The Case of the Lucky Legs пм-61

by Эрл Стенли Гарднер

  "Some place not too far away."

  "I've got a couple of appointments tomorrow and the next day to do some modeling work."

  "Ditch them."

  "I haven't any money."

  "You will have," he told her.

  He finished the last of his coffee, wiped his lips with a napkin, looked across at her.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  "Ready," she said.

  He took her arm and piloted her to the door of the restaurant. The cab drove up just as they emerged to the sidewalk.

  "Here you are, boss," said the driver, holding out his hand palm down.

  Perry Mason took the ticket and the check.

  "What's that?" asked Thelma Bell suspiciously.

  "An errand I had the cab driver do," he told her.

  "Have you got enough change to cover the amount of the meter?" Mason asked the cab driver.

  "I sure have, and then some," said the cab driver, and added audaciously, "enough to make a mighty nice little tip for me."

  Mason stared intently at Thelma Bell.

  "Can I trust you?" he asked.

  "As long as it's for Margy, yes."

  Mason pulled the railroad ticket the cab driver had given him from his vest pocket and handed it to her.

  "Here's a oneway ticket to College City," he said. "Go there and register at a hotel. Register under your own name. You're going there to do some modeling work, if any one should start checking up on you tell them that and no more. If it gets serious, get in touch with me and don't say anything until I have given you instructions."

  "You mean if the law should come?"

  "Yes," he said, "if the law should come."

  "Will there be trains running at this time of night?"

  He looked at his watch.

  "There's one leaves in twenty minutes," he said. "You can make it."

  He handed the cab driver the suitcase and assisted Thelma Bell into the cab.

  "Good night," he said, "and good luck. Ring up my office or send me a telegram. Leave word the name of the hotel where you're staying, and don't take a powder."

  "A powder?" she asked.

  "A runout powder," he told her. "I want you where I can put my hand on you."

  She extended her hand and smiled at him.

  "I'd do anything," she said, "for Margy."

  Perry Mason took her hand. The fingertips were cold as ice. The cab driver climbed to the front seat.

  "And you don't want me to tell any one about where I was? That is, about George Sanborne?"

  Perry Mason shook his head with a fatherly smile.

  "No," he said, "we'll save that as a surprise—a big surprise."

  The cab motor roared into life. Perry Mason slammed the door, stood on the curb and watched the cab until the pale light rounded the corner. Then he went back to the restaurant.

  "Telephone," he said.

  The waiter indicated a pay telephone in a corner at the far end of the restaurant.

  Perry Mason strode to it, dropped a coin and dialed the number of the Cooperative Investigating Bureau, and when he heard the voice of the operator, said, "Mason talking. Put on Mr. Samuels, if he's still there."

  A moment later he heard the voice of Samuels booming with cordiality.

  "Mason? We've done just what you wanted. We picked up that party, and she hasn't been out of our sight for a minute."

  "Where is she now?" asked Mason.

  "Ten minutes ago my men reported by telephone. She left Paul Drake's office about half an hour after you telephoned. She went to the Monmarte Hotel, where she has a room as Vera Cutter, of Detroit, Michigan, but she didn't give any street address when she registered. She took a room in the hotel early last evening. That is, around ninethirty some time, and here's something funny: her baggage is fairly new and has the initials E.L. on it. She's got a rather ornate handbag, with hammered silver in a monogram, and the monogram is E.L. Does that mean anything to you?"

  "Not yet it doesn't," Perry Mason said, "but keep her shadowed."

  "And you'll ring up for reports?"

  "Yes. Be sure that you know who it is before you give out any information. Talk with me for a minute whenever I call, so that you know it isn't some one else using my name, and keep her shadowed every minute. I want to know everything about her. Better put on a couple of extra men, and if any one comes to the hotel to call on her, try and shadow them and find out all about them. Now, how about telephone calls? Can you arrange with the telephone operator at the Monmarte Hotel to let you listen in?"

  "One of our men is working on that right now," Samuels said. "It is, of course, going to be rather difficult, but —"

  "Hang the difficulties," Perry Mason said. "The world is full of difficulties. I've got plenty of my own. Listen in on her telephone conversations; I want to know what they are."

  "Very well, Mr. Mason," said Samuels, "we'll do the best we can."

  Perry Mason pulled down the receiver with the middle finger of his left hand, fumbled in his pocket for another coin, dropped it and called the Drake Detective Bureau.

  Drake himself answered the telephone.

  "Sitting there waiting for calls, Paul?" asked the lawyer.

  Drake laughed. "You pretty near called the turn at that," he said.

  "Anything to report?" asked Perry Mason.

  "I've got lots to report," Paul Drake told him. "I think you can go home now and go to bed, Perry."

  "Why?"

  "The murder mystery is all solved."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The police have traced the knife."

  "You mean the knife that did the stabbing?"

  "Yes."

  "Where have they traced it to?"

  "To the man that bought it."

  "Have they identified the man that bought it?"

  "Virtually, yes. They have a description that tallies on every essential point."

  "Who bought it?" asked Perry Mason.

  "Your friend, Dr. Robert Doray of Cloverdale," Paul Drake retorted with something of a verbal flourish.

  "Go on," said Perry Mason, "tell me the rest of it."

  "That's about all of it," Paul Drake said. "The police tried to check the knife. They've been working on that ever since they discovered the body, and the price mark that was on the blade of the knife. You see, there was a cost price, as well as a sales price, on the knife. There's been an advance in prices on that stuff, and from the cost price they knew that the knife was part of a new stock that had been purchased at the increased price, since there was no other and older cost mark on it, and no sign of one having been on it and having been erased."

  "Go on," Mason said.

  "They figured first that the knife came from a hardware store. The wrapping paper was a little bit heavier than is ordinarily used in the ten, fifteen and twentyfive cent stores. They got the heads of the hardware jobbers out of bed, got them to get in touch with their salesmen by telephone and try and find a retailer who used that particular cost code. It looked like a wildgoose chase, but they were lucky. Almost at once they got in touch with a hardware salesman who was familiar with a retail hardware store on Belmont Street that used that cost code, and the hardware salesman remembered this dealer had purchased a dozen of those knives not less than ten days ago. The police got in touch with the dealer. The dealer remembered the sale of the knife and gave a pretty fair description of the man. The description was that of Dr. Doray. The police got in touch with the newspaper offices, found one that had a file of the Cloverdale papers, prowled through the Cloverdale papers until they found a picture of Dr. Doray. He'd been an official in the Community Chest drive, and his picture had been in the paper. It was a newspaper photograph, but had enough to it to furnish the basis for an identification. The hardware dealer has made an absolute identification. There's no question in his mind but what Dr. Doray was the man who purchased the knife.

  "The police feel they've pulled a nice piece of work, and they're throwing out a dra
g net for Doray. Apparently he's skipped out, and, incidentally, that puts you in a funny light."

  "Why?" asked Perry Mason.

  "On account of that telephone message which apparently came from your office, and which tipped Doray off to what was happening. The police are pretty much worked up about it. I don't mind telling you in confidence that you're going to have some trouble over it, and, incidentally, I don't think Bradbury likes it very well."

  "To hell with Bradbury," Perry Mason said. "I didn't call up Doray, and, what's more, my office didn't call up."

  "Well," Paul Drake remarked cheerfully, "if you say that you didn't, and Della Street says she didn't there's not much the police can do about it; not unless they should pick up Doray and he should tell them something different."

  "That wouldn't change the situation any," Mason said. "Doray certainly doesn't know the voice of my secretary well enough to have recognized it, or to swear that he did. All that he knows is that some woman said she was Della Street. It's easy enough to do that. I could ring up Bradbury and tell him that I was Paul Drake, and tell him he'd better get out of the country."

  Paul Drake laughed. He seemed in a very good humor, indeed.

  "Well," he said, "I should waste my time telling you law points. But here's something you do want to be careful of."

  "What's that?"

  "Marjorie Clune."

  "What about her?"

  "The police have established in some way that Marjorie Clune and Dr. Doray drove together to the vicinity of Patton's apartment. They've located some one who had a little confectionery store in front of the fire plug where Doray parked his car. He remembers when the car drove up, and remembers that a man and a woman got out of it. The description of the man is that of Dr. Doray and the description of the woman tallies with Marjorie Clune. The confectionery dealer is one of those birds who get a great delight out of other persons' misfortunes. He's seen lots of people park their cars in front of that fire plug and get tagged. He likes to look at their facial expressions when they come back and find the tag dangling on the steering wheel, so he happened to notice Doray and Marjorie Clune pretty closely."

  "Have the police explained anything about that blackjack yet?" Perry Mason asked.

  "No, that probably isn't going to enter into the case particularly."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the crime wasn't committed with it. It hasn't anything more to do with the crime than the cane that was lying on the table—not as much, because the cane can be identified as having belonged to Patton, whereas no one knows who that blackjack belongs to."

  "In other words," Mason said, "the police figure the case is closed, is that it?"

  "That's just about it."

  "And you think that I'm going to get in over my necktie?"

  "I'm just warning you," Drake said. "I know that you've been working on that Marjorie Clune angle of the case. I just don't want you to get in a jam for compounding a felony, or becoming an accessory after the fact."

  "While you're on the line," Perry Mason said, "I'll tell you a little law, Paul: You can't compound a felony if a felony hasn't been committed. On the other hand, you can't become an accessory by aiding a person who isn't guilty of anything. If your principal isn't guilty, you aren't guilty, no matter what you do."

  "You figure that Marjorie Clune is innocent?" Drake asked.

  "Marjorie Clune," said Perry Mason with grave dignity, "is my client. Is it fair to ask what you're waiting for, Paul?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're waiting in your office. You're sitting right there at the telephone. You're waiting for something. Is it fair to ask what it is?"

  The detective's tone was hurt.

  "Now listen, Perry," he said, "I told you that I wouldn't accept any employment that was adverse to your interests. I've had that understanding with Bradbury, and I thought I had that understanding with you. The employment that this young woman gave me didn't conflict in any way with the employment you folks gave me. In fact, I figured that it checked right in. She claims that Marjorie Clune is innocent, but that Doray is the murderer; that Marjorie Clune may try to protect Doray, and —"

  "I know all that stuff," Perry Mason said. "But that still doesn't tell me what you're waiting for."

  "Well," Paul Drake told him, "I was coming to that. I've got a tip from police headquarters that the police interviewed Thelma Bell earlier in the evening. They didn't figure at the time that she was connected with the case sufficiently to warrant them in taking any steps. I think that they feel differently about it now. They think that she's got some important information that she concealed or that she could give. I understand they're going out to pick her up, and I was waiting to hear what she said. Have you any objections to that?"

  "None whatever, my dear boy," said Perry Mason. "You wait right there until the police pick her up."

  Smiling gently, Perry Mason slipped the receiver back on the hook.

  Chapter 12

  Morning sun was streaming through the streets of the city when Perry Mason aroused himself from the couch in the Turkish bath. His eyes were steady and clear. He had been freshly shaven, and his face showed no trace of fatigue.

  From a telephone booth in the Turkish bath, he called the Drake Detective Bureau. The desk operator answered him.

  "Paul Drake there?" he asked.

  "No," she said, "Mr. Drake went out about half an hour ago."

  "Do you know where he went?"

  "Yes, he went home to get some sleep."

  "This is Mason talking," the lawyer said. "Can you tell me how long he was there last night?"

  "Oh, he stayed right up until half an hour ago," the girl said. "He was waiting for a telephone call. He expected to get some important information."

  "And he didn't get it?"

  "No, he waited all night, and then decided he'd get some sleep. He left word for me to call him if there were any new developments in that Patton case. He's working on that for you, isn't he?"

  "And others," Mason said, with a smile.

  "Do you want to call him at his apartment? I'll give you the number."

  "No," Mason said, "I know the number. I just wanted to find out if he was still there. I didn't have anything important."

  He hung up the telephone, his face wearing a broad smile, and went to the room where he had left his clothes; dressed, secured his valuables at the desk, and looked at his watch. It was eight thirtyfive.

  He returned to the telephone booth and dialed the number of his own office. Della Street 's, "Good morning, this is Perry Mason's office," sounded crisp, fresh, and businesslike.

  "Don't mention any names," Perry Mason said, "but this is the Mayor of Podunk. I want to see about floating a bond issue for —"

  "Oh," she said, "I'm so glad you called," and there was relief in her tone.

  "What's new?" he asked.

  "Lots of things."

  "Can you talk?"

  "Yes, there's no one here right now except Mr. Bradbury, and I put him in the law library."

  "What are the things you've got to tell me?" Mason asked. "Be careful how you mention them over the telephone."

  "They all have to do with Bradbury," she told him.

  "What about him?"

  "He wants to see you, and he wants to see you right away."

  "I don't want to see him," Mason said.

  "I'm not certain about that," she said, "there's been something of a change come over him. I remember what you said about him, and I think you're right. He's a man who has to be reckoned with, and he's determined to see you. He says that if he doesn't see you within the next hour, it may make a great deal of difference to you, that if you should telephone and get in touch with me, I am to tell you that. That I am also to tell you he is not willing to allow a locked door to stand between the woman he loves and her freedom."

  There was a moment of silence, while Perry Mason scowled thoughtfully.

  "Do you get what he means by th
at?" she asked.

  "I get it," Mason said, "and I might as well have a showdown with that bird now as later. He's not going to browbeat me."

  "I think," she told him, "there are detectives watching the office."

  "Yes," he said, "there would be. They want to pick me up. I tell you, Della, what you do. I'm about eight blocks from the office, at the Turkish bath that's right up the avenue. You get Bradbury and get in a taxicab. Drive up to the Turkish bath. I'll be standing in the doorway. You can pick me up."

  "Do you think it's safe for me to leave with him? You don't think the detectives will suspect anything?"

  "No, I don't think so," he told her, "and I want a witness along. You'd better put a pencil in your handbag, and have a notebook that you can use if it becomes necessary. I'm going to reach an understanding with Bradbury, and reach it right now."

  "Okay chief," she told him, "we'll be there in about ten minutes, and please, chief, be careful."

  Perry Mason was scowling thoughtfully as he dropped the receiver into place. He left the Turkish bath, climbed a flight of stairs, and emerged into the warm morning sunshine. He stood back in the recess which opened from the sidewalk, and watched the hurrying pedestrians pounding the pavement on their way to the office buildings in the downtown business section.

  His eyes scrutinized the passing faces with the keen, quick interest of a man who has learned to judge character at a glance, and who is sufficiently interested in human nature to read the stories written on the faces of the throngs who jostle about the city streets.

  Now and again some young, attractive woman, feeling the impact of his gaze, would glance either furtively or frankly into his keenly searching eyes. Occasionally some man, catching Mason's stare, would frown with resentment, or turn to regard Mason with a stare which said plainly enough that the man thought he had surprised a detective at work.

  Mason had stood motionless for perhaps five minutes when a blonde young woman came hurrying along the street. She intuitively felt his eyes upon her, and raised her own eyes. Suddenly she smiled. Perry Mason raised his hat.

  It was the young woman who ran the cigar counter in the lobby of his office building.

  She abruptly turned toward him.