The Case of the Stuttering Bishop pm-9

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  The Case of the Stuttering Bishop

  ( Perry Mason - 9 )

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  THE CASE OF THE STUTTERING BISHOP

  Chapter 1

  Perry Mason's eyes came to a hard focus on the figure which paused uncertainly in the doorway of his private office. "Come in, Bishop," he said.

  The stocky figure, clad in loose-fitting black broadcloth, bowed slightly and strode toward the chair which Mason indicated. Above the white expanse of the ecclesiastical collar, a sun-burned face set off the cool gray of glinting eyes. The short, sturdy legs, terminating in well-worn black shoes, marched briskly enough, but, watching the man, Mason knew those legs would have marched just as steadily had they been propelling the rugged torso toward the electric chair.

  The bishop sat down and turned to face the lawyer.

  "Cigarette?" Mason asked, pushing a case toward his visitor.

  The bishop reached toward the cigarettes, then paused and said, "I've been smoking them for an hour. Two puffs and I'm f-f-finished." As his lips stumbled over the first syllable of the last word, the bishop lapsed into abrupt silence for the space of two deep breaths, as though trying to control himself. After a moment, he said, his voice firm as the fingers of a pianist which, having fumbled, atone for the slip by an added emphasis, "If you don't mind, I'd like to light up my pipe."

  "Not at all," Mason said, and noticed that the stubby pipe which the man produced from his left pocket was somehow very like the man himself.

  "My secretary tells me you're Bishop William Mallory, of Sydney, Australia, and you want to see me about a manslaughter case," the lawyer said, breaking the ice for his visitor.

  Bishop Mallory nodded, took a leather pouch from his pocket, stuffed fragrant grains of tobacco into the encrusted bowl of the polished briar, clamped his teeth firmly on the curved stem and struck a match. Watching him, Mason couldn't tell whether he cupped the match in both hands to keep his fingers from shaking, or from a mechanical habit of shielding a match against the wind.

  As the flickering flame illuminated the high forehead, the somewhat flat face with its high cheekbones and determined jaw. Mason's eyes narrowed into thoughtful scrutiny. "Go ahead," he said.

  Bishop Mallory puffed out several little clouds of smoke. He wasn't the sort of man who would squirm uneasily in a chair, but his manner gave every indication of mental uneasiness. "I'm afraid," Bishop Mallory said, "that my legal education is a little rusty, but I'd like to know about the limitations of a m-m-manslaughter case."

  As he stuttered for the second time, his teeth clamped firmly on the pipe stem, and the rapidity with which he puffed out little spurts of smoke bore evidence both of his nervousness and of his irritation at the defect in his speech.

  Mason said slowly, "We have, in this state, what is known as a statute of limitations. All felonies, other than murder and the embezzlement of public money, or the falsification of public records, must be prosecuted within three years after the crime has been committed."

  "Suppose the person who committed the crime can't be found?" Bishop Mallory asked, and his gray eyes peered eagerly at the lawyer through the blue haze of tobacco smoke.

  "If the defendant's out of the state," Mason said, "the time during which he is absent from the state isn't counted."

  The bishop hastily averted his eyes, but not in time to avoid the expression of disappointment which clouded them.

  Mason went on talking smoothly and easily, after the manner of a doctor who seeks to set the mind of a patient at ease before an operation. "You see, it's difficult for a defendant to secure evidence in his own behalf after a period of years, just as it's difficult for the prosecution to get the evidence of witnesses to a stale crime. For that reason, in all crimes, save those of the greatest importance, the law fixes this limitation. That's the legal limitation, but there's a practical limitation as well. Therefore, even if a district attorney technically is permitted to prosecute a crime, he might hesitate to do so after the lapse of several years."

  During the ensuing moment of silence, the bishop seemed to be groping in his mind for the proper words with which to clothe an idea. The lawyer brought matters to a head by laughing and saying, "After all, Bishop, a client consulting an attorney is somewhat in the position of a patient consulting a doctor. Suppose you tell me just what's on your mind, instead of beating around the bush with abstract questions."

  Bishop Mallory said eagerly, "Do you mean that if a crime had been committed twenty-two years ago, a district attorney wouldn't p-p-prosecute, even if the defendant hadn't been in the state?" And this time, so eager was he to hear the answer to his question that he showed no embarrassment at the impediment which manifested itself in his speech.

  "What you would consider manslaughter," Mason said, "might be considered murder by a district attorney."

  "No, this is manslaughter. A warrant of arrest was issued, but was never served because the person skipped out."

  "What were the circumstances?" Mason asked.

  "A person was driving an automobile and struck another car. The claim was made that she… this p-p-person… was drunk."

  "Twenty-two years ago?" Mason exclaimed.

  The bishop nodded.

  "There weren't many of those cases twenty-two years ago," Mason observed, studying his visitor's features.

  "I know that," the bishop agreed, "but this was in one of the outlying counties where a district attorney was… overly zealous."

  "What do you mean by that?" Mason asked.

  "I mean that he tried to take advantage of every technicality the law offered."

  Mason nodded and said, "Were you, by any chance, the defendant, Bishop?"

  The look of surprise on the bishop's face was unmistakably genuine. "I was in Australia at the time," he said.

  "Twenty-two years," Mason said, watching the bishop with thought-slitted eyes, "is a long time, even for a zealous district attorney. What's more, district attorneys come, and district attorneys go. There have probably been quite a few changes in the political set-up of that county during the last twenty-two years."

  The bishop nodded absently, as though political changes had but little to do with the question under discussion.

  "Therefore," Mason said, "since you are still concerned about the case, I gather there's more behind it than an overzealous district attorney."

  Bishop Mallory's eyes snapped wide open. He stared at Mason and then said, "You're a very c-c-c-clever lawyer, Mr. Mason."

  Mason waited several silent seconds before saying, "Suppose you tell me the rest of it, Bishop."

  Bishop Mallory puffed at his pipe, then said abruptly, "Do you take cases on a contingency basis?"

  "Yes, sometimes."

  "Would you fight for a poor person against a millionaire?"

  Mason said grimly, "I'd fight for a client against the devil himself."

  The bishop smoked in meditative silence for several seconds, apparently trying to find just the right method of approach. Then he cupped the warm bowl of the pipe in his hand and said, "Do you know a Renwold C. Brownley?"

  "I know of him," Mason said.

  "Have you ever done any work for him… I mean, are you his lawyer?"

  "No."

  Bishop Mallory said, "You're going to be consulted about a case against Renwold Brownley. There's a great deal of money involved. I don't know how much, perhaps a million, perhaps more. You will have to fight the case from scratch. If you win it, you can get a large fee, two or three hundred thousand dollars. I warn you that Brownley is going to be hard to h-h-h-handle. It's going to be a mean case. You'
ll be protecting the rights of a woman who has been greatly wronged. And the only chance you stand of winning the case is through my testimony as a witness."

  Mason's eyes became hard and cautious. "So what?" he asked.

  Bishop Mallory shook his head. "Don't misunderstand me," he said. "I'm not asking for anything. I don't want anything for myself. I do want to see justice done. Now, if I'm to be the main witness in the case, it would weaken the value of my testimony if it appeared I had taken a preliminary partisan interest, would it not?"

  "It might," Mason admitted.

  The bishop pushed the curved stem of his pipe between his lips, tamped the tobacco in the bowl with the tip of a stubby forefinger, nodded his head thoughtfully and said, "That's the way I felt about it." Mason sat in watchful silence. "So," Bishop Mallory went on, "I don't want anyone to know I have been here. Naturally, I wouldn't lie about it. If, when I get on the witness stand, they should ask me questions about having taken an interest in the case, I'd answer those questions truthfully, but it would be better for all concerned if those questions weren't asked.

  "Now, I'm going to call you in about an hour. At that time I'll tell you where to come to meet me and I'll introduce you to the persons who are vitally interested. Their stories will sound incredible, but will be true. It's a case of a very rich man having been very ruthless and very unjust.

  "After that interview," Bishop Mallory went on, "I must disappear and have no further contact with you until you find me and drag me into court as a witness. And, you'll have to be very clever to find me, Mr. Mason. But I think I can count on you for that." The bishop nodded to himself as though entirely satisfied with the situation. He got to his feet abruptly, and his short, stubby legs pounded across the office. He opened the exit door into the corridor, turned, bowed to Mason, and slammed the door behind him.

  Della Street, Mason's secretary, emerged from the inner office where she had been taking notes, and said, "How do you figure that one, Chief?"

  Mason, standing in the center of his office, feet spread apart, hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, stared intently at the carpet with eyes which were held in fixed focus. "I'll be damned if I know," he said slowly.

  "How did you size him up?" she asked.

  "If he's a bishop," Mason said, "he's pretty human, no stiffness to his broadcloth, a stubby pipe and the general atmosphere of being a broad-minded man-of-the-world. Notice that he said he wouldn't lie if the other side asked him certain questions, but that it was up to me to keep them from asking those questions."

  "Why do you say, if he's a bishop?" Della Street asked.

  Mason said slowly, "Bishops don't stutter."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Bishops," he said, "have to work up. They're men who must be of outstanding ability and they have to talk in public. Now, if a person stuttered, he'd hardly become a minister, any more than he would a lawyer. But, if he did stutter and was a minister, he'd hardly become a bishop."

  "I see," she said. "So you think…" She became silent as she stared at him with wide, startled eyes.

  He nodded slowly and said, "The man may be a damn clever impostor. On the other hand, he may be a bishop who's been through some experience which has produced an emotional shock. If I remember my medical jurisprudence, one of the causes of stuttering in adults is a sudden emotional shock."

  Della Street 's voice showed concern. "Listen, Chief," she said, "if you're going to take this man's word for something and start fighting a multimillionaire like Renwold C. Brownley, you'd first better find out whether he's a genuine bishop or an impostor. It might make quite a difference."

  Mason nodded slowly and said, "That was exactly what I had in mind. Ring up the Drake Detective Agency and tell Paul Drake to drop whatever he's doing and come to my office at once."

  Chapter 2

  Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, slid sidewise into the big overstuffed leather chair, his back propped against one of the chair arms, his legs draped over the other. He regarded Perry Mason with protruding, somewhat glassy eyes which peered in expressionless appraisal from his rather florid face. When his facial muscles were relaxed, his mouth had a peculiar carp-like appearance which gave him a look of droll humor. He looked so utterly unlike a detective that he was able to accomplish startling results.

  Perry Mason, pacing back and forth across his office, thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, tossed words over his shoulder. "A Church of England bishop who claims to be William Mallory from Sydney, Australia, has consulted me. He's a close-mouthed chap with the face of an outdoor man… You know what I mean, the skin tanned as though accustomed to the bite of wind… I don't know when he arrived. He wants to know about a manslaughter case growing out of drunken driving in an outlying county twenty-two years ago."

  "What does he look like?" the detective asked.

  "About fifty-three or fifty-five, five foot six or seven, weight one hundred eighty, wears the ecclesiastical broadcloth and collar, smokes a pipe by preference, cigarettes on occasion, gray eyes, hair darkish and thick but gray around the temples, a competent sort of an individual, stutters occasionally."

  "Stutters?" Drake asked.

  "That's right."

  "You mean he's a bishop and he stutters?"

  "Yes."

  "Bishops don't stutter, Perry."

  "That's just the point," Mason said. "This stuttering must be a recent development, probably due to some emotional shock. I want to find out what that emotional shock is."

  "How did he take the stuttering?" Drake asked. "What I mean is, how did he act when he stuttered?"

  "Acted just like a golfer does when he tops a drive or misses a mashie."

  "I don't like it, Perry," the detective said. "He sounds like a phoney to me. How do you know he's a bishop? Are you just taking his word for it?"

  "That's right," Mason agreed readily enough.

  "You'd better let me check on him and get all the dope."

  "That's exactly what I want you to do, Paul. The bishop is going to get in touch with me in an hour. Shortly after that I've got to say yes or no to a case involving a lot of money. If the bishop's on the square, I'll be inclined to say yes. If he's a phoney I want to say no."

  "What's the case?" Drake asked.

  "This," Mason told him, "is in the strictest confidence. It involves Renwold C. Brownley, and if there's anything to it at all, it may carry a fee running into the hundreds of thousands." The detective gave a low whistle. "It involves, among other things, an old manslaughter charge, growing out of drunken driving."

  "How old?" Drake asked.

  "Twenty-two years, Paul."

  The detective raised his eyebrows.

  "Now there weren't many drunken driving cases twenty-two years ago. Moreover, this case was in an outlying county. I want to know about it, and I want to know about it right away. Put a bunch of men to work. Cover Orange County, San Bernardino, Riverside, Kern and Ventura. I think the defendant was a woman. Check through the records and see if there's an old manslaughter case dating back to 1914 where a woman was the defendant-a case which has never been cleaned up.

  "Cable your correspondents in Sydney, Australia, to find out all about Bishop William Mallory. Cover the steamship records, find out when Bishop Mallory arrived in California and what he's been doing with his time since then. Cover the principal hotels and see if they have a Bishop Mallory registered. Put just as many men on the case as you need, but get me results, and get them fast. I want action!"

  Drake sighed lugubriously and said, "I'll say you want action! You want a week's work done in sixty minutes."

  Mason made no answer, but went on as though he had not heard the comment. "I'm particularly anxious to find out whom he's contacting. Get a line on him as quickly as possible, shadow everyone who comes in contact with him."

  The detective slid his back down until only his hip pockets were resting on the polished leather surface of the chair. Then he spun around, lur
ched to his feet and straightened his long legs and neck, squaring shoulders which were inclined to slump slightly forward. "Okay, Perry," he said, "I'm on my way."

  At the corridor door the detective turned and said to Mason, "Suppose I find out this fellow is a phoney, are you going to show him up?"

  "Not me," Mason said, grinning. "I'll string him along and see what's back of the impersonation."

  "Bet you even money he's a phoney," Drake said.

  "His face looks honest," Mason asserted.

  "Most bunco men's do," Drake told him. "That's why they make good in the racket."

  "Well," Mason said dryly, "it's not too highly improbable that a real bishop should have an honest face. Get the hell out of here and get to work."

  Drake stood still in the doorway. "You're not taking my bet, eh, Perry?" Mason reached quickly for a law book, as though intending to use it as a missile, and the detective hastily slammed the door shut.

  The telephone rang. Mason answered it and heard Della Street 's voice saying, "Chief, there's a taxi driver out here. I think I'd better bring him in and let him talk to you."

  "A taxi driver?"

  "Yes."

  "What the devil does he want?"

  "Money," she said.

  "And you think I should see him?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you tell me what it's about over the telephone?"

  "I don't think I'd better."

  "You mean he's where he can hear what you're saying?"

  "Yes."

  Mason said, "Okay, bring him in." He had hardly hung up the telephone receiver when the door from the outer office opened, and Della Street ushered an apologetic but insistent cab driver into the office.

  "This man drove Bishop Mallory to the office, Chief," she said.

  The cab driver nodded and said, "He asked me to wait out in front of the building. I'm in a loading zone and a cop boots me out. I find a parking place and roost there and don't see anything of my man. My meter's clocking up time, so I asked the elevator starter. It happens the starter remembers him. He says the guy asked for your office, so here I am. He's a stocky chap with a turned-round collar, around fifty or fifty-five."