of the jeweler who sold the thing, Laura," he said, handing it back to her.

Laura frowned. "It looks very old to me and those glyphs could be Egyptian."

Bernice never struck me as the type to go in for Egyptology, Laura. I thought that was your bailiwick."

Laura returned the pendant to her pocket. Bernice’s only interest in Egyptology was the enjoyment she got from watching me sweat it out, figuratively and literally," Laura said. "I only took the course in the first place because of a foolish dare—which she set me up for by the way—and wound up staying with it because I found it enthralling."

"Laura, why didn’t you turn that over to Detective Dahl?" Remington asked.

"I’m not about to let go of our only clue, Mr. Steele," she said.

"Clue, Laura? To what?"

"Clue to the burglary, Mr. Steele," Laura said, as she got into the car. "The only crime the police are investigating is the hit and run. I want to investigate the burglary."

"There’s not much use of that is there? After all Laura, a dead man can’t be prosecuted."

"How do we know he wasn’t putting the pendant into the desk for some reason, rather than taking it out?" Laura asked.

"Laura, you don’t really believe that, do you?"

"Darned if I know," she said. "I’ve never seen Bernice wear this; I don’t even know if it belongs to her. My detective’s ESP tells me there’s a lot more to this than a simple burglary or even a poorly timed hit and run. Remember, Mr. Steele, our dead man left us a death bed clue. ‘Go to the mountain’ I believe he said."

"Yes, and that certainly makes perfect sense," Remington said.

"It will once we have all the facts," she said, pressing her foot on the accelerator. "As you said earlier, Dear, the day’s dwindling."

Perry hesitated in front of his suite, then turned the knob, pushed open the door, and stepped through the entry hall and into the living room.

Afternoon shadows had dimmed the light in the room and it was a full minute before he found her on a sofa, in the far corner of the room. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, which were drawn up under her chin.

"Tom must think I’ve lost my senses, the way I ran off," Della said, in a raw, strained voice.

The muscles in Perry’s jaw tightened perceptibly. "Right now," he said, "I don’t give a damn what Tom thinks; all I care about is whether or not you’re all right."

She rested her head on her knees and when she spoke, her voice was slightly muffled. "Not at the moment but I will be. I just need a little time."

He crossed the room and came up behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he gently kneaded the tense muscles. "Take all the time you need, Della."

"Somewhere out there, Virgie Palin’s hereditary family hasn’t a clue that she needed their help," Della said. "I know I’m foolish, Perry, but it’s all I c-can think about. What if she had been m-my daughter?"

Perry came around the sofa and sat down next to her. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. Gradually the tension in her body diminished. "That’s better," he said.

Della sighed and leaned back, resting her head on his chest. When she spoke again, the tremor in her voice was gone. "If she’d needed something from me, I'd have known nothing about it."

Perry took her hand in his. "I know. Della,"

Afternoon light faded into winter twilight while they sat quietly, each preoccupied with private thoughts.

"Della."

"Yes?"

"I’d like you to consider something."

"What?" she asked, with a slight tremor in her voice again.

He spoke deliberately. "For your own peace of mind, I’d like you to consider…" he paused, choosing his next words with care. Della lifted her head and turned to look at him.

"…Looking for some answers," he finished.

She looked away from him. "I can’t do that," she said.

"Why not?"

"I made a bargain; what right do I have to renege on it now?"

"Times have changed, Della," Perry said.

"The times may have changed but I’m not sure I have," she said.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked softly.

She laughed nervously. "What am I not afraid of?"

"Della," Perry repeated, gently kissing the top of her head.

She met his eyes. "I’m afraid of being a disappointment and…"

"Not possible, Della," Perry said, gently turning her face to his. "And…" he said.

"And of being rejected, I guess," she said.

"Also not possible," he said.

"I love you, too," she whispered.

"Promise me you’ll at least consider the option, Della."

"Just think about it, nothing else?" she asked.

"Just think about—"

Frowning, he broke off as knuckles rapped quickly on the door of the suite. That will be Tom," Perry said, "wanting to know if we’re still going to work on the Chesney brief."

Della pulled away from him. "I’ll go powder my nose; you let him in. And be nice, Perry. He didn’t mean to upset me," she said as she slipped into the bathroom.

Perry grunted his reluctant assent as the bathroom door closed. He walked to the center of the living room. "You can come in, Tom, it’s not locked," he called, as Tom knocked for a second time.

Half way back to Century City, Laura whipped the car into the right hand lane, turned into a parking lot, and pulled out into traffic again.

Remington shot her a puzzled look. "We seem to be going the wrong way, Laura. I thought you were in a hurry to get back to the office."

"Is the fingerprint camera still in the trunk?"

"Yes, why?"

"We’re going back to Bernice’s house. I want to go through it."

"What are you hoping you’ll find, Laura?"

I’d like to know more about our intruder than a name and number on a morgue toe tag. Our thief wasn’t wearing gloves when he was killed, so he must have left some prints."
Forty minutes later, Remington packed up the fingerprint camera, while Laura polished the last of the graphite powder from the French doors.

"We should have enough fingerprints to keep us all busy for the rest of the week, Laura. I only hope that a few of them belong to our dead man."

"I hope enough of them belong to our dead man to make a classification," Laura said.

"Laura, what makes you so certain that this wasn’t just a random burglary?"

"I admit that our thief didn’t look like he was world class," she said. "But even so, in a house full of eminently fenceable things, a stereo, a television, Bernice’s silver candlesticks, all of which are sitting right out in the open, and are the kind of things an ordinary thief wouldn’t miss, he passes them up to go rummaging through her desk."

"And the only thing he takes out of the house—if he was taking it out and not putting it in—" Remington said, acknowledging Laura’s look, "is a pendant of ambiguous value."

"Add to that the cryptic death bed declaration, Mr. Steele, and we have a mystery to be solved. I intend to start solving it right now," she said.

Tom jumped up as Della entered the room.

"Here, let me help you with that, Della!" He slipped her coat off her shoulders and hung it in the closet before she could respond. "Where’s Mr. Mason, didn’t he come back with you?"

"Yes, he came back with her," Perry said, entering the room a few steps behind Della.

"How was the memorial service? Nice?" Tom instantly winced. "I’m sorry, that was an inane question. Of course it was nice, I mean as nice as a memorial service can be," he added.

He fumbled with a stack of messages on Della’s desk. "I took some telephone calls for you."

Della moved to her chair behind the desk. Tom was there, pulling it out for her. She sat down, her eyes pleading with Perry for help. Perry’s expression didn’t change but his eyes flashed with amusement. Tom reached for her empty coffee mug.

"Tom, please stop!" she said.

"Stop what?" he asked.

"Stop fussing over me."

"Della," he said, "I know that Virgie Palin’s death hit you pretty hard; if I can do anything to make you feel better; I mean, after the way I put my foot in my mouth the other day I—"

Perry strode to the center of the room and planted himself in front of Tom. "Tom, you’re trying to apologize for what you believe is a grievous gaffe, am I right?"

"Of course I am, Mr. Mason I—"

"Della, do you accept Tom’s apology?"

She smiled. "I accepted it five days ago."

"Good! Tom, did you hear Della?"

Tom looked at Della and then at Perry. "Yes," he said.

"Now," Perry said, "we can put this behind us and get back to work. I believe someone mentioned telephone messages."

"Yes," Tom said. "Most of them are routine, Mr. Mason, but one is a little strange. Someone claiming to be called ‘Minor Descoine’ wants to see you; in fact, she called twice."

"Minor Descoine," Perry said. "Della, why is that name so familiar?"

Della thought for a moment. "Oh, I remember now, Perry. She was implicated as an accessory during Murphy’s trial two years ago."

"Well, whoever she is, she’s very persistent," Tom said. "The second time she called she said to tell you that she had to talk to you about ‘The Colonel.’ "

Perry paced the length of the room. "What else did she tell you?"

Tom shook his head. "Nothing. She refused to elaborate other than to insist that she’d talk only to you and that it was urgent."

Perry sat down behind his desk across from Della’s; they exchanged a brief look. "Where was she calling from?"

"She said she was calling from a pay phone inside the Colorado Women’s Correctional Facility, in Cañon City. I asked her if she was a client of yours; she laughed at me and hung up. Definitely, sounds like a crank to me. What kind of a name is ‘Minor’ anyway?"

"It’s a very unusual name for an extraordinarily unusual girl," Perry said. "Della, how’d you like to take a drive?"

"To the Colorado Women’s State Correctional Facility?" she asked. "Sounds like a perfectly charming destination. I’d love it."

Perry grinned. "I thought you’d find it interesting. Grab your notebook and let’s go." Perry headed for his bedroom. "Oh, you’d better bring an overnight bag, Della, in case we decide not to drive back tonight."

"He’s actually going to see this woman without knowing anymore than that?" Tom asked.

"He is," Della said, as she began to load her briefcase.

Tom walked to the door of Perry’s bedroom. "I made the changes we talked about in the Chesney brief, Mr. Mason. Do you want to look them over before you leave?"

"If you made them as we discussed, Tom, I don’t need to. Just take it to the typist and get it ready for printing—and I asked you to call me Perry, did I not?"

"Yes, Si— uh, Perry, you did. I’m working on it."

Della patted Tom’s arm as she crossed the room. "It’ll get easier with time," she whispered. "His bark really is worse than his bite."

Laura stepped out of the elevator and entered their condominium apartment to find Remington lighting the gas fireplace. The draperies were drawn against the afternoon sunlight, and her favorite music played softly.

He stood. "Katie all tucked up with Auntie Frances, is she now?" he asked.

"Yes, at long last," Laura said. She stretched out on the sofa. "It’s just you and me and the music until tomorrow morning, my darling."

Remington, finally satisfied with the fire, joined her on the couch. She raised her legs to give him room to sit down beside her then lowered them over his lap. "And does the ambiance meet with your approval, Laura?" Remington asked, gently brushing a lock of hair from her eyes.

"Oh, absolutely, Mr. Steele," she said.

"Well, Mrs. Steele," he said, ‘I intend to take full advantage of your approval."

"Any advantage you take is a windfall for me…" Laura floated her invitation and tilted her head back in anticipation.

He leaned over her. The doorbell chime stopped him in mid-motion. "Who the devil could that be?" he asked. "Didn’t you tell Mildred we were taking the afternoon off?"

Laura pulled herself into a sitting position and swung her legs down as Remington slipped out from beneath her and went to the door. "I told her," she said.

Mildred Krebs bustled in the moment he opened the door. ‘Hi, Boss," she said, marching past him to where Laura waited on the sofa. "I’ve got the scoop hot off the wire for you, Mrs. Steele. I knew you’d want to hear about it right away," she said.

"Hello to you too, Mildred," said Remington as he opened the draperies and turned off the music.

"I’ve got a little dirt on the late unlamented thief," Mildred said. "His name is, or rather was, Albert French. He was just a small timer. He had a record, but not here in California. All his recent activity was in Colorado."

"Colorado!" Laura said.

"Yeah, Colorado. I didn’t find a local address for him. My guess is he’d just drifted into LA and hadn’t had time to settle in yet."

"Had he ever been pinched for burglary before, Mildred?" asked Remington.

Mildred shook her head. "Not that I could find, Boss. Of course, there’s no telling what kind of record he had in other places that I haven’t turned up yet. He had multiple arrests and convictions for book making and numbers running."

"Curiouser and curiouser. I wonder what made him go in for a whole new line?" Laura asked.

"The more appropriate question is ‘who’ Laura," Remington said.

"What else do you have on his background, Mildred?" Laura asked.

"Like all good black sheep, Albert French had a family that has an absolute horror of negative PR. The family in question includes one Wilton F—that’s F as in French—West, General in the United States Air Force," Mildred said.

"Apparently that’s how young Albert ended up in Colorado in the first place. The family shipped him out there a couple of years ago, in the hopes that Uncle Wilton’s influence would straighten the boy out."

"Obviously it didn’t work," Laura said.

"You can say that again, Hon. For every five star connection the family has, Albert has an entry on his rap sheet."

"What else does the family have to say?" Remington asked.

"The family is saying nada, zip, zero," Mildred said. "I gather everyone but the General has all but disowned the boy, and I haven’t been able to get past the General’s defensive line yet."

"I thought maybe you two would want to handle him personally. I found out that Bernice’s late husband served with General West before his death, and since the General’s nephew bought the farm practically in Bernice’s front yard, it might be more diplomatic."

Laura stood and paced from the sofa to the window. After a moment, she turned back to Remington and Mildred. "There are a lot of mountains in Colorado, Mr. Steele."

"True, Laura, very true," Remington said. "There are also a lot of mountains in California, Oregon, New Mexico, Virginia, New York and—"

"But we can’t visit them all, Mr. Steele. My detective’s ESP says we should go to Colorado."

Remington grinned. "I know that look, Mildred. You’d best get the two of us reservations on a flight to Colorado."

"Better make that the three of us, Mildred; we’ll need you. Murphy won’t be available, remember, Mr. Steele? He and Francine are away on the second installment of their honeymoon."

Remington nodded his head. "North to Alaska, of course, Laura, I’d forgotten."

Laura turned off the gas jets and headed for the bedroom to pack. She paused in the doorway. "Come on you two get moving. We’ve got a plane to catch, a death bed message to unravel and we have to stop at Frances’ and Donald’s to say good-bye to Katie."

Mildred looked from Remington to Laura. "Death bed message? What death bed message and what’s ‘detective’s ESP?’ "

Joining Laura in the bedroom doorway, Remington said, "Oh, that’s Laura’s newest investigative tool, Mildred," he said. "It’s the paranormal version of the time honored ‘hunch.’ It works very well with the ‘death bed message.’ "

"Very funny, Mr. Steele," Laura said, shoving him into the bedroom. "We’ll meet you at the ticket counter at LAX, Mildred."

Mildred headed for the door. "Sure thing, Hon."

Della studied Perry’s profile as he guided the car along I-50 toward Cañon City. His eyes were thoughtful and his brow furrowed. Her eyes softened affectionately as she watched him. She knew that he was already engrossed in whatever mystery awaited them.

"Perry?"

"Yes, Della."

"Why do you think Minor Descoine wants to see you?"

Mason pondered her question. "I don’t know, Della, but I am curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Perry. Don’t let it blind you to the prudent course of action where Ms. Descoine is concerned."

He slowed the car and glanced at her. "You assume I’ll be imprudent, Miss Street?" he asked.

Della snuggled up against his side. "You have been known to take rash actions before when attractive young women have spun tales of flattery and woe," she said.

He grinned. "I’ll leave it to you to look after me, Della. You can cough discretely if you sense I’m teetering on the precipice of recklessness."

Della shivered. "I don’t trust that girl, Perry; remember the threats she made at her sentencing hearing."

"Worried, Della?"

"Yes," she said.

He reached over and squeezed her hand reassuringly. "She blamed the Steele’s for her father’s suicide," Perry said, "but I doubt she really meant any of the threats she made; most people who say things like that in the courtroom don’t follow through."

"Sometimes they do, Perry," she said softly. I’m worried about what could happen to you if Minor Descoine is one of the ones who does follow through. She could blame you for her father’s death too, you know."

"That’s unlikely, Della. You and I didn’t have any contact with Major Descoine."

"No, whatever it is that Minor Descoine wants to tell us, Della, I’m betting it has something to do with Colonel DuShaine’s murder."

Della reached up and wrapped her fingers around his, where he gripped the steering wheel. "Just the same. Perry, I have a presentiment of havoc ahead."

Perry grinned and glanced at her. "Going clairvoyant on me, Della?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Just figuring the odds," she said. "That girl is very strange. She gave me the willies two years ago and still does today. Mark my words, Perry Mason, something that she tells us is going to turn someone’s life upside down."

Perry swept the car around another curve. "Well, Della, we’ll soon know if you’re right. We’re coming into Cañon City right now."

Perry stepped back to allow Della to enter the visitor’s room ahead of him, followed her to a table in the center of the room and pulled a chair out for her. She sat down and opened her steno pad in preparation for the interview.

A steel door in the wall opposite the table opened and the matron escorted Minor Descoine into the room. The matron withdrew to a glassed-in enclosure in the back of the room and Minor crossed to the table, extending her hand to Perry. "Mr. Mason, thank you for coming."

She dropped gracefully into a chair and Perry took a seat adjacent to Della, at the opposite end of the table. Minor’s gaze flickered to Della for just an instant.

"My associate, Miss Street," Perry explained. "She’ll take notes of our conversation.

Minor’s face remained expressionless. "And provide you with the advantage of her knowledge of the feminine character, I’ll venture," she said.

Perry nodded his head briefly. "Her input will be invaluable, as it always is." Silence stretched between them until it seemed to be another presence in the room. "My clerk indicated your crisis is urgent, Miss Descoine," Perry prompted.

"I don’t like being in prison, Mr. Mason," she said.

"Doubtless," Perry said dryly. "Most people dislike having their freedom curtailed."

"I want to apply for a special circumstances early release," she said.

"Given your dislike of prison life, that’s hardly a surprise," Perry replied.

"Unfortunately, I have reason to believe that request will not be favorably received," Minor said. "I am considered a difficult prisoner, Mr. Mason; I seem to make the establishment types here…uncomfortable."

"That is unfortunate, but I fail to see what it has to do with me," Perry said. "Look, Miss Descoine, even if I were free to represent you, I can not do so at parole board proceedings. Applicant’s are not permitted to have attorney’s present during the interview process."

"So I’ve been told. Mr. Mason, you have a reputation for being daring, resourceful and brilliant, like my father," she said. "Word in the yard is that you’ve solved more murder cases correctly than any two police departments in the country."

He glanced at Della; she coughed.

Minor’s mask of serenity dropped; she frowned at Della.

Miss Street doesn’t trust me, Mr. Mason, and she shouldn’t. We Descoine’s are a lot like you, but our brilliance has always been twisted by the tiniest touch of the sociopath."

"All of this is fascinating, Miss Descoine, but unless you get to your point, I’m afraid Miss Street and I will have to leave—"

"The point, Mr. Mason, is that two years ago you blew it. You failed to come up with the complete solution to the murder of Colonel DuShaine."

Della looked up from her notes, her eyes wide and startled. "Captain Martensen confessed to the crime, Ms. Descoine," she said kindly. "However much you might wish it otherwise, considering your relationship with—"

Minor cut her off dismissively. "This has nothing to do with Martensen," she said. "He was a fall guy and a stooge; so was I. Someone else, a very highly placed government official, is responsible for Colonel DuShaine’s murder. This person has been plundering government property for personal profit and he or she may also be compromising national security."

Perry narrowed his eyes. "Who?" He snapped the question at her savagely.

"I don’t know," Minor said. "I do know that whoever it is, covers his tracks like a pro."

"If you don’t know the name, what other evidence can you offer to back up your theory?" Perry asked.

Minor shifted in her chair. "I don’t have the proof; Larry DuShaine had it, that’s the real reason he was killed."

"You don’t have much to offer, do you, Miss Descoine? How do I know that this story isn’t just a ploy to enlist my sympathy so that I’ll help you with your release application?"

"You don’t," Minor said. "But you’ve cross examined enough witnesses to be able to determine that I’m on the level, Mr. Mason."

"Let’s concede for the sake of argument that I do believe you," Perry said. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to find the proof and expose the real murderer. After you’ve done that, you can inform the parole board of my cooperation with you; it may help me."

"I can’t guarantee the outcome of your hearing, Miss Descoine, no matter what happens."

"I’m not asking for any guarantees, Mr. Mason; I just want an even chance and you’re it."

"I can’t pull answers out of a hat like rabbits, you know, regardless of what you may have heard about me," Perry said. "I’ve got to have some facts to start with."

"Find Albert French, Mr. Mason. Ask him to tell you what he knows about Project Bluebook." She rose abruptly and gestured to the matron, who escorted her out of the room.

Della closed her notebook and slipped it into her briefcase. Perry stepped to the intercom next to the exit door. "This is Mr. Mason in visitor room five; we are ready to leave."

"Sending your escort right now, Sir."

Della walked over and stood beside him. "She didn’t even wait for you to accept her request, Perry."

"I suspect that Minor Descoine isn’t accustomed to waiting for much of anything. She knew I wouldn’t say no, anyway. If I inadvertently participated in a miscarriage of justice two years ago, I’m obligated to correct the damage, Della, if for no other reason than I owe the truth to Bernice DuShaine and her little girl."

They followed their escort to the main exit and emerged into the fresh air. "Chief…"

"You haven’t called me, Chief, in a long time, Della."

He put his arm around her shoulder and the walked slowly toward the car. "I haven’t have I?"

"I’d forgotten how much I like it," he said. "Makes me feel young."

She smiled up at him. "You’ll always be young to me," she said.

"When did you have your eyes checked last, Miss Street?"

"My eyes are just fine."

"I could argue with you about that, Della, but I’d rather drive over and check into the Royal Gorge Inn and relax with a good dinner and a cocktail or two. In the morning we can begin trying to locate this Albert French person."

"What are we waiting for, Chief?" she asked, sliding into the front seat of Mason’s car. "Let’s go."

"Nice legs," he observed, closing her car door.

"Oh, you!" Della said, laughing.

General West’s aide ushered Laura and Remington into the General’s office at the NORAD facility. They shook hands and settled into chairs.

General West then took the conversational initiative. "Mr. and Mrs. Steele, the Los Angeles police told me that you were at the scene of my nephew’s fatal accident."

"We were," Laura said. "I’m sorry that we weren’t able to do anything to help him."

"In that, Mrs. Steele, you aren’t alone. My late nephew was a troubled young man; every person who ever tried to help him failed."

"General," said Remington, "before your nephew was run down, we caught him burglarizing the home of our office manager, Bernice DuShaine."

"DuShaine? Your office manager wasn’t related to Larry DuShaine by chance?" the general asked.

"Bernice is Larry’s widow," Laura answered.

"Now I am embarrassed, Mrs. Steele. Unfortunately, my nephew wasn’t a good citizen; he had a record that was, as they say, ‘as long as his arm.’ "

"I never met Mrs. DuShaine, but I knew Larry well. He served with me for two years about eight years ago. I’ve seldom met a finer man or a better officer. His death was a terrible tragedy. That my nephew victimized his widow sickens me. As his family, I’d be glad to reimburse her for any damages to her property."

"We didn’t come here to collect damages, General," Laura said. "Before he died, Mr. French said something rather cryptic: ‘Go to the mountain.’ Does that mean anything in particular to you?"

General West shook his head. "No," he said, "nothing special, Mrs. Steele. I’ve given up trying to make sense of anything my nephew said or did, long ago; it could mean anything."

"I can’t help but point out, General, that we’re sitting inside one rather prominent mountain right now," Remington said. "Did your nephew have any involvement with this installation?"

With NORAD? Absolutely not, Mr. Steele. Even if he’d shown any interest or aptitude for the work, he’d never have passed the security screening. I couldn’t even allow him to visit me here."

Laura removed the pendant from her pocket. "Your nephew had this in his hand when he died, General, and we’re trying to trace it. Can you tell us anything about it?"

General West took the pendant from Laura and studied it. Flipping it over, he ran a finger over the engravings on the back and said, "I’m afraid jewelry is out of my line, but if you want to locate the owner, I do know someone who deals in unusual jewelry and antiques." He wrote a name and address on a piece of stationery. "If anyone can vet the pendant for you, it’ll be Jake."

He handed Remington the note. "What’s the significance of the pendant, Mrs. Steele?" he asked.

We don’t know that there is any particular significance, General," Laura said. "We’re just covering all the bases on the burglary."

Laura and Remington rose; the General accompanied them to the door. "If I can do anything else to facilitate your investigations, please let me know," he said.

"…Yes, I see, Captain."

"…Thank you."

"…Good-bye."

Perry hung up the receiver. "If that doesn’t beat all!"

"What, Perry?" Della asked.

"Colonel DuShaine’s service records have been sealed."

"Sealed! Whatever for?"

He began to pace steadily back and forth. "I couldn’t find out. I was told they were sealed with a code vermilion classification. According to a Captain Rogerson, that’s just about the highest security rating used."

"Did Captain Rogerson say that the Colonel’s assignment warranted that kind of classification?"

"Captain Rogerson did everything but say flat out that it didn’t," Perry said, dropping into a chair.

"Well, this lends support to Minor Descoine’s theory, doesn’t it, Perry?"

"It certainly does tend to do just that, Della."

The telephone rang and Della reached across Perry to answer it. Opening her steno pad, she listened, her pencil flying over the page, as she recorded the conversation in shorthand.

"…Thanks very much for the fast turn around."

"…Yes, good-bye."

Della hung up the phone. "I’ve finally located Albert French, Perry."

"I’m glad one of us is having luck, Della."

"You won’t call it luck when I tell you what I’ve found out," she said. "Albert French’s last known address was in Colorado Springs, but he left there about three weeks ago. Eight days ago, he was killed by a hit and run driver in Los Angeles."

"Convenient isn’t it," grumbled Perry.

"Very," Della said. "The police are investigating but they haven’t found anything yet."

"Find out about his family, Della. Maybe one of them can help us."

"I already have. His body was shipped back to Colorado Springs for burial. His uncle, a Mr. West, handled the arrangements. Could that be your friend, General West, Perry?"

"That’s what we need to find out, Della. Get Wilt West on the phone; he’s stationed at NORAD in Colorado Springs."

"When I get him, what do I tell him?"

"Tell him we’ll be passing through town in a couple of hours and we’d like to pay a call."

Jake Bressler studied the pendant carefully. "It looks vaguely Egyptian or Sumerian," he said. "It’s a fine piece of work. If you’re looking for a buyer, I’ll give you a good price for it."

"We’re not the owners, so we can’t sell it," Laura said.

Bressler reluctantly returned the pendant to Laura. "Too bad; I’d love to add it to my collection."

"Right now, all we’re trying to do is find out something about its history and perhaps trace the pendant’s ownership record," Remington said.

"I can probably do that for you," Bressler said, his natural enthusiasm returning. I’m sure I’ve seen it before. It may be registered in a museum somewhere. I’ll run a search of the databases. Let me make a reference sketch or two and I’ll see what I can do."

"With a little luck, I might have some information for you by the time you’re finished with your appointment at U of C."

Jake Bressler’s expression was thoughtful as he watched Laura and Remington leave his shop. He stood staring at the reference sketch he held in his hand for a moment and then turned and walked briskly toward his office in the rear of the building.

Professor Marian Renault studied the pendant carefully; a glint of avarice manifested in her eyes.

"Then it is valuable, Professor Renault?" Remington asked.

"Unquestionably, Mr. Steele. The glyphs on the reverse side are unique in my experience. I would give my soul to spend some time deciphering the code. If I could translate it, I’d have the material for the ground breaking paper at this year’s Antiquities Symposium."

"Then the glyphs are words?" Laura asked.

"I couldn’t say on such short exposure to the material, Mrs. Steele, but this much I can say; you are correct, the pendant almost certainly came from Egypt. It no doubt belonged to a member of the ruling class, although not to a Pharaoh."

"Wouldn’t that tend to decrease its value?" asked Remington.

"Ah, but you are forgetting the writing on the back, Mr. Steele. That changes everything. I also believe that it was originally a talisman and that the writing on the back might represent the discovery of a entirely new cult or religion," she said.

"Not much jewelry survived the original plundering of the tombs, so it’s important to authenticate it. If you could leave it here…"

"I’m sorry, Professor, we don’t have the present owner’s permission to do that," Laura said.

The woman’s disappointment was obvious. "If you ever do get permission, promise me you’ll put U of C at the head of the list."

"Unquestionably, Professor," said Remington.

Jake Bressler came out of his back room as soon as the bell above the entrance door jangled announcing Remington and Laura’s return.

"Good! I hoped it was you when I heard the door," he said.

"Does that mean you’ve found something for us?" Laura asked.

"Come on back and I’ll fill you in," Bressler said. Laura and Remington followed the jeweler into his office.

"I don’t know whether you know it or not, but this pendant of yours is quite a find."

"We gathered that when we spoke with Professor Renault," Laura said.

"Oh, I expect the professor was intensely interested in what the pendant might do for her career. She and I have locked horns before," Bressler said.

"Why is that, Bressler?" Remington asked.

Jake shrugged. "Philosophical differences. She’d like to keep this locked up in a vault somewhere, so that she, and she alone, can dissect it and then present her dry as dust findings to some exclusive and high and mighty bunch of academicians."

"She hasn’t got it in her to appreciate either the beauty or the fine craftsmanship of the piece, and the romance inherent in the legend that surrounds it, leaves her cold."

"I’m glad it belongs to a civilian," he said. "I hope she takes it out and wears it now and then so it can be enjoyed."

Laura’s eyes sparked. "You said something about a legend connected to it," Mr. Bressler.

"It’s got quite a history. I struck out with the museum databases but I was sure that I’d seen references to it before. Then I remembered my father’s files."

Dad was a real collector of unusual and rare pieces. When I took over the business after he died in ’52, I inherited his file describing a score of pieces he owned, wanted to own or had sold to favored customers and it just happens that this piece was one of them."

Bressler pulled a dog-eared, age stained ledger over to the center of his desk. I haven’t had time to put most of my father’s records on computer," he explained.

"According to my father’s notes, the pendant was part of a big archeological find in the late twenties. He believed it was part of a trio of amulets. The first one was the Eye of Horus, the second was the Eye of Ra, and the third was your pendant, Mrs. Steele. Loosely translated, it’s called the Heart of the Lotus."

"I’ve heard of the Eye of Ra, and Horus and Ra were both Egyptian gods," Laura said. "But I’ve never heard of the Heart of the Lotus; what is it?"

"It’s been consigned to legend," Jake said, "and antiquarians today, tend to discount its authenticity, although drawings have been found that depict this pendant in every particular. It’s supposed to be connected with the goddess Hathor."

"I know the lotus was a powerful symbol of fertility, birth and re-birth," Laura said. "If I recall my lessons, Hathor was variously described as the mother of the gods and the sister-wife of Ra, wasn’t she?"

"That’s right," Bressler said. "The legend that surrounds this pendant," he said, picking it up from the desk, "says it contains a powerful magic that will unlock the secrets of the universe and ensures that whoever wears it has unlimited power over both the earth and the heavens. It is said to have been a lover’s gift to Hathor."

"Have you been able to trace its more recent owners?" asked Remington.

The three amulets turned up missing from the collection after the archeological team returned to the States, but this one showed up in a private collection after World War II and was sold at auction in ’47 to a Parker Street, who was a friend of my father’s and a favored customer." He put the pendant down on the desk. "Dad engraved the date on the back of it for Mr. Street. The only other note made about the transaction is that it was to be sent to Parker Street’s daughter as a gift."

"And after that?" Remington asked. "Were you able to find out where the pendant went after 1947?"

"I ran a thorough check," Bressler said. "It hasn’t been sold anywhere since that sale in ’47 to Parker Street—and I’d know if it had been. Pieces like this are my life’s blood; I keep a sharp eye on the antiquities market," he said.

"Even if it were a completely private sale?" Laura asked.

Bressler nodded emphatically. "Even a private sale in that market makes a splash; we’re a tight-knit bunch. I would have heard of it," he said.

The doorbell jangled again, and Laura picked up the pendant and said, "We’ll let you get back to your business now, Mr. Bressler and thanks for your help. I promise you, we’ll take good care of this."

The three of them emerged from the office and Bressler moved behind the counter to wait on the customer who had entered. "Just make sure you don’t let Renault get her hands on it and bury it in some musty safe," he called after them as Remington escorted Laura outside.

As they got into their rental car, Remington said, "Parker Street, the name sounds familiar. Have we ever done any work for him, Laura?"

"Not that I remember, but you’re right, it is familiar. Let’s go back to the hotel and check in with Mildred. She probably has some information from going through Albert French’s personal effects and she might recall the name."

"Maybe we’ll be lucky," Remington said, "and find out that Albert French and Parker Street are connected."

That’ll be just too lucky, Mr. Steele," Laura said.

Perry and Della left the Mailboxes, Etc., where Della had just used their fax service to contact Dr. Mark Sloan.

"Mark will have his pathologist review the findings from the Colonel’s autopsy ASAP, Perry."

"I hope he comes up with something we can use, Della."

"And I hope that General West can unseal Colonel DuShaine’s service records," Della said. "If you’ll make allowances for my feminine curiosity, Chief, I’m dying to find out what we’re not supposed to see."

"This is one time, Della, when I support your feminine curiosity whole-heartedly," Perry said as they walked along the sidewalk.

"Isn’t it unusual for ordinary service records to be sealed like that, Perry?"

"Very unusual, unless of course, Colonel DuShaine was involved with the intelligence service. But even if that’s true, Wilt thought code vermilion was a bit excessive."

"Whew!" Della whistled softly. "That makes Minor Descoine’s contention about a threat to national security seem plausible, doesn’t it."

"It does for a fact, Della, Perry said as he put his hand under her elbow and guided her toward the car.

"Where are we going now, Chief?"

We’re going to the Broadmoor Hotel to establish headquarters and then find a quiet restaurant where we can eat lunch and do some thinking while we wait for Wilt West and your ever helpful friend, Dr. Sloan to get back to us with their findings."

" ‘We eat,’ " Della said. "Those are words that are music to my hungry ears."

"I’ve been through French’s effects every which way, Boss and there’s not much there to work with," Mildred said. "I did find this scrap of paper with some strange symbols on it. That guy, French, certainly liked puzzles," she said. "Notice the cryptic message: ‘the key.’ " She showed them the paper.

Laura glanced at the paper and suddenly smoothed it flat against the table. She pulled the pendant from her pocket and carefully compared the two items. "Look! These symbols are the same as the ones on the back of the pendant."

Remington and Mildred crowded in and looked at the paper.

"So they are, Laura. It appears we have the key to something here, but what?" Remington asked.

He picked up the scrap of paper and turned it over to examine the back. "What’s this on the back, Mildred?"

He squinted at the scrawl. "I’ll say one thing for Albert French, he had lousy handwriting."

Laura and Mildred looked over his shoulder. "Looks like it says ‘Project Bellhook’ " Mildred said. "What’s a bell hook?"

Laura looked closer. "No, Mildred, I think it says ‘Project Blue something—Bluebook. That’s it, Project Bluebook."

"Well, Laura," Remington said, "now we have two puzzles. A key and a code: which one is the more important?"

"I say they’re both important," Laura said. "Apparently Albert French was tied to both of them."

"Bressler said the pendant was the key to the secrets of the universe, maybe Project Bluebook is the code name for the same secrets," she said, grinning.

"And we have our thief," Remington added. "An ex-con who’s never gone in for burglary before, who just happens to drift into town and make a beeline for a valuable antique pendant that hasn’t been seen on the open market for more than forty years."

"That’s too much coincidence, Laura. Someone hired Albert French to get this pendant specifically.

"And Bernice had it," Laura said. "How on earth did she come to own it?" Laura paced from the sofa to the window and stared out over the grounds of the Broadmoor Hotel.

Mr. Bressler’s secret of the universe is no doubt a metaphor for something very concrete and profitable. And whatever it is, someone wants it very badly," Remington said.

"Mildred," Laura asked, "does the name Parker Street mean anything to you? Have we ever had a client by that name?"

"Parker Street; sounds like a street on a Monopoly™ board," she said. "We have that contract with Parker Engineering, but no one named Parker Street, Hon."

"It just seems so familiar," Laura said. "Parker Street purchased this pendant as a gift for his daughter in 1947 and frankly, we’re hoping to find a connection between him and our thief."

Mildred smiled and snapped her fingers. "Of course! Della Street, Perry Mason’s secretary, that’s why the name is so familiar to us. Could she have been the daughter who got the pendant for a gift, do you suppose?"

Laura turned away from the window. "Mildred run a background check on Parker Street, please. I particularly want to know if he had any government connections during World War II."

"Looking for Project Bluebook?" Mildred asked.

"Maybe, Mildred, maybe."

"Meanwhile, Mr. Steele, I’m going to fax a copy of these symbols to my Egyptian studies Prof. at Stanford and ask him if he can translate them," Laura said. "Then you and I are going to call on General West again, to ask about Project Bluebook."

The caller perched tensely on the edge of the chair.

"…I tell you, I had it in my hand! I just couldn’t convince the Steele’s to part with it."

"…No, they think it’s just the take from a burglary. They told me your man is dead."

"…Yes, killed in a traffic accident; the fool ran out in front of a car."

"…What! When?"

"…I don’t like the looks of this."

"…Maybe you can afford to; you’re safely protected in your office on the Potomac."

"…You’d better plug that leak. With Remington Steele and Perry Mason sniffing around, I’m too exposed."

"…Well, I’m going to hunt up a cyclone cellar, so don’t expect to hear from me anytime soon."

Ten minutes after the telephone conversation ended, the room was dark and empty of personal items that might have identified its occupants.

At an out-of-the-way table in the main room of The Tavern, a restaurant in the Broadmoor Hotel, Perry and Della lingered over post-prandial coffees.

"Give, Chief."

Perry smiled across the table at her. "Give what, Miss Street?" he asked.

"Tell me about the telephone call."

"It was a dead end, Della."

"General West couldn’t help with Colonel DuShaine’s service records?" she asked.

"Perry frowned and shook his head. "Or with project bluebook either. Damn it, Della," he said mildly, "this is no coincidence. Someone is deliberately concealing information from us."

"Is General West certain it’s a government project?"

Positively, Della. In fact, he’s sure it’s a highest level restricted project in some branch of the military; he just can’t find anyone who will admit it to him."

"I thought generals could get any information they wanted," Della said.

Perry grinned. "So did Wilt, until we showed up; he doesn’t like being stonewalled, that’s for sure."

Della reached across the table and stroked the back of Perry’s hand. "That sounds just like someone else I know."

Perry took her hand in his. She smiled at him, then looked down at the table. "Perry, I’ve been thinking about what you want me to—"

"Excuse me, Miss Street?"

Della looked up with a frown of annoyance and withdrew her hand from Perry’s. Focusing her attention on the waiter who had approached their table, she answered, "Yes?"

He handed her a sheet of paper. "The bell captain asked me to deliver this to you right away, Ma’am."

Della smiled. "It’s from Mark," she said, as she scanned the message.

"And what does the always erudite Dr. Sloan have to say, Della?"

She looked sharply at him and then read the fax. "It’s just as you claimed at the preliminary hearing, Perry.

Mark agrees that a second more forceful blow, in the same region of the skull, was the one that caused death. His pathologist says that from the description of the injuries in the report, the autopsy surgeon should have concluded that there was as much as twenty minutes between the blows."

She dropped the fax on the table. "That means there was time for someone else to have entered the room after Captain Martensen left," she said.

"Time enough, Della, yes. But we need to be able to prove that a second assailant was actually at the scene in order to make a case."

"The second blow wouldn’t have changed the prosecution’s strategy. They simply would have claimed that the struggle between Murphy—or rather, between Captain Martensen—and Colonel DuShaine was a prolonged one, and that he hit him several times."

"It’s heartening to have my original premise supported but essentially it’s another blind alley as far as proving Minor Descoine’s contention is concerned."

"Can you prove it without Albert French?" Della asked.

Perry shrugged. "Possibly, if we can get a break on Project Bluebook; so far, however that doesn’t look likely."

"Don’t let it get you down, Chief. After all, Minor Descoine could be lying to us, you know. She’s such a strange young woman. There’s no telling what reason’s she’d have in her own mind. That might be the real reason we can’t get anywhere."

"No, Della, I don’t think she’s lying. After you’ve cross-examined as many people as I have, you develop a sixth sense that tells you if someone is on the level or not. Minor Descoine is undoubtedly strange, certainly unstable, but I’m convinced she’s telling the truth. There was someone else involved in Colonel DuShaine’s murder."

General Wilton F. West leaned across his desk aggressively and frowned at Laura and Remington. "This is the second time in eight hours I’ve been asked to help someone find out about Project Bluebook," he said.

"The second time," Laura repeated.

"Yes. The two of you aren’t the only ones to link my late nephew with the phrase. I’ve just spent several hours trying to pry information relating to any project bluebook out of the bureaucratic tangle of the combined services."

"I’ll tell you exactly what I’ve discovered," he said. "Officially, unofficially, off or on the record, in or out of the rumor mill, there is no one who will speak of a project bluebook."

"Does that mean there is no Project Bluebook in the military, General?"

"I didn’t say that, Mr. Steele; I said no one will speak of it; let’s just leave it at that."

He rose, peremptorily ending the interview. "I’m sorry, I can’t help you anymore than that."

Laura and Remington prepared to leave the office. "General can you at least tell us who else is asking about Project Bluebook?" she asked.

General West ran a nervous hand over his hair. "I don’t suppose it would hurt to tell you that," he finally said. "Perry Mason, the attorney, came to me this morning with the very same questions. I didn’t know the answers then and I haven’t been able to find them since."

"Mason!" Remington said. "What interest would he have in Project Bluebook?"

"Presumably, Mr. Steele, the same interest you appear to have," General West said. "He’s staying at the Broadmoor Hotel, here in town. It might be well for you to look him up and consider pooling information."

Laura and Remington were escorted back to their car and headed back to the hotel.

"Someone certainly shut General West down," Remington said.

Laura glanced at him. "It seems so. His friendly invitation to let him ‘facilitate our investigation’ certainly has dried up."

"I wonder how the eminent Mr. Perry Mason fits into this," Remington said.

"I don’t know," Laura said, but I agree with the general, it’s time we pooled our information."

She pulled the car over to the curb and picked up her cell phone.

"Broadmoor Hotel...Yes, Ma’am, I’ll connect you immediately."

"Perry Mason’s suite, Miss Street speaking."

"Hello, Della. This is Laura Holt-Steele."

"…We’re just fine thanks. And you?’

"…Good, glad to hear it. Della, Remington and I are here in Colorado Springs, and we’ve just discovered that we’re delving into the same thing that Mr. Mason is investigating."

"…Yes, Albert French and Project Bluebook."

"…We definitely agree. Perhaps if we pool our resources we can get farther."

"…We’re staying at the Broadmoor as well."

"That’s fine." Laura glanced at the dashboard clock. "It’s five-thirty now; we’ll join you at, Oh, say seven o’clock."

"…Dinner? Sounds wonderful."

"Good. See you soon."

"I take it Perry is eager to share," Remington said as Laura ended the call.

"According to Della, he is. He’s been as thwarted as we have."

"At least now, we can talk to Della in person about her father and the pendant," Remington said.

"If she’s actually Parker Street’s daughter, yes," Laura said. "Let’s get back to Mildred; she should have been able to verify our assumption by now."

Laura eased the car back into traffic.

"If she is Parker Street’s daughter, I wonder how she lost the pendant, Laura," Remington said.

"I wonder how Bernice came to have it," Laura said.

Mildred looked up from the computer screen when Remington and Laura entered the suite. "Hi, Kids! You got back just in time. I’ve got the dope for you on Parker Street."

Mildred consulted her notes. "I’m afraid I have to disappoint you about a connection to any project bluebook during World War II, Mrs. Steele. I couldn’t find any such government project coming out of that period; ditto with the corporate sector from the era," she said.

"Parker Street wasn’t directly involved in war work anyway, although he did dabble in a priority industry, oil. He was wealthy, charming and a high roller. He specialized in buying and selling oil leases and other real estate."

"He traveled all over the country and moved in very wealthy company but he shunned the major financial centers; he preferred to operate out of his hometown, some little burg in the mountains of North Carolina."

He made plenty of scratch; however, from what I’ve been able to find out, he also spent the majority of what he made long before it could gather dust in any bank vault."

"He left a young wife and two children, a son and a daughter, pretty much without resources when he was killed in the Texas City, Texas waterfront disaster in ’47."

"It just so happens that his daughter’s name was Della. I cross-checked Della Street’s vitals, everything matches, birth date, parent’s name’s, place of birth. Perry Mason’s Della Street and Parker Street’s daughter are one and the same."

"There’s your answer, then, Laura, to the mystery of Bernice and the pendant," Remington said. "Della must have given it to her when they met while Mason defended Murphy Michaels two years ago."

"But why?" Laura asked.

"She probably felt sorry for her."

Laura shook her head. "That doesn’t make sense. From what we’ve learned from Bressler and Professor Renault, this pendant is worth a lot of money. Even if Della had offered it to her, I doubt Bernice would have accepted it."

"Perhaps Bernice bought it from her," Remington suggested.

"If she did," Laura said, "I don’t know why. It’s not the kind of jewelry she usually goes for."

"Perhaps there’s some significance attached to February 18^th that the two of them share," Remington offered.

Laura sat up straight. "The date on the pendant is February 18^th," she repeated.

Mildred referred to her notes again. "Yes, Hon. February 18^th is Della’s birthday. I expect the pendant was a birthday present from her father."

"What is it, Laura?" Remington asked.

"February 18^th is also Bernice’s birth date."

She jumped up and paced around the room. "Oh my god, I think Della did give the pendant to Bernice!"

"Why would Della give Bernice, who was all but a stranger to her at the time, a pendant that was probably a cherished keepsake from her father?" Mildred asked.

"She didn’t give it to her two years ago, Mildred. If I’m right, she gave it to her more than thirty years ago."

"Now I am confused, Laura," said Remington.

Laura continued to pace the length of the room. "There’s something about Bernice that neither of you knows," she said. "Bernice is an adopted child. When we were in college, she told me about a necklace that she had that had once belonged to her birth mother. The story is that the mother left it with a nurse in the hospital and asked that it be given to her child’s family."

Remington said, "Surely, Laura, you’re not suggesting that Bernice is Della Street’s long lost child."

Laura dropped into a chair. "I’ve always thought that there was something very familiar about Della, especially around the eyes. It’s possible, you know."

"Mildred, has Della—"

Anticipating Laura’s question, Mildred said, "Never, Hon. We’re friends; we exchange letters. When she was still living in Los Angeles, we went to plays and concerts together, and once or twice my date and I doubled with her and Perry. But, I have to say, we’re not so close that she ever confided that kind of a secret to me."

"I’d sure like to find out if it’s really a possibility," Laura said.

"Well, we’re meeting Perry and Della for drinks at seven; why not just ask her?" Remington said.

"Whoa, Boss! Hold the phone," Mildred said. "You can’t just barge up to Della and ask her if she ever gave up a child. If it isn’t true, she’s liable to be offended and if it is true, well; things were a lot different thirty-five years ago. She might not want to admit it."

"I had no intention of barging, Mildred. I planned on using tact, diplomacy and charm."

Laura chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. "Your tact and charm aside, Mr. Steele, what about Bernice? Now that I think about it, will she appreciate us making this decision for her?"

"Laura, do you mean to say that Bernice wouldn’t want to know who her own mother is?" Remington asked.

"I’ve known Bernice for almost eighteen years," Laura said, "and she’s never expressed a desire to search for her natal parents. She absolutely adores her adoptive parents. It’s only been a year since her father passed away; this may not be the right time for any life-altering disclosures. It’s a touchy subject, Mr. Steele. I remember how I felt when Billy—"

"Ah, yes, Laura, but how do you feel now? Would you really want to go back to not knowing?"

She shook her head. "No, no, of course not," she said.

"Let’s go this far," Remington said, "Let Mildred see how far she can get in a records search. Let’s see if we can determine whether or not Della Street ever had a child."

"If we find that she did, what then?" Laura asked.

"I don’t know," he admitted. "I guess we can argue it out once we’ve got all the facts."

Mildred shook her head dubiously. "I can pull in some favors, Boss, and get the information, but if you’re going to authenticate a relationship between Bernice and Della, you’d better pray it was a private adoption because it’ll be next to impossible to convince a reputable agency to unseal their records."

"Do what you can, Mildred," Laura said, "and meet us in Mason’s suite at seven."

From his position at the mini-bar, Perry turned and watched Della walk into the living room of the suite. He admired the way she wore her sea-green cashmere suit. From her tastefully coiffured hair to her trimly shod feet, she is a most alluring woman, particularly right now, with her cheeks slightly flushed from the rush of getting ready for the arrival of their guests, he thought.

He set his drink down on the counter and recited:

"Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease hath too short a date; sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed: and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed; but thy eternal summer shall not fade…"

Della’s cheeks flushed deeper. "Really, Perry! You’d better pay William Shakespeare a royalty for the use of the sonnet. And any way, aren’t you going way, way over the top?"

"I am not!" he said, firmly. "At this moment, those words describe the testimony of my eyes precisely."

Della walked over and stood in front of him. "Help me fasten these?" she asked, putting her pearls at her throat.

Perry fastened the clasp on the necklace and leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Besides, if the poetry worked for old Will in the 1600’s, perhaps it’ll work for me," he said.

Della turned around and kissed his cheek. "You don’t need any help," she said.

The telephone rang and Della moved promptly to answer it.

She listened for a moment, the gestured to Perry. "Perry, it’s Jim Abbott, the warden at CWCF."

Perry took the phone from her.

"…Good evening, Warden, this is Perry Mason."

"…When? Was she—"

"…That’s a relief.

"…My client? No, not in the strictest sense of the word."

"…Now, there she is on the level, Warden. I am investigating her claims."

"…No, not as yet."

"…I appreciate your concern, Warden, but I’m fully aware of it. She’s not putting anything over on me."

"…Yes, I agree. Also, while you have her isolated from the general prison population, I’d like very much to have Ms. Descoine examined by a psychiatrist. We’re quite concerned about her; she definitely needs some kind of counseling."

"…If I find anything that will stand up in court, you can be sure you’ll hear from me."

"…Good-bye."

Laura and Remington walked leisurely along the shoreline of Cheyenne Lake which lay between Broadmoor West, where they had their suite of rooms and Broadmoor Main where they were to meet Perry, Della and Mildred.

It was twilight; the temperature dipped toward 50º and crystalline stars scattered across the slowly darkening sky.

"Brrr! It’s getting colder," Laura said, pulling her lightweight jacket closer around herself and leaning closer to Remington’s warmth.

He tightened his hold on her and then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

Laura tilted her head up and smiled. "What was that for?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Because it’s a beautiful evening and you are the loveliest creature in creation," he said, "and I’m a lucky bloke to be here with you."

"There’s no luck involved," Laura said. "We were certain to get together."

"Laura! he said. "If you believed that, then why did you put me through five years of uncertainty?"

"Even the great ones need to be challenged now and again, darling," she teased. "And any way, what are you complaining about? You managed magnificently in the end."

"Humph! Another challenge like that, Laura and I’ll expire from the strain."

They entered the Broadmoor Main building.

"Courage, Mr. Steele." Her eyes danced.

Remington raised an eyebrow. "What do you know, my rational, sensible wife believes in fate."

"I do not!" Laura said. "Our marriage was a rational, sensible response to our state of affairs."

Remington smiled again. "Ahh, affairs! Now my male ego is reassured," he said. "It would be dreadful to discover that all my romantic efforts fell on barren soil, Laura."

"Don’t get carried away, Remington," she cautioned.

A small smile quirked the corners of her mouth. "How could we not get together? she asked. "You the elegant, charming con man and me, the brainy businesswoman whose livelihood depended on putting across the big con? We couldn’t have made it work with anyone else."

"I think I prefer the concept of luck, Laura," Remington said. "Are you describing a marriage or a merger?"

Laura smiled at him. "Well, there were a few other factors that were determinative."

"Such as?" Remington asked.

"Certain biological imperatives that, as Bernice would say, are essential ingredients for ‘a good old-fashioned teeth-rattling affair.’ "

"Then, bravo! For teeth-rattling affairs," Remington said, "I hope Bernice has the chance to indulge in some teeth-rattling of her own while she’s away."

They entered the elevator and Laura selected the floor for the Penrose suite.

"Speaking of Bernice, remember not a word about the pendant to Perry and Della."

"Not a sound, Laura."

"You still don’t think we’re doing the right thing, do you?" she asked.

"Laura," Remington said, "I spent virtually my entire life wishing I knew who my parents were. If someone had come to me with information, I’d have been thrilled. Who are we to say that Della or Bernice wouldn’t be just as happy to find one another?"

"I seem to recall that you weren’t especially overjoyed when Daniel Chalmers first revealed himself," Laura said.

Remington scowled at her. "The circumstances were completely different, Laura."

"Oh, how?"

"Daniel consciously kept the truth from me, Laura, even though we were living in each other’s pockets half the time, and he knew that I often wondered who my father was," he said. "In this case neither Bernice nor Della is aware of a tie between them."

"If there is a tie between them," Laura said.

"You must have faith, Laura. Mildred will ferret out the facts, I’m certain of it."

"In any case, we agree don’t we, Mr. Steele, that the decision to share whatever facts Mildred finds with Bernice shouldn’t be ours."

Remington frowned. "Agreed, Laura, though grudgingly."

Della opened the door when Laura rang the bell.

"Laura! Remington! It’s so good to see you; come in. Perry’s just mixing the drinks."

Mildred lifted her glass in salute. "In case you didn’t know it, kids, Perry makes a fantastic Bacardi cocktail; you just have to try one."

In the friendly confusion that followed while Remington and Laura greeted Perry and sat down, Mildred glanced at Laura, gestured at Della for a split second, and nodded her head.

Catching the look, Remington smiled triumphantly at Laura as if to say ‘I told you so’ and said, "I believe I will try one of your cocktails, Perry, in honor of the occasion."

"How about you, Laura?" Perry asked, as he mixed Remington’s drink.

Laura smiled at him. "I can’t let Mr. Steele have all the fun, so yes, I’ll have one—but make it light, please."

Perry finished the drinks and settled down next to Della on one of the sofas.

"Mildred tells us you’re investigating a burglary," Della said.

"Yes, that’s how we became interested in Albert French; he burgled Bernice’s home."

"Oh, what a shame!" Della said. "Did he take anything valuable?"

"No," Remington said, "we managed to stop him before he made off with anything."

"And Bernice," asked Perry, "she is well?"

"Bernice is doing fine," Laura said. "She doesn’t know about the burglary attempt yet. She’s on vacation, on a cruise ship in the South Seas, and having a marvelous time, I hope."

"I’m delighted Bernice is taking some time to relax," Della said, "and I’m so happy that she’s gone back to working for the two of you. I know she’s missed you both."

"You’ve kept in touch with Bernice, then?" Remington asked.

"We handled a couple of matters pertaining to Colonel DuShaine’s estate for her," Perry said. "And we hoped we might see her at Murphy’s wedding, but she didn’t attend."

"She was in New Orleans then, celebrating Christmas with Larry’s parents," Laura said.

"I would have loved to get reacquainted with her when I relocated to Denver permanently," Della said. "I grew very fond of both her and Lauribeth when Perry handled the probate matters for her, but by that time, she’d moved back to Los Angeles."

Mildred glanced at Laura and Remington. "Isn’t that always the way? You’re forever crossing paths with someone you’d like to know better, but the timing is never quite right."

Laura returned Mildred’s look with one of her own and then shifted uneasily. Finally tucking her feet beneath her, she relaxed.

"The burglary attempt led us here and Mildred found the reference to Project Bluebook among French’s personal effects, but what brought you here to investigate Albert French, Perry?" she asked.

"We began with Minor Descoine," Perry said.

"Minor Descoine!" Remington said. "I thought she was safely tucked up in prison."

"She is," Della said. "However she’s determined to gain an early release."

"She intends to curry favor with the authorities by proving that someone other than Captain Martensen killed Colonel DuShaine," Perry explained.

"Or rather, have Perry prove it," Della said.

Perry smiled at her. "Yes, that’s so. Ms. Descoine gave us the leads to both Albert French and to Project Bluebook. She insists that there is a third person involved in Colonel DuShaine’s murder and behind criminal malfeasance within the mysterious Project Bluebook as well; I’m inclined to believe her."

"I’d be hesitant if I were you, Perry; my experience with the Descoine family hasn’t encouraged trust," Remington said.

"Della agrees with you, Remington," he said, "but I’m keeping an open mind."

"In any case," Della said, "we hit a brick wall, the instant we asked about Project Bluebook."

"As did we," Laura said. "General West very politely told us to buzz off. Frankly it makes me wonder if he isn’t involved in some way with whatever’s going on."

"I’ve known Wilt West for years, Laura. I’d stake my reputation on his honesty. I’m sure that his slightly hostile manner had more to do with the fact that he hates not being in the inner circle than anything else," Perry said.

Della smiled. "General West was Perry’s ace in the hole," she said. "Since he hasn’t been able to help us, we’re hoping that Remington Steele Investigations can."

"We’ve been digging deeper into Mr. French’s life, in the hope that we could find our answers through other sources," Mildred said, "but I haven’t been able to find out much more than I knew three days ago."

"We’ve had the same problem," Della said. "There are very large gaps in his records; time during which he evidently dropped completely out of sight."

"We believe that the same person who had Colonel DuShaine’s service records sealed, deliberately buried French from time to time," Perry said.

"And you think it’s someone highly placed in the government?" asked Remington.

"We do," Perry said, getting up and pacing to the window He stood looking out at the shadow of Cheyenne Mountain in the distance. "Not that we have and evidentiary proof of that either."

Knowing Mason’s moods, Della quietly got up and cleared away the glassware, while Laura, Remington and Mildred gave the problem their frowning consideration.

After a while, Perry spoke. "Perhaps it’s time we ended our investigations; there is something to be said for knowing when to fold."

"You’re not seriously suggesting we quit!" Laura said.

"Laura suffers from the ‘bulldog terrier syndrome’ " Remington explained. "She can’t bear to leave a mystery unsolved."

"Normally I’d feel the same way," Perry said. "But before the three of you arrived this evening, we received word that Minor Descoine was the victim of an attack. She wasn’t seriously hurt, and she’s being transferred to a more secure facility, but both the warden at the prison and I are convinced that the attack was meant to keep her from doing anymore talking."

"Frankly," he continued, "I’m very disturbed that Albert French targeted Bernice’s home. I think we all agree that he was involved in something a great deal more sinister than burglary; if we keep mucking about in this, we could draw Bernice into danger."

"It seems to me the best way to remove the danger would be to prove Minor’s theory," Mildred said.

"If we had a scintilla of evidence that would lead us to the identity of her mysterious shadow person," Perry said, "I’d agree.

"But we don’t," Laura said flatly, "and without following up on Project Bluebook we’re stalled."

"It seems we’ve come to an impasse," Perry said.

"There is one more possibility," Remington said.

"What?" Perry asked.

"Remington Steele Investigations does have one or two civilian government contacts who might be able to get information about Project Bluebook."

Laura’s smile was eager. "They won’t be hampered by military protocol either," she said. "What do you say, shall we make one last attempt? If nothing comes of it, we can agree to drop the investigations."

Perry exchanged a fond look with Della. "The telephone in my bedroom is at your disposal, Remington," he said as he checked his wristwatch. "But make it snappy. We have dinner reservations in the Penrose Room in twenty minutes."

Remington’s voice floated out through the open bedroom door. "Making it snappy right now. With any luck we’ll have our answers by the time we’ve finished dinner."

As they finished the first round of after dinner coffees and liqueurs, the orchestra began playing. Perry pushed back his chair. "Della?"

She smiled and rose. "I’d love to."

As soon as they glided on to the dance floor, Mildred turned to Laura and Remington. "I can get hard copy information regarding Bernice’s parentage by day after tomorrow," she said. "So what—"

"Don’t look now Mildred, but the four wolves at the next table are giving you the eye," Laura said.

Mildred turned and looked. "Typical convention goers," she said. "Well let ‘em look."

Remington leaned back in his chair, clearly amused. "Oh, Oh! It looks like challenge has been made, Mildred. Yes, here comes one of them…"

"Excuse me, Ma’am, would you care to dance?"

Mildred looked up at the tall plain man who waited beside her. He cleared his throat nervously.

"I don’t…" she began, on the verge of turning him down. Then she caught sight of the three men sitting at the nearby table, grinning at their discomfited companion. She stood and linked her arm through his. "…See why not; I’d love to." As the moved on to the dance floor she said, "My name’s Mildred, what’s yours?"

Remington eyed the empty chairs around the table. "Well, Laura, it seems we’ve been deserted."

Laura tapped her foot in time to the music. "That’s good music, let’s not waste it."

"If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, eh, Mrs. Steele?"

Half way through their second dance, Laura leaned into Remington and sighed.

"A problem, Laura?"

"Just discouraged, darling. If Lee doesn’t come through for us, we’re sunk. I hate to think that the five of us put so much effort into this and have come up dry."

"It is embarrassing," Remington said. "The preeminent private detective agency and the finest legal team west of the Mississippi unable to solve a mystery."

She pulled back and glared at him. "You’re making fun of me," she said.

"No, no I’m not, Laura. It’s absolutely true, and mildly amusing in the bargain."

"Well I don’t see the humor," she said. "I think it’s maddening."

"Perhaps this puzzle wasn’t meant to be solved, Laura."

"That doesn’t make sense, Remington. The very reason for a puzzle to exist is to solve it."

"I had a friend once, an eastern mystic…" Remington said.

Laura raised an eyebrow. "…Really Laura, he is a mystic, I met him one summer while hiking in the Himalayas."

"Go on," she said.

"Well, he once told me that the solution to a puzzle wasn’t important, but that the journey toward a solution was its raison d’être."

"And just what is the raison d’être for our puzzle, Mr. Steele?" Laura asked.

"We thwarted a burglar, recovered a valuable pendant, have been alerted to the threat of danger to a dear friend, and we might be just inches away from reuniting a mother and daughter. Whether or not we prove Minor Descoine’s theory about Larry’s murder, I’d say that’s an excellent weeks work, Laura."

"What about Perry and Della? Their only interest in this, comes through Minor Descoine and Larry DuShaine."

Remington frowned, then brightened. "It’s not a total loss for them either, Laura. Perry said he’s making arrangements for Minor Descoine to get some counseling…"

"Which she needs badly," Laura agreed.

"…And she’ll stay in jail, out of the path of whoever is behind this cover up," he said.

"The cover up," Laura repeated. "Do you suppose Minor Descoine is right; that Larry’s killer is still out there?"

Remington shrugged. "I don’t believe anything a Descoine says, Laura. Unlike Perry, I don’t have unlimited faith in his client."

The orchestra swung into an up-tempo melody and as Remington whirled Laura around, he asked, "If Della is Bernice’s mother, I wonder who Bernice’s father is?"

He nodded toward the table where Perry and Della had rejoined Mildred and her dancing partner. "Do you suppose it’s him?"

Laura looked up at him. "Him who?"

"Mason," he said.

"Not on your life," she said.

"Why not? Didn’t you say they’ve been together for thirty-some years?"

"If he had been the father, there would have been no reason for the child to be put up for adoption," Laura said.

"Maybe he wouldn’t marry her; or she wouldn’t marry him," Remington said.

"I hardly think they would have declined to marry to give their child a name and then worked together for the better part of the next thirty-five years," Laura said.

"And anyway, whoever Bernice’s father is, we’re not going to know."

"Why not, Laura? We’ll have the documents by day after tomorrow."

"Yes, and we’re not going to read them. If our suspicions are confirmed by what Mildred has tracked down, it’s none of our business."

"We’re going to seal them in an envelope and give them to Perry," Laura said. "That was our deal; remember, Mr. Steele?"

The orchestra ended the set; the music faded and they headed back to their table.

I remember, Laura, but I can’t help being curious."

Perry entered the lobby through the garden doors. He stopped to let his eyes adjust to the cool dim light and spotted Remington seated on one of the thickly padded Rattan sofas next to the statuary fountain that dominated the West Tower lobby.

He walked up behind the sofa. "Where’s your lovely better half, Remington?"

Remington rose and shook Perry’s hand as he came around the sofa and sat down.

"The same place yours is, I’ll wager. I believe Laura said something about The Little London Children’s Shop and wanting Della and Mildred to help her pick out welcome home gifts for the children."

Unaccustomed as I am to the minutiae of family lineage, let me see if I can remember what Della told me," Perry said. "Baby Katie belongs to the Steele family and baby Lauribeth to Bernice DuShaine, does she not?"

"Yes, although neither is really a baby anymore. "Katie Mildred is nearly three and Laura Elizabeth will turn four in November."

Remington pulled a 9" x 14" manila envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and extended it to Perry.

"As long as we’re on the subject of children," he said, "I’ve something for you to give to Della."

Perry took the envelope from Remington. "To give to Della," he repeated."

"You should read the contents before you give it to her, Perry."

Perry opened the envelope, pulled out several documents and began to read.

"You’re certain of your facts?" he asked at length.

"Absolutely." Remington said.

Perry replaced the documents in the envelope. "Della asked you to look into the matter?" he asked.

"No, she didn’t and neither did Bernice. Perry, we never intended to pry; we stumbled across the connection when we investigated the burglary attempt."

"While tracing a piece of jewelry we recovered from Albert French’s body, we found that it had once belonged to—"

"—Della Street," Perry finished.

"You know about the pendant and how it came to be in Bernice’s possession?" Remington said.

Perry nodded. "Yes, I know all about it."

Remington cleared his throat. "We’ve been in a quandary since we made the discovery," he said. "Whether we should tell Bernice, if we should speak to Della…" he let his voice trail off.

"What will you do?" Perry asked.

Remington smiled wryly. "I’m doing it now. We decided we had no right to make the choice for either of them and we’re passing the buck to you, Perry."

Perry put the envelope into his breast pocket and stood up. "You’re headed home now?" he asked.

"Yes. Since our Washington contact didn’t come up with anything useful, Remington Steele Investigations has officially dropped its inquiry into Project Bluebook."

"As have we," Perry said. "I’m afraid Ms. Descoine and Captain Martensen will most likely remain in prison for the balance of their sentences."

Remington grinned. "I have to admit, I’m not displeased about that, Perry. We’re all safer without Minor Descoine running around loose and she’s no doubt safer too."

They walked toward the exit.

"My Washington contact said he’d pass the word along that there might be a security leak in some top level government offices," Remington said. "It’s not what Laura and I hoped to do, but it’s better than nothing."

Perry nodded. "Nor is it what Della and I intended to accomplish. In light of the unsettled nature of things, you and Laura will keep a close eye on Bernice and Lauribeth?" Perry said.

"Absolutely," Remington said.

They shook hands. "Perry, whatever you decide to do, I hope it works out well for Della."

Perry nodded his head brusquely. "Thank you for your concern."

Remington watched Perry cross the grounds toward the Broadmoor Main until he was out of sight then turned and retraced his steps through the West Tower lobby.

Della tapped perfunctorily on the door to Perry’s suite, in the hotel where he maintained his Denver home, and crossed the threshold.

Perry turned quickly at her light step. "Am I intruding, Chief?" she asked.

He smiled. "You are never an intrusion, Della."

She crossed the room and sat down on the sofa. He remained standing at the window. "Come over here," she said, patting the empty space next to her.

He remained where he was for a moment, as if he hadn’t heard her, then he crossed the room and joined her.

She smiled. "Whatever it is you’re thinking about, it must be something important, Chief. You’ve been a million miles away ever since we came back from Colorado Springs."

She reached up and straightened his necktie. "Share with me?" she asked.

He took her hand and smiled down at her. "I’ve been thinking about a conversation I had with Remington just before he and Laura returned to Los Angeles."

"About…? she prompted.

"About his daughter and about Bernice’s little girl and about adoption," Perry said.

"Are Laura and Remington going to adopt a child?" she asked. "Do they want you to handle it for them?"

Perry shook his head. "No, they’re not thinking about adopting," he said. "The adoption we were talking about is an old one."

Della stiffened suspiciously.

Perry took the envelope out of his breast pocket and held it out to her. "Remington gave me this to give to you, Della."

She pushed away from him angrily. "Perry you didn’t…you wouldn’t…" Her voice trailed off in a harsh breath.

He shook his head. "Of course I didn’t, Della. This is information that Remington and Laura uncovered accidentally."

He laid the envelope in her lap and rose.

"Whether you open this or not, Della, is your choice and no one else’s. But if you do look at what’s inside, trust me, it will be all right."

"Perry, I’m sorry, I should have known that you wouldn’t—"

He leaned down and kissed her softly. "Not now, Della. Take your time; make your decision and if you want to talk later, I’ll be here."

Her eyes followed Perry until he had entered his bedroom, and then dropped to the envelope on her lap. She clenched her trembling hands and exhaled a ragged breath.

For Perry, time stood still while he stood in the doorway of his bedroom and watched her.

Finally, she picked up the envelope and turned it over in her hands. Slowly, she ran a fingernail under the sealed flap, opened it and withdrew the contents, a 3" x 5" photograph clipped to two photocopied legal documents.

She read: ‘Provision for no support…baby girl Street…father is deceased…’ Blinking back tears, she read further, ‘…In the matter of the adoption petition of Richard and Charlene Barron Foxe…name of the child shall be Bernice Irene Foxe.’

She dropped the documents to her lap and fingered the photograph. A Post-It™ note stuck to the front was in Mildred’s handwriting:

‘Della, this is for you. Love, Mildred.’

The caption of the photograph was also in Mildred’s precise script:

‘Bernice and Laura Elizabeth 1989.’

She closed her eyes and recalled a pre-dawn morning two years earlier, when while waiting for Perry to bring Bernice home from police custody, she had held Lauribeth on her lap and comforted her.

Lifting her head, she met Perry’s eyes across the room; she smiled tremulously at him.

Perry let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and crossed the room to her side.

She straightened the documents, returned them carefully to the envelope and resealed it with swift competent fingers.

"Bernice is my daughter…" she whispered. "…And Lauribeth is…Perry, I read a fairytale to my own granddaughter and never even knew it!"

He covered her hand with his. "And they all lived happily ever after," he said.

The End.