The Case of the Stuttering Bishop pm-9

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  "We are advising you of this in advance so you may take steps to apprehend this impostor if he remains in contact with the parties long enough to enable you to have a warrant issued. In any event, you may anticipate that some aggressive attorney, of sufficient financial responsibility to handle the case on a contingency basis, will interest himself in the matter. We would suggest you consult with your attorney in order to anticipate this situation and map out your own plan of campaign. We will have additional facts to report within the next few days.

  "Very truly yours,"

  "Doubtless," Mason said, his face not changing expression by so much as the motion of a muscle, "this letter carries weight with you?"

  "It doesn't with you?" Brownley asked, watching him shrewdly, his voice showing some surprise.

  "None whatever."

  "I paid money to get that letter," Brownley said. "When you know me better, Mr. Mason, you'll know that whenever I pay money for anything, I get the best. Permit me to state: That letter carries great weight with me."

  "The letter might have carried great weight with me," Mason told him, "if I had seen it as a letter. But you chose to tear off everything of value, leaving nothing but an anonymous communication, and I, therefore, regard it as such-merely an anonymous letter."

  Brownley's face showed his irritation. "If you think," he said, "that I'm going to divulge the identity of my fact-finding organizations, you're mistaken."

  Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, "I think nothing. I merely placed certain cards on the table and asked you to match them. So far you haven't done it."

  "And," Brownley announced with finality, "that's just as far as I'm going." Mason pushed back his chair as though to rise. "Not going, Mr. Mason?" Brownley asked.

  "Yes. If you have given me all you have to offer, you have fallen far short of convincing me."

  "Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Mason, that you are not the one to be convinced?"

  Mason, who was standing with his knuckles resting on the edge of the table, the weight of his broad shoulders supported by his rigid arms, said, "No, it hasn't. For the purpose of this interview, I'm the boss. If you can't convince me you're in the right, you've got a fight on your hands."

  "Spoken like a good business man," Brownley conceded. "But I'm going to show that you're checkmated before you start."

  "Checkmated," Mason said, "is an expression of considerable finality. I have been in 'check' many times; I have been checkmated but seldom."

  "Nevertheless," Brownley said, "you're checkmated now. It happens, Mr. Mason, that I don't want my granddaughteris name dragged through a lot of court proceedings. I don't want a lot of newspaper notoriety focused upon my private affairs. Therefore, I am going to keep you from engaging in any fight for this spurious grandchild."

  Despite himself, Mason's voice showed surprise. "You're going to keep me from doing something I want to do?" he asked.

  "Exactly," Brownley said.

  "It has been tried before," Mason told him dryly, "but never with any great degree of success."

  Brownley's lidless eyes twinkled with frosty merriment. "I can well understand that, Counselor," he said, "but since you have investigated my family, you may have investigated me and if so, you have doubtless learned that I am a ruthless fighter, a hard man to cross, and one who always gets his own way."

  "You are now speculating," Mason said, "upon the out come. Your statement a moment ago was to the effect that you were going to keep me from starting proceedings."

  "I am."

  Mason's smile of polite incredulity was a sufficient comment in itself.

  "I am going to keep you from doing it," Brownley said, "because you are a businessman. The other side have no funds with which to fight. Their only hope lies in interesting some attorney who has ample finances of his own, who will be willing to gamble upon a contingency. Therefore, if I can show you that you have no hope of winning, you are a good enough business man not to start."

  "It would," Mason told him, "take a mighty good man to convince me I had no hope of winning a lawsuit. I prefer to reach my own conclusions on that."

  "Understand," Brownley said, "I am not foolish enough to think that I could prevent you from seeking to establish the legitimacy of a spurious grandchild, but I do feel certain that I can show you it won't do you any good when once you have established your claim. Being my grandchild means nothing to anyone. The girl is of age and under any circumstances there would be no obligation on my part to support her. The sole advantage to be derived from establishing the relationship would be the expectancy of sharing in my property after I have gone. Therefore, Mr. Mason, I am making a will in which the bulk of my property is left to my granddaughter, Janice Brownley, and I particularly provide in that will that the person to whom I refer as my granddaughter is the one who is at present living with me as my grandchild; that it makes no difference whether the relationship is authentic or not; that she is the beneficiary under my will. Now then, I know that you might try to set such a will aside. Therefore, tomorrow morning at nine o'clock I shall sign conveyances which will irrevocably convey to the person who is living with me as my granddaughter a full three-fourths of my property, reserving a life estate to myself. The remaining one-fourth will be similarly transferred to my other grandchild, Philip Brownley."

  Brownley's steady, cold eyes stared triumphantly at the lawyer. "Now, Counselor," he went on, "there is a perfectly impossible legal nut for you to crack. I think you are too smart a man to butt your head against a brick wall. I want you to understand that in me you have found an adversary as ruthless as yourself. There's nothing at which I will stop when I have once made up my mind. In that way, I am, I think, much like yourself. But it happens that in this matter I hold all of the trump cards, and I intend to play them with every bit of cold blooded efficiency at my command. And now, Mr. Mason, let me wish you good night and tell you that I have enjoyed meeting you." Renwold Brownley wrapped long fingers about Mason's muscular hand, and Mason found those fingers as cold as steel.

  "The butler," Brownley said, "will show you to your car." And the butler, doubtless summoned by some secret signal noiselessly opened the library door and bowed to Perry Mason.

  Mason stared at Brownley. "You're not a lawyer?" he asked.

  "No, but I have the benefit of the best legal talent available."

  Mason turned, nodded to the butler and picked up his rain coat. "When I have finished with the case," he said grimly, "you may have changed your mind about the efficiency of your lawyers. Good night, Mr. Brownley."

  Mason paused at the outer door long enough to let the butler assist him into his coat. Rain was beating down in torrents whipping the surface of the driveway into miniature geysers. The branches of the wind-lashed trees tossed about like grotesque arms, waving in surrender to the storm. Mason slammed the door of his car, switched on the ignition and headlights, snapped the gearshift back into low gear, and ease in the clutch. The car purred out from the shelter of the porte-cochere into the full force of the storm. He had shifted to second, and was placing a cautious foot upon the brake pedal to slow down for a curve in the graveled driveway, when his headlights picked out a figure which stood, braced against the beating rain.

  Against the black background of the shrubbery, the figure was etched into white brilliance by the headlights, a slender young man, a rain coat turned up about his neck, a hat pulled low down on the forehead, water streaming from the brim. He extended his arms, and Mason kicked out the clutch and slowed the car to a stop. The young man walked toward him.

  Mason was conscious of the white pallor of the face, of the burning purpose in the dark eyes. Mason rolled down the window of his car.

  "You're Mr. Mason, the lawyer?" the young man asked.

  "Yes."

  "I'm Philip Brownley. Does that mean anything to you?"

  "Grandson of Renwold Brownley?" Mason asked.

  "Yes."

  "And you wanted to see me?"

&
nbsp; "Yes."

  "Better get in out of the rain," Mason said. "Perhaps you'd like to drive to my office with me."

  "No. And my grandfather mustn't know that I've talked with you. Tell me, you talked with him?"

  "Yes."

  "What about?"

  "I'd prefer that you made your inquiries from your grandfather," Mason said.

  "It was about Jan, wasn't it?"

  "Jan?"

  "You know, Janice-my cousin."

  "After all," Mason told him, "I don't feel free to discuss the matter, particularly at present."

  "I might make you a valuable ally," Philip offered.

  "You might," Mason admitted.

  "After all, our interests are somewhat in common."

  "Do you mean by that," Mason inquired, "that you feel the person living here in the house as Janice Brownley isn't the daughter of Oscar Brownley?"

  "I meant," Philip repeated, "that I might make you an ally."

  Mason said slowly, "I don't think there's anything I'd care to discuss with you at present."

  "Is it true that Grandfather is going to tie your hands by conveying all of his property to Janice and reserving only a life estate for himself?"

  "That's also something I'd prefer not to discuss right now. But I'd like very much to talk with you at a more propitious time. Suppose you come to my office tomorrow morning at about ten o'clock."

  "No! No! I can't. But don't you understand what's happened? Grandfather hired a firm of detectives to find Janice. He offered a bonus of twenty-five thousand dollars if they'd find her. They couldn't find Janice, but they weren't going to pass up twenty-five thousand dollars, so they faked the whole business. She's been living here for two years and she's hypnotized him utterly and completely. Morally, I'm entitled to just as much of the estate as she is, even if she's genuine. But she's hypnotized him into giving her the bulk of the property. She's an unscrupulous, scheming adventuress. She wouldn't stop at anything. She…" Philip Brownley's voice choked with indignation. For several seconds the only sounds were those of the storm, the rain drumming on the roof of the closed car, the tossing branches of the trees, the rush of the wind.

  Mason, staring steadily at the young man, said, "So what?"

  "I want you to stop it."

  "How?"

  "I don't know how. That's up to you. I just want you to know you can count on my support-but it must be secret. Grandfather must never know it."

  "Can you come to my office?" Mason asked.

  "No. He'd find it out."

  "How do you know she's a fake?"

  "The way she's gone about wheedling her way into his affections."

  "That's not evidence."

  "There are other things."

  Mason said, "Look here, young man, when you first talked about her, you referred to her as 'Jan.' That's sort of a pet name. Now you may be trying to help me, and you may be trying to pump me to find out what I plan on doing. I've offered you a chance to come to my office with me. You won't. You won't even meet me. You can't tell me your grandfather keeps you under such close supervision. Moreover, anyone who might be watching from that house can see I've stopped my car to talk with you…"

  "Good Lord!" the young man interrupted, "I never thought of that!" He whirled and dove for the shadows of a hedge.

  Mason waited a few minutes, then kicked the car into gear and stepped on the throttle. He drove directly to a branch office of the Western Union. Standing at the counter, with rain trickling down from the skirts of his coat, he wrote a message to be sent by wireless: BISHOP WILLIAM MALLORY S.S. "MONTEREY" EN ROUTE TO SYDNEY AUSTRALIA VIA HONOLULU-IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS MAKE IT IMPERATIVE YOU VOUCH FOR IDENTITY OF WOMAN CLAIMING TO BE JULIA BRANNER WHO CALLED ON ME THIS EVENING SHORTLY AFTER YOUR BOAT SAILED.

  He signed the message, paid the charges, and stepped into the telephone booth, where he closed the door and called the number Julia Branner had given him. A woman's voice, thin, toneless, and self-effacing, answered the telephone. "Is this Julia Branner?" Mason asked.

  "No. This is her friend, Stella Kenwood. Is this Mr. Mason, the lawyer?"

  "Yes."

  "Just a moment, Mr. Mason. She'll talk with you."

  After the thin, reedy voice of Stella Kenwood, Julia Branner's resonant, throaty tones seemed to flow over the wire and fill the confines of the telephone booth, in which the warmth of Mason's body, evaporating the moisture from his woolen garments, made the atmosphere close and stuffy. "What did you find out?" she demanded. "Tell me quickly!"

  Mason said, "Nothing encouraging. Brownley's a man of considerable determination. He's planning to make a will leaving the bulk of his property to the girl who's been living there in the house as his granddaughter. He's also planning to convey her most of his property outright, leaving only a life estate in himself."

  "He's done that already?" Julia Branner said.

  "No. He's going to do it in the morning."

  Mason could hear her inhale a quick breath. "Is there anything we can do between now and morning?" she asked.

  "No," he said. "Unless we could show he was incompetent, we couldn't stop him from doing as he pleased with his property at any time he pleased. But we have a remedy he hasn't thought of. I'll explain it to you in the morning."

  There were several moments of silence during which Mason could hear only the buzzing of the wire. Then Julia Branner's voice said. "Do you think there's anything you can do. Mason?"

  "I'll talk it over with you in the morning," he said.

  "It sounds very discouraging to me," she insisted. "I think he has us licked, unless…"

  "Unless what?" Mason asked, after she became silent.

  "Unless I do something that I didn't intend to do except a last resort."

  "What?" he asked.

  "I think I have one way of convincing Renwold Brownley," she said. "It all depends on whether he wants something which I have badly enough to do exactly what I tell him to."

  Mason said, "Now, listen. You keep out of this and sit tight. I'll talk with you in the morning. You can't force Brownley do anything. He's shrewd, obstinate, and ruthless." When there was no answer to what he had said, Mason tapped transmitter with his knuckles and said, "Did you hear me?"

  "Yes. I heard you," she said in a noncommittal tone. "What time can I see you in the morning?"

  "Ten o'clock," he told her, "at my office," and hung up receiver.

  Chapter 7

  Rain was beating with steady insistence against the windows of Perry Mason's apartment when he was awakened by the steady ringing of the telephone. He groped for the switch of his bed lamp, propped himself up in bed and lifted the receiver to his ear. The damp breeze which came in through the open window and whipped the lace curtains in flapping protest against the wet screens, blew cold across the lawyer's chest. He groped for his bathrobe and was pulling it up under his chin as he said, "Hello," and heard Paul Drake's voice saying, "Here's a break, Perry. It looks as though you've drawn another one." Mason rubbed sleep from his eyes and said thickly, "What's happened? What time is it?"

  "It's exactly three-fifteen," Drake said. "One of my men has telephoned from Wilmington. You wanted the Brownley angle covered, so I put a shadow out at the house. About an hour ago old Brownley climbed into his coupe and started going places. It was raining hard. My man followed. He tagged along without any difficulty until Brownley got down to the harbor district. He figured Brownley was heading straight for the yacht he keeps. So my man got just a little careless. He let Brownley get too far ahead of him and lost him, figured there was nothing to it, went over to the yacht and waited. Brownley didn't show up. My man started making a swing around, trying to find the car. He'd been driving around about ten minutes when he saw a man running and waving his arms. My man stopped the car. This chap ran up to him and said that Brownley had been murdered; that some woman in a white rain coat had stepped out of the shadows, climbed onto the running board of Brownley's car, fired five or six shots, and th
en beat it.

  "This guy was pretty rattled. He wanted to telephone headquarters right away. My operative ran him to a telephone, and they called the ambulance and the police, although this witness insisted the man was so dead there was no use getting an ambulance. After they'd telephoned, my operative went back to find the car and the body. They couldn't find it. The police showed up and they couldn't find it. I'm going down to look the situation over and I figured you might like to come along."

  "It was Renwold C. Brownley?" Mason asked.

  "In person."

  "That," the lawyer said, "is going to make a splash."

  "Are you telling me?" Drake said. "Every newspaper in the city will be getting out extras within the next two hours."

  "Where are you now?"

  "At my office."

  "Drive down for me and I'll be dressed and standing on the sidewalk by the time you get here," Mason said.

  He hung up the telephone, jumped out of bed and closed the window with his right hand while he was unbuttoning his pajamas with his left. Mason tied his necktie in the elevator, struggled into his rain coat as he crossed the lobby of the apartment house, and reached the pavement just as Drake's automobile slewed around the corner, sending the twin beams of dazzling headlights dancing through the rain, illuminating the little mushrooms of water which geysered up from the wet pavement as the big drops bulleted downward. As Drake skidded the car away from the curb, Mason settled himself against the cushions and said, "A woman did the killing Paul?"

  "Yes, a woman in a white rain coat."

  "What happened?"

  "As nearly as I could get it over the telephone, Brownley was looking for someone. He had slowed his car almost to a stop and was crawling along the pavement when this woman stepped out from the deeper shadows. He had evidently been expecting her because he stopped his coupe and rolled down the window. She climbed up on the running board, raised an automatic, and fired a bunch of shots. Then she jumped back to the street, sprinted around the corner, and made a get-away. The witness saw the get-away car. It was a Chevrolet, but he couldn't get the license number. He took a look in the coupe and saw Brownley all in a huddle against the steering wheel. Apparently every one of the shots had taken effect. The witness started to run without any very definite objective. He said he'd run for four or five minutes when he saw the headlights of my operative's machine."