"Did he know you were trying to signal me?" Mason asked.
"I don't think so. I tried to blow the whistle when the party got rough. I tell you, Chief, he was desperate. I saw panic and murder in his eyes. He's frightened stiff at something, and he's like a cornered rat."
Mason nodded and said, "Of course he's frightened."
"At what?" she asked.
Mason said, "Janice Seaton is the real granddaughter of Renwold Brownley. These detectives were in on the original crooked substitution and they've got to make it stick. With Brownley dead, they'll get a cut from the fake granddaughter, which'll make them independently wealthy. They're gambling with a fortune on one side and jail on the other."
"Wouldn't it have been logical for them to have killed Brownley?"
"Lots of people could logically have killed him," Mason told her. "My job is to find who did kill him."
"What'll I do with this stuff?"
"Give it to me," Mason said.
"You're going to keep it?"
"I'll hold it for evidence."
"Won't it be larceny? There's money in that purse. He might file a complaint…"
Mason interrupted savagely, "To hell with him! When the time comes, I'll turn these letters over to Jim Pauley, the house dick at the Regal, and he'll make a complaint charging these birds with burgling the bishop's room."
"You caved in the whole front of that man's face, Chief," she said.
His eyes were smoldering as he looked at her, his jaw pushed aggressively forward, "I wish to hell," he said, "that I'd made a better job of it." He crossed to the telephone, called Drake's agency, frowned when informed Drake was at a Turkish bath, and said to Drake's secretary, "Get all the dope you can on a private detective by the name of Peter Sacks. He thought Della Street was the Seaton girl and tried to bump her off… Get your men busy on that angle." Mason hung up the telephone. "Okay, kid," he said, "you go back to the office."
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I," he told her grimly, "am going to the Santa Del Rios Hotel to interview the spurious granddaughter of Renwold C. Brownley."
Chapter 11
Mason folded a twenty-dollar bill and slid it into the palm of the girl at the switchboard in the Santa Del Rios Hotel. "All I ask," he said, "is that you get her on the line for me. I'll take care of things after that."
"I have positive orders," she demurred. "She's been deluged by newspaper reporters."
"And she's dodging publicity?"
"I'll say. She's overcome with grief."
"Yeah," Mason said, "overcome with grief because she's inherited a few million and is going to get her paws on it."
"Are you a newspaper man?" the girl at the switchboard asked. Mason shook his head. "What then?"
"To you," Mason told her, "I'm Santa Claus."
She sighed and her fingers closed over the twenty dollars. "If I nod my head," she said, "get in booth two. I'll have her on the line. That's all I can do."
"That's all you have to do," Mason told her. "What's her number?"
"She's in Suite A on the second floor."
"Okay," Mason remarked and stepped back from the desk. The nimble fingers of the girl flew over the switchboard. From time to time she talked into the mouthpiece which was held in position on her chest so that the curved rubber transmitter was within a few inches of her lips. Suddenly she turned to Mason and nodded. Mason entered the booth, picked up the receiver and said, "Hello." A feminine voice of silken texture said, "Yes, what is it?"
Mason said, "I'm Mr. Mason here in the hotel, and I think I should discuss with you arrangements we're perfecting to keep newspaper reporters from bothering you. We've had a perfect swarm of them down here. They've been ordered to get interviews or else, and unless we cooperate I'm afraid you'll be seriously annoyed."
The voice said, "That'll be fine, Mr. Mason. I appreciate what you're doing."
"May I come up now?" Mason asked.
"Yes. Go to 209 and tap on the door. I'll let you in through there. Don't come to Suite A. I think that's being watched by the newspaper men."
Mason thanked her, hung up, took the elevator to the second floor and knocked on the door of 209. It was opened by an attractive young woman in green lounging pajamas who flashed him a seductive smile and locked the door behind him. Then she led the way through connecting doors across two bathrooms and three conventionally furnished hotel bedrooms, into a corner suite at the end of the wing, where luxurious furnishings and deep carpets created the atmosphere of a palatial home.
She nodded toward a chair and said, "How about a cigarette and a little Scotch and soda?"
"Thanks," said Mason.
While he selected a cigarette, she poured Scotch from a cut-glass decanter into a tall glass, dropped in ice cubes and squirted carbonated water into the glass. "Have you heard any news?" she asked. "Have they found Grandfather's body?"
"Not yet," he told her. "This must be quite a shock to you."
"It is," she said, "a terrible shock," and placed a jeweled hand to her eyes.
"Can you," Mason said, settling back in his chair, "remember anything of your early childhood?"
"Why of course," she told him, removing her hand and staring at him in steady appraisal.
"You were an adopted child, I believe."
"Say, what's the idea?" she asked, her eyes suddenly wary, her muscles stiffening as though she were ready to run. "You said you wanted to see me about keeping out newspaper reporters."
Mason nodded easily and said, "That was the stall Pete told me to use to fool the telephone girl. I supposed he'd tipped you off on it."
"Pete?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
"Sure," Mason said, blowing out a casual puff of cigarette smoke.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Mason frowned impatiently. "Listen! I haven't got all day on this thing. Pete Sacks and Victor Stockton told me to get in touch with you. Pete said not to let you know who I was, because he was afraid someone might be listening in on the telephone calls, so I was to pull that stall about keeping the newspaper reporters away from you, and he was to tip you off what it meant so I wouldn't have any trouble getting in. When you told me to come on up, I figured of course Pete had been in touch with you."
Her eyes studied the pink polish on her fingernails for almost ten seconds before she said, "Who are you?"
Mason said, "Look here; there's no chance Pete's double-crossing both of us, is there? You came over on the Monterey with Bishop Mallory, didn't you?"
She nodded her head, started to say something, then changed her mind, hesitated a moment.
Mason heard the faint sound of a door-latch clicking behind him, but was afraid to turn his head.
"Just who are you?" the girl asked again, and this time her voice seemed filled with more confidence.
A man standing in the doorway said, "His name's Perry Mason. He's a lawyer representing a couple of blackmailers who are trying to shake down the estate for a nice piece of change."
Mason slowly turned and encountered the steely eyes of Victor Stockton.
"A lawyer!" Janice Brownley exclaimed, getting to her feet, her voice showing consternation.
"Yes. What have you told him?"
"Nothing."
Stockton nodded and said to Mason, "It's time you and I had a little talk."
Mason said grimly, "When I talk to you, it'll be on the witness stand and under oath."
Stockton moved easily across the room, dropped into a chair and said, "Pour me a drink, Janice." His watchful eyes didn't leave Mason's face.
Janice Brownley splashed Scotch into a glass and fumbled for ice cubes with the silver tongs. Stockton settled back in the chair comfortably and said to Mason, "Don't be too sure. There's a warrant out for your arrest."
"For my arrest!" Mason exclaimed.
Stockton nodded and grinned. "Grand larceny, assault with a deadly weapon, and robbery," he said.
Mason's shrew
d eyes studied the other man in critical appraisal. "Because of Sacks?" he asked.
"Because of Sacks," Stockton said. "You can't pull that stuff and get away with it."
Mason remarked grimly, "The hell I can't. You haven't seen anything yet. I was going to let the matter drop. But if you want to go ahead with it, we'll see where you get off. Sacks tried to commit murder. He pulled a gun on me and I smashed his nose and took it away from him. He got off lucky."
Stockton said to Janice Brownley, "Not too much soda Janice." He turned his frosty back to Mason and said, "Listen, I'm a detective. Pete's working for me. We've known for more than three weeks an attempt was going to be made to shake Brownley down. I didn't know just how it was going to be done. I figured it would be played through some lawyer. A smart lawyer would have kept himself in the clear by going to Brownley first and then letting Janice come to him with a proposition. A boob would have laid himself wide open to blackmail charges by coming to Janice first. In either event, it was a shakedown, so I figured on beating you to the punch. I tipped the old man off, and I told Janice just what she could expect. We were laying for you. Then you stole a march on us by killing the old man… Now, keep your shirt on. I don't say you did it, but you know who did it and I know who did it. That's put us in a funny spot, particularly if there isn't any will, or if the will should leave property to the granddaughter without specifying that by the word granddaughter he means the girl who is living in his house with him."
Janice Brownley silently handed him the glass. Stockton clinked the ice against the sides of the glass and raised it to his lips.
"So what?" Mason asked.
Stockton said, "You'd like to have me tell you that if you'd step out of the case, Pete Sacks would drop the charges against you. Then you'd use that statement to show the D.A. we were trying to use him for a cat's-paw. Well, Mr. Perry Mason, you've got another guess coming. That's a trap I'm not walking into."
"I'm still listening," Mason told him.
Stockton said slowly, measuring his words with scrupulous care, "It might be better business for Janice to make some sort of compromise. It's going to be darned near impossible for her to prove her relationship. On the other hand, it's going to be utterly impossible for anyone to disprove it."
"You have something in mind?" Mason asked.
"Have you?" Stockton countered.
"No."
"No offer of settlement?"
"None whatever."
Stockton said, "All right then, we're going to fight every inch of the way. There'll be no compromise. You've seen fit to mix in this thing, and now you're going to take it right on the chin. If you'd stayed in your office, minding your own business and practicing law, you'd have been in the clear. You didn't do that. You went running around, playing detective and acting smart. Now you've bit into something, and I'm going to let you try and chew it. Julia Branner had a pipe-dream which didn't work, so she bumped Brownley off to keep him from making a will which would knock her scheme into a cocked hat. It might have been a swell break if Bixler hadn't seen the whole thing. The way it stands now, Julie Branner's going to be convicted of murder as a principal. The girl she's trying to palm off as her daughter is going to be convicted of being an accessory after the fact, and you're going to be disbarred and convicted of assault with a deadly weapon, grand larceny, and robbery. After that, you can figure how a jury will feel about giving you three birds a slice of the estate-And don't slam the door as you go out."
Mason said, "I'm not slamming any doors just yet. And, by the way, Janice, where were you when your grandfather was killed?"
Stockton set down his glass. His face darkened a shade. "So," he said, "you're going to try something like that, eh?"
"I just asked a question," Mason said.
"Well, you ask too damn many questions. And, in case you want to know, Janice has a perfect alibi. She was with me."
A slow smile spread over Mason's face and he said, "Well, now isn't that nice. Janice is a ringer you've planted on the old man. She's about to get shown up and you are desperate so you…"
"Steal Julia Branner's gun, forge her name to a letter, and bump off the old man," Stockton interrupted. "The weak part about that is the taxi driver knows it was Julia who sent the message which lured the old man down to the beach. It was Julia Branner's fingerprints the police found on the car where she'd hung onto the window while she emptied her gun into him. It was Julia Branner's gun that did the killing, and it was Julia Branner's wet clothes the police found in her apartment when they made the pinch, before she'd quite got in bed."
"And in addition," Janice Brownley said, "there were…"
"Keep out of this, Janice," Stockton interrupted, without shifting his eyes from the lawyer. "I'll do the talking."
"Yes," Mason said sarcastically, "he's your alibi, Janice. He swears you were with him when the murder was committed, so you couldn't have done it, and you swear he was with you, so he couldn't have done it."
Stockton grinned and said, "And don't forget my wife. She was there, and a notary public who lives across the hall that I'd called in to make an additional witness." Stockton finished the last of his drink. His grin was slow, deliberate and unfriendly. "I've told you enough so you can see what you're up against," he said, "and that's all you're going to find out from us."
"What do you want?" Mason asked.
"Nothing."
"What's your proposition?"
Stockton grinned and said, "We haven't any. And what's more, we aren't going to make any. You're going to be too much on the defensive from now on to rig up any more blackmailing schemes."
Mason said sarcastically, "I presume that after Pete Sacks broke into Bishop Mallory's room, sapped the bishop with a blackjack and stole the bishop's private papers, the D.A. will consider it a felony for someone who's representing Bishop Mallory to recover the papers?"
Stockton shook his head. "Don't be funny. You know why you framed Pete into that trap just as well as I do. You wanted the key."
There was genuine surprise in Mason's voice. "The key?" he asked.
Stockton nodded.
"What key?"
"The one you got," Stockton said grimly. "Don't play so damn innocent."
"I got a bunch of keys," Mason said.
"As well as a hundred dollars in cash and a few other things. But what you wanted was the key."
Mason kept his face without expression. Stockton studied him for a moment and said, "Don't act so damn innocent.-Hell, you may be just a sucker, at that. How the hell do you suppose we knew the inside of this blackmail racket? We had a line into Julia Brownley before she even came to California. She figured Pete was a torpedo who was willing to bump anyone off, and she played right into his hands. She put up a proposition to Pete to kill Brownley before he could make another will. She had a man who was going to pose as Bishop Mallory long enough to make a deposition which would identify Janice Seaton as the real granddaughter. This bishop was a phoney who had been carefully rehearsed in the part he was to play. She might have fooled the old man, or she might even have been able to get a shake-down from Janice here, if she hadn't spilled the whole dope to Pete. She was playing Pete to be her right-hand man. She was going to get some lawyer who could put up a good fight, sell him on her story, and let him contact Brownley. If Brownley was willing to kick through in order to avoid a stink, she'd settle. If Brownley got tough she was going to bump him off, and Pete was the one she'd picked to do the dirty work. She gave Pete a key to her apartment and promised him twenty-five percent of whatever she and Janice Seaton got out of the deal. And, just to show you what a sucker you are, she'd even planned to contact the old man behind your back after you'd broken the ice. She was going to make a settlement with him and leave you out in the cold, and if she couldn't scare the old man into a settlement she was going to try and shake the granddaughter down for a few thousand and leave you holding the sack.-At that she might have had us worried if we hadn't had Pete in on the gr
ound floor.
"After the murder, you were mixed in so deep you had to get her out in order to get yourself out. You had to get that key from Pete, because that key corroborated his testimony. So you trapped Pete into an apartment where you could beat him up and grab the evidence, but we've got just a little more on Julia Branner than you figured. You've made your bed, and now you can lie in it."
Mason got to his feet. Stockton set down the empty glass, took a step toward Mason and said, "And don't come here any more. Do you get that?"
Mason stared at the man moodily. "I have," he said, slowly, "already smashed one nose, and I'd just as soon smash another."
Stockton stood still, neither retreating nor advancing. "And you have already stolen some papers which were evidence in the case," he said. "When Pete tried to get back that evidence you swung on him and pulled a gun on me. Don't forget that. And if you keep on playing around with this bunch of blackmailers you're tied up with, you'll probably find yourself mixed in a murder charge."
Mason strode toward the door, but turned in the doorway. "How much of a cut are you supposed to get out of the inheritance for having dug up an heir to the estate?" he asked.
Stockton grinned mirthlessly and said, "Don't bother about it now, Mason. Write me a letter from San Quentin. You'll have more time to think things over when you get up there."
Mason left the room, took the elevator to the lobby, and was halfway across the sidewalk when someone touched him on the arm. He whirled to encounter Philip Brownley. "Hello," he said, "what are you doing here?"
Brownley said grimly, "I'm keeping watch on Janice."
"Afraid something's going to happen to her?" Mason asked.
Brownley shook his head and said, "Look here, Mr. Mason, I want to talk with you."
"Go on and talk," Mason told him.
"Not here."
"Where?"
"My car's parked at the curb. I saw you go in, and called to you, but you didn't hear me. I was waiting for you to come out. Let's sit in my car and talk."
Mason said, "I don't like the climate around here. A man by the name of Stockton is playing smart… Do you know Stockton?"
The Case of the Stuttering Bishop pm-9 Page 12
