This is NOT a movie. This is a DVD book. You read it on your TV, PC or personal DVD player.
THE was the second of the Perry Mason book, published in September 1933.
Perry, Della and Paul Drake appear. And for the first time, Mason's Law clerk Frank Everly.
This is the first Perry Mason story to feature his courtroom manipulations.
THE girl walked past the secretary who held the door open, and surveyed the law office with eyes that showed just a trace of panic.
The secretary gently closed the door and the girl selected an old fashioned, high-backed, black leather chair. She sat down in it, crossed her legs, pulled her skirt down over her knees, and sat facing the door. After a moment, she pulled the skirt up for an inch or two, taking some pains to get just the effect she wanted. Then she leaned back so that her spun-gold hair showed to advantage against the shiny black leather of the big chair.
She looked pathetic and helpless as she sat in the big office, dwarfed by the huge proportions of the leather chair. And yet there was something about her which gave the impression of having deliberately brought about that effect. There was a hint of feline efficiency in the care with which she had placed herself, in the very perfection of her helplessness.
Judged by any standard, she was beautiful. Her hair was silken, her eyes large and dark, the cheekbones high, lips full and well formed. She was small, yet perfectly proportioned, and well groomed. Yet there was a studied immobility of expression; an effect of complete detachment as though she had surrounded herself with a protective wall.
The door from an inner office opened and Perry Mason walked into the room. He paused when he had advanced two steps from the door, surveying the girl with patient eyes that seemed to take in every detail of her appearance.
She bore the scrutiny without change of position or expression.
"You're Mr. Mason?" she asked.
Mason didn't answer until he had walked around behind the flat-top desk and dropped into the swivel chair.
Perry Mason gave the impression of bigness; not the bigness of fat, but the bigness of strength. He was broad-shouldered and rugged-faced, and his eyes were steady and patient. Frequently those eyes changed expression, but the face never changed its expression of rugged patience. Yet there was nothing meek about the man. He was a fighter; a fighter who could, perhaps, patiently bide his time for delivering a knock-out blow, but who would, when the time came, remorselessly deliver that blow with the force of a mental battering ram.
"Yes," he said, "I'm Perry Mason. What can I do for you?"