“Is that testimony sufficient to support an indictment?” Della Street asked.
Mason grinned and said, “It certainly wouldn’t be sufficient standing by itself to bring about a conviction in a court of law.”
“Do you intend to question the sufficiency of the evidence?”
“Lord, no,” Mason said. “For some reason the district attorney is breaking his neck to get a prompt trial, and I’m going to co-operate by every means in my power.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to stall the thing along a bit until—?”
Mason shook his head.
“Why not, Chief?”
“Well, the rumor is that the district attorney has a surprise witness he’s going to throw at us. He’s so intent on that he may overlook the fact that there isn’t any real corpus delicti.”
“What do you mean?”
“The body of Munroe Baxter has never been found,” Mason said.
“Does it have to be?”
“Not necessarily. The words corpus dilecti, contrary to popular belief, don’t mean the ‘body of the victim.’ They mean the ‘body of the crime.’ But it is necessary to show that a murder was committed. That can be shown by independent evidence, but of course the best evidence is the body of the victim.”
“So you’re going to have an immediate trial?”
“Just as soon as we can get an open date on the calendar,” Mason said. “And with the district attorney and the defense both trying to get the earliest possible trial date, that shouldn’t be too difficult. How’s Paul Drake coming with his office setup?”
“Chief, you should see that. It’s wonderful! There’s this ad in all of the papers, advertising for a legally trained secretary who can type like a house afire. The salary to start—to start, mind you—is two hundred dollars a week. It is intimated that the attorney is engaged in cases of international importance and that there may be an opportunity to travel, to meet important personalities. It’s a secretary’s dream.”
“And the office where he’s screening applicants?” Mason asked.
“All fitted out with desks, typewriters, law books, plush carpets and an air of quiet dignity which makes it seem that even the janitor must be drawing a salary about equal to that of the ordinary corporation president.”
“I hope he hasn’t overdone it,” Mason said. “I’d better take a look.”
“No, it isn’t overdone. I can assure you of that. The air of conservatism and respectibility envelops the place like a curtain of smog, permeating every nook and cranny of the office. You should see them—stenographers who are applicants come in chewing gum, giggling and willing to take a chance that lightning may strike despite their lack of qualifications. They stand for a few seconds in that office, then quietly remove their gum, look around at the furniture and start talking in whispers.”
“How does he weed out the incompetents?” Mason asked.
“There’s a battery of typewriters; girls are asked to sit at the typewriters, write out their names and addresses and list their qualifications.
“Of course, a good typist can tell the minute a girl’s hands touch the keyboard whether she is really skillful, fairly competent, or just mediocre. Only the girls who can really play a tune on the keyboard get past the first receptionist.”
“Well,” Mason said, “it’s—”
The private, unlisted phone jangled sharply.
“Good Lord,” Della Street said, “that must be Paul now. He’s the only other one who has that number.”
Mason grabbed for the phone. “That means he’s got imformation so hot he doesn’t dare to go through the outer switchboard. Hello … hello, Paul.”
Drake’s voice came over the wire. He was talking rapidly but in the hushed tones of one who is trying to keep his voice from being heard in an adjoining room.
“Hello, Perry. Hello, Perry. This is Paul.”
“Yes, Paul, go ahead.”
“I have your girl.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Mae W. Jordan. She lives at Seven-Nine-Two Cabachon Street. She’s employed at the present time in a law office. She doesn’t want to give the name. She would have to give two weeks’ notice. She wants the job very badly, and, boy, can that girl tickle the typewriter! And it’s wonderful typing.”
“What does the W stand for?” Mason asked. “Wallis?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m just giving you a quick flash that we have the girl.”
“You know it’s the same one?”
“Yes. The thumbprints match. I’m holding her driving license right at the moment.”
“How about the address?” Mason asked.
“And the address is okay. It’s Seven-Nine-Two Cabachon Street, the same address that’s given on her driving license.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “Now here’s what you do, Paul. Tell her that you think she can do the job; that you’ll have to arrange an appointment with Mr. Big himself for six o’clock tonight. Tell her to return then. Got that?”
“I’ve got it,” Drake said. “Shall I tell her anything else about the job?”
“No,” Mason said. “Try and find out what you can. Be interested but not too curious.”
“You want me to put a shadow on her?”
“Not if you’re certain of the address,” Mason said.
“Think we should try to find out about the law office where she’s working?”
“No,” Mason said. “With her name and address we can get everything we need. This girl is smart and sharp, and she may be mixed up in a murder, Paul. She’s undoubtedly connected in some way with a diamond-smuggling operation. Too many questions will—”
“I get it,” Drake interrupted. “Okay, Perry, I’ll fix an appointment for six o’clock and call you back in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Do better than that,” Mason said. “As soon as you’ve finished with this girl, jump in your car and come up here. There’s no use waiting around there any longer. We’ve found what we were looking for. You can close the office tomorrow. Take your ads out of the papers and tell all other applicants that the job has been filled. Let’s start cutting down the expense.”
“Okay,” Drake said.
Mason hung up the phone and grinned at Della Street. “Well, we have our typist, Della. She’s Mae W. Jordan of Seven-Nine-Two Cabachon Street. Make a note of that—and keep the note where no one else can find it.”
Chapter 9
Paul Drake was grinning with the satisfaction of a job well done as he eased himself into the big overstuffed chair in Perry Mason’s office.
“Well, we did it, Perry, but it certainly was starting from scratch and working on slender clues.”
Mason flashed Della Street a glance. “It was a nice job, Paul.”
“What gave you your lead in the first place?” Drake asked.
“Oh,” Mason said with a gesture of dismissal, “it was just a hunch.”
“But you had a damn good thumbprint,” Drake said.
“Purely fortuitous,” Mason observed.
“Well, if you don’t want to tell me, I don’t suppose you will,” Drake said. “I see they’ve indicted Jefferson.”
“That’s right.”
“The district attorney says there are certain factors in the situation which demand a speedy trial in order to keep evidence from being dissipated.”
“Uh huh,” Mason said noncommittally.
“You going to stall around and try for delay?”
“Why should I?”
“Well, ordinarily when the D.A. wants something, the attorney for the defense has different ideas.”
“This isn’t an ordinary case, Paul.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“What have you found out about Irving?” Mason asked. Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Full name, Walter Stockton Irving. Been with the Paris branch of the South African Gem Importing and Exp
loration Company for about seven years. Likes life on the Continent, the broader standards of morality, the more leisurely pace of life. Quite a race horse fan.”
“The deuce he is!”
“That’s right. Of course, over there it isn’t quite the way it is here.”
“A gambler?”
“Well, not exactly. He’ll get down to Monte Carlo once in a while and do a little plunging, but mostly he likes to get out with a pair of binoculars and a babe on his arm, swinging a cane, enjoying the prerogatives of being a quote gentleman unquote.”
“Now that,” Mason said, “interests me a lot, Paul.”
“I thought it would.”
“What’s he doing with his time here?”
“Simply waiting for the branch to get ready for business. He’s leading a subdued life. Doubtless the murder charge pending against Jefferson is holding him back slightly. He seems to have made one contact.”
“Who?” Mason asked.
“A French babe. Marline Chaumont.”
“Where?”
“A bungalow out on Ponce de Leon Drive. The number is 8257.”
“Does Marline Chaumont live there alone?”
“No. She has a brother she’s taking care of.”
“What’s wrong with the brother?”
“Apparently he’s a mental case. He was released from a hospital, so that his sister could take care of him. However, elaborate precautions are being taken to keep the neighbors from knowing anything about it. One of the neighbors suspects, but that’s as far as it goes at the present time.”
“Violent?” Mason asked.
“No, not at this time. Just harmless. You’ve heard of prefrontal lobotomy?”
“Yes, sure. That’s the treatment they formerly used on the hopelessly violent insane and on criminals. I understand they’ve more or less discontinued it.”
“Turns a man into a vegetable more or less, doesn’t it?”
“Well, you can’t get doctors to agree on it,” Mason said.
“But I think it now has generally been discontinued.”
“That’s the operation this chap had. He’s sort of a zombie. I can’t find out too much about him. Anyhow, Marline knew your man Irving over in Paris. Probably when Marline is freed of responsibilities and gets dolled up in glad rags she’s quite a number.”
“How about now?” Mason asked.
“Now she’s the devoted sister. That’s one thing about those French, Perry. They go to town when they’re on the loose, but when they assume responsibilities they really assume them.”
“How long has she been here?” Mason asked.
“She’s been in this country for a year, according to her statements to tradesmen. But we haven’t been able to check up. She’s new in the neighborhood. She moved into her house there when she knew that her brother was coming home. She was living in an apartment up to that time. An apartment house would be a poor place to have a mental case. Marline knew it, so she got this bungalow.”
“Living there alone with her brother?”
“A housekeeper comes in part of the day.”
“And Irving has been going there?”
“Uh huh. Twice to my knowledge.”
“Trying to get Marline to go out?”
“What he’s trying to get is a question. Marline seems to be very devoted to her brother and very domesticated. The first time my operative shadowed Irving to the place it was in the afternoon. When Marline came to the door there was an affectionate greeting. Irving went inside, stayed for about an hour, and when he left, seemed to be trying to persuade Marline to come with him. He stood in the doorway talking to her. She smiled but kept shaking her head.
“So Irving went away. He was back that night, went inside the house, and apparently Marline sold him on the idea of brother sitting because Marline went out and was gone for an hour or two.”
“How did she go?”
“By bus.”
“She doesn’t have a car?”
“Apparently not.”
“Where did she go?”
“Gosh, Perry! You didn’t tell me you wanted me to shadow her. Do you want me to?”
“No,” Mason said, “I guess not, Paul. But the thing interests me. What’s happened since?”
“Well, apparently Irving recognized the futility of trying to woo Marline away from her responsibilities, or else the trouble Jefferson is in is weighing heavily on his shoulders. He’s keeping pretty much to himself in his apartment now.”
“What apartment?” Mason asked.
“The Alta Loma Apartments.”
“Pick up anything about the case, Paul?”
“The D.A. is supposed to be loaded for bear on this one. He’s so darned anxious to get at you, he’s running around in circles. He’s told a couple of friendly reporters that this is the sort of case he’s been looking for and waiting for. Perry, are you all right on this case?”
“What do you mean, ‘all right’?”
“Are you in the clear?”
“Sure.”
“You haven’t been cutting any corners?”
Mason shook his head.
“The D.A. is acting as though he had you where he wanted you. He’s like a kid with a new toy for Christmas—a whole Christmas tree full of new toys.”
“I’m glad he’s happy,” Mason said. “What about this Mae Jordan, Paul?”
“I didn’t get a lot more than I told you over the phone, except that she’s promised to be there at six tonight.”
“She’s working?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of an impression does she make, Paul?”
“Clean-cut and competent,” Drake said. “She has a nice voice, nice personality, very neat in her appearance, knows what she’s doing every minute of the time, and she certainly can type. Her shorthand is just about as fast as you’d find anywhere.”
“She’s happy in her job?”
“Apparently not. I don’t know what it’s all about, but she wants to get away from her present environment.”
“Perhaps a thwarted love affair?”
“Could be.”
“Sounds like it,” Mason said.
“Well, you can find out tonight,” Drake told him.
“When we get her into that office tonight, Paul,” Mason said, “don’t mention my name. Don’t make any introductions. Simply state that I am the man for whom she will be working.”
“Will she recognize you?” Drake asked.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her,” Mason said, glancing at Della Street.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Your pictures get in the paper a lot.”
“Well, if she recognizes me it won’t make any difference,” Mason said, “because outside of the first few questions, Paul, I’m not going to be talking to her about a job.”
“You mean that she’ll know the thing was a plant as soon as you walk in?”
“Well, I hope not quite that soon,” Mason said. “But she’ll know it shortly after I start questioning her. As long as she talks I’m going to let her talk.”
“That won’t be long,” Drake said. “She answers questions, but she doesn’t volunteer any information.”
“All right,” Mason said. “I’ll see you a little before six tonight, Paul.”
“Now remember,” Drake warned, “there may be a little trouble.”
“How come?”
“This girl has got her mind all set on a job where she can travel. She wants to get away from everything. The minute you let her know that you were simply locating her as a witness, she’s going to resent it.”
“What do you think she’ll do?” Mason asked.
“She may do anything.”
“I’d like that, Paul.”
“You would.”
“Yes,” Mason said. “I’d like to know just what she does when she’s good and angry. Don’t kid yourself about this girl, Paul. She’s mixed up in something pretty sinist
er.”
“How deep is she mixed up in it?”
“Probably up to her eyebrows,” Mason said. “This Marline Chaumont knew Walter Irving in Paris?”
“Apparently so. She was sure glad to see him. When he rang the bell and she came to the door, she took one look, then made a flying leap into his arms. She was all French.”
“And Irving doesn’t go there any more?”
Drake shook his head.
“What would she do if I went out to talk with her this afternoon?”
“She might talk. She might not.”
“Would she tell Irving I’d been there?”
“Probably.”
“Well, I’ll have to take that chance, Paul. I’m going to call on Marline Chaumont.”
“May I suggest that you take me?” Della Street asked.
“As a chaperon or for the purpose of keeping notes on what is said?” Mason asked.
“I can be very effective in both capacities,” Della Street observed demurely.
“It’s that French background,” Drake said, grinning. “It scares the devil out of them, Perry.”
Chapter 10
Perry Mason drove slowly along Ponce de Leon Drive.
“That’s it,” Della Street said. “The one on the left, the white bungalow with the green trim.”
Mason drove the car past the house, sizing it up, went to the next intersection, made a U turn, and drove back.
“What are you going to tell her?” Della Street asked.
“It’ll depend on how she impresses me.”
“And on how we impress her?”
“I suppose so.”
“Isn’t this somewhat dangerous, Chief?”
“In what way?”
“She’ll be almost certain to tell Irving.”
“Tell him what?”
“That you were out checking up on him.”
“I’ll tell him that myself.”
“And then he’ll know that you’ve had people shadowing him.”
“If he’s known Miss Chaumont in Paris, he won’t know just how we checked up. I’d like to throw a scare into Mr. Walter Irving. He’s too damned sure of himself.”
The Case of the Terrified Typist Page 7
