The Case of the Borrowed Brunette

by The Case of the Borrowed Brunette (retail) (epub)

  “Can you describe him?” Mason asked.

  “He’s somewhere around thirty, with dark hair and sort of pop eyes and glasses. Tall, and sort of milk-custardy.”

  “Evidently the one who showed up later and paid the women off.”

  “That’s right. That’s what Cora said when I described him to her.”

  “And so Eva Martell was installed in this apartment as Helen Reedley. Was there anything in the apartment?”

  “Was there anything in the apartment!” Adelle Winters echoed. “I’ll say there was something in the apartment! There was everything in there. Clothes, underwear, nylon stockings, lotions, creams—absolutely everything that a body could want. And this representative of Mr. Hines . . .”

  “Did he ever give you his name?” Mason asked.

  “What do you take me for?” she snorted. “That man was Mr. Hines himself! He was the one who put the ad in the paper and was behind the whole business. I’m sure of it.”

  “But he didn’t ever give you his name?”

  “No, he just kept saying he was ‘Mr. Hines’s representative.’ And he certainly was a fast worker. He took us up to that apartment and told us to stay there until he got back—just make ourselves at home. Then he went dashing out, I suppose to tell the other girls the job had been filled. And then he came back maybe an hour and a half later to tell us the details.”

  “And what were the details?” Mason asked.

  “Well in the first place, he told us we must break off completely from our past lives; we were to live in that apartment without having any connection with the outside world except such as he approved of. We were not to call any of our friends on the telephone, not to write any letters, not to try to communicate with them in any way.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. That was part of the job, he said—that we would have to do it that way because it was part of the job. Eva Martell was to be Helen Reedley. I was to go by my own name and be there as a companion and nurse. Because the idea was to create the impression this Miss Reedley was sick and might get worse. She was to keep inside most of the time, and if people came to see her I was to tell ’em she was nervous and had given instructions that she couldn’t see anyone; or, if they seemed to be old friends, I’d say she was out. If anyone called up on the telephone and asked to speak with Miss Reedley, I was to answer the phone, get the name and the number, and say that Miss Reedley would call back later. Then I was to call Mr. Hines and tell him about it. And that was all.

  “What’s more, Hines said that whenever we went out, Eva was to wear the clothes that were there in the apartment—she wasn’t to wear anything of her own. You can see now why the man wanted a girl of a certain height and certain other measurements—the whole job was to be one of impersonation.”

  Mason’s eyes showed that he was interested. “How about you? How about your clothes?”

  “Humph!” Adelle Winters snorted. “He said I didn’t matter. He said I could wear what I had on no matter where I went. And I certainly gave him a piece of my mind about that. I told him he could see that I had some clothes or we’d walk off the job, both of us.”

  “So then?”

  “Well, he finally gave me permission to go and get some of my clothes. But he insisted on going with me. He said he would take the clothes and see that they were delivered to the apartment. And do you know how he intends to deliver them?”

  “How?”

  “He’s going to pay a dry-cleaning establishment to bring them in on hangers as though they were some clothes we’d sent out! He’s terribly particular about not having baggage of any sort moved into the apartment or out of it.”

  “About the real Helen Reedley’s intimate friends? How are they to be handled?”

  “Apparently the same way other calls are handled. If they ring up I’m supposed to get their names and tell them Miss Reedley is out, or sleeping, or something. Then I’m to call him.”

  “You’ve done that?”

  “Twice, yes.”

  “And does he tell you to have Eva call them later?”

  “No.”

  “And do the friends ring up again and ask why they weren’t called?”

  “So far they haven’t. In case that ever happens, Mr. Hines says, I’m to tell them I gave Miss Reedley the message, but that she was rushing out to see her doctor and that she probably intends to call them from the doctor’s office.”

  “Then Hines has given you a telephone number?”

  “That’s right. The same one that was in that ad.”

  “Have you checked up to see if he’s listed in the phone book?”

  “Yes, but it’s evidently an unlisted number.”

  “But if he’s holding you there incommunicado,” Mason said, “how does it happen that you have talked with Cora Felton and now have come here?”

  “Humph! D’you think I’d let him pull anything like that on me? He and I went out for my clothes, and after I’d got them he took them and called a taxi. When I was inside it, he took the driver off a little way and gave him quite a talking to, and then handed him a bill. Then he raised his hat and said he’d see me at the apartment, that the cab driver knew where to go.

  “Well, as soon as the driver started off, I asked him where he was going. He gave me the address all right. So then I told him I wanted to stop at a telephone and he smiled and said no, that the rate he had agreed to didn’t allow for any stop, that he’d have to keep right on going. Well, one thing led to another, and finally I found out that Hines had told him I was a little simple-minded and forgetful and that if I ever got out on the street I wouldn’t be able to find my way back home alone; that two or three times lately I’ve had to be located through the police. While I was perfectly harmless and didn’t have any hallucinations or anything, I’d just lost part of my mind, and under no circumstances was he to trust me out of the car until he got to that address. Then he was to see that I went right upstairs into the apartment.”

  “So what did you do?” Mason asked.

  “I proceeded to tell that cabby where he got off at! I explained that the man was my son-in-law who was always playing practical jokes on me and that I’d pin his ears back when I got home. And I went on to show the driver that I knew my way perfectly well around the city by telling him every street and every turn we’d made since I got into the cab. Well, that convinced him all right, so pretty soon he agreed to stop and let me out—and I could telephone Cora. Sure enough, she was home. I told her the whole story over the telephone and she said that, just in case what I was thinking was true, I’d better go straight to you. She felt sure you’d know what to do because you were acquainted with the case already.”

  “And what were you thinking?” asked Mason.

  Her glance was almost pitying. “Good heavens, Mr. Mason, you’re a lawyer. Don’t you know what it is—yet?”

  Mason shook his head.

  She snorted again. “Why, that man is no more Hines than I am! He’s Helen Reedley’s husband. He’s killed her and disposed of the body, and now he’s working up some sort of scheme to prevent this from being known. So he’s got Eva and me living there and pretending that everything’s hunky-dory. Then after a while he’ll tell us to say we’re going away, and we’ll pack up and get out, telling everybody we’re going to Mexico City or some place.”

  “Who’s everybody?”

  “Why, all of the Reedley girl’s friends.”

  “But don’t you think that if any of her friends saw Eva Martell they’d know she wasn’t Helen Reedley?”

  “Of course they would, but evidently the kind of friends she has wouldn’t come to her apartment without ringing up first. That’s where all this sick business comes in. He can give out that his wife got worse in Mexico City and died there!”

  Mason’s nod was not one of agreement, but much the gesture of a man who doesn’t want to waste time in profitless argument and so yields the point, leaving his mind free to concentrate.

/>   Adelle Winters was going on. “I’m not so dumb—I wasn’t born yesterday. That man has a key to the apartment, and he has the run of the whole place. He knows where everything in it is, right down to the smallest pair of silk panties. He knows his way around the apartment like nobody’s business. I tell you he’s lived there! He’s got rid of this Reedley woman and needs time to dispose of the body and build up his scheme. That’s why he’s got us there—so that he can get out from under.”

  “Of course,” Mason pointed out, frowning, “there are some points that don’t check with that theory. In the first place, why would he leave so much evidence around? He could be traced through that ad looking for a brunette actress. In the second place, the story that you and Eva Martell would be able to tell would absolutely convict him. If he’s gone that far, then he must intend to see that something happens to you—to both of you—just as soon as you’ve given him the alibi or whatever it is he wants. It would seem to me that he’d be more apt to be planning to kill her, and then to give himself an alibi by showing she was in her apartment at the very time police claim he was doing the killing. . . . But how would he show that?”

  “You listen to me, young man! You can bet your bottom dollar there’s a murder wrapped up in this. Why, even her purse is there!”

  Mason raised skeptical eyebrows. “Probably an old purse she’s stopped using and—”

  “No such thing. It’s her purse, her very own purse!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Why, it’s got her things in it.”

  “What things?”

  “Lipstick, compact, handkerchief, visiting cards, a coin purse with three dollars in silver and thirty-two dollars in currency, a pair of dark kid gloves, and a leather key-container with half a dozen keys in it.”

  “Keys to the apartment?” Mason asked.

  “One of them is.”

  “What are the others to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “I don’t think they’re safety-deposit keys, if that’s what you mean. They look just like ordinary door keys. Not the old-fashioned kind, but the kind with the indentations that slips right into the lock and then turns.”

  “Social Security number?” Mason asked.

  “No. No Social Security card.”

  “Driver’s license?”

  “No. No driver’s license.”

  “That purse sounds like a plant to me, Mrs. Winters.”

  ‘Well, it could be, but I don’t think it is. I tell you, that Reedley woman has been murdered. I know it just as well as I know I’m sitting here. You surely must have heard of feminine intuition?”

  “I have,” Mason replied with a grin, “but the police haven’t!”

  “Well, I’ve had that feeling ever since I walked into the apartment. It’s a murder apartment, and Eva Martell and I are acting as cover-ups for a murder. Now, you’re a lawyer and you’re responsible. If you tell me that what we’re doing isn’t illegal and that we’re to go right ahead with it, why, then, young man, you can assume the responsibility—”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mason laughed. “In the first place, you’re approaching me simply because I talked with Cora Felton on the street. You haven’t any money to pay lawyers and don’t intend to pay me. I’m not a public official. If you want to be sure that you’re in the clear, my advice to you is to go to the police.”

  She snorted again. “I’d cut a pretty figure going to the police and trying to tell them about my suspicions. I don’t know what a lawyer’s for if it isn’t to advise people.”

  Della Street’s telephone rang. She glanced questioningly at Mason, and, at his nod, picked up the receiver. “Yes, this is Mr. Mason’s confidential secretary talking. . . . Who? . . . Oh, yes . . . How are you this morning? . . . Why, yes. . . . Well, nothing definite yet. . . . Just hold the line, please.”

  Della placed the receiver on the desk, drew a memorandum pad to her, and wrote on it: “Cora Felton is on the line. She seems very much worked up and would like to have you talk with her. She knows that Mrs. Winters is here.”

  She passed the message across the desk to Mason. He read it, nodded to her, picked up his own telephone, and said, “Gertie, connect me with that call on Della’s desk. . . . Hello.”

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Mason.” Cora Felton’s voice was apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you. I suppose this is a pretty small matter for a man of your standing, but since you already know about the case and have had a sort of unofficial connection with it, I thought . . . Well, Mr. Mason, I don’t know how much we are going to make out of it—how much Eva is going to, I mean—but would it cost an awful lot to have you investigate it, at least to the point of making sure that Eva is not doing anything illegal?”

  “I presume that could be arranged,” Mason replied, “as far as the financial details are concerned.”

  “Oh, Mr. Mason, I’d be so relieved if you would take an interest in it. I have a great deal of confidence in Aunt Adelle’s ability to take care of herself, but I think that the situation may be sufficiently out of the usual so that perhaps the police should be notified. Though I don’t want to do that except as a last resort. Could you look into it at least enough to decide whether the police ought to be notified? And about how much would that cost?”

  “The charge will be nominal,” Mason said. “Am I at liberty to tell the party you mention about this call?”

  “You mean Aunt Adelle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I wish you would, Mr. Mason. She’s worried and—”

  “It’s all right,” Mason said. “I’ll explain the situation to her. If you’ll give me your number, I’ll call back and let you know.”

  Mason scribbled the number on a pad, hung up the telephone, and turned to Adelle Winters. “That was Cora Felton on the line. She has asked me to make an investigation. Well, I’ll have to talk with this man Hines. Now follow my instructions very carefully. Go back to the apartment. Don’t tell Hines you have been here—let him think that you went right home in the taxi. Is it waiting down on the street, or did you discharge it?”

  “No, it’s waiting. You see, I thought perhaps Mr. Hines might be there by the time I arrived, and if he saw me show up with another cab driver . . .”

  “Good!” Mason commented. “Now you go on back there. Go up to the apartment. Start living just the same as usual. In about an hour I’ll telephone. I’ll tell you that I’m Perry Mason, the attorney, and that I want to talk with Miss Reedley. I’ll say that I’m coming out in fifteen minutes to see Miss Reedley, that I won’t take no for an answer, and that if I don’t see her I’ll call the police. You can then ring up Hines at the number he gave you and tell him of the conversation and ask him what you are to do about it. You won’t let on you know me or that you have any idea why I’m calling.”

  “You think Mr. Hines will be there when you arrive?” she asked.

  “He’ll either be there,” Mason said, “or he’ll be high-tailing it out of the country, depending on what sort of flimflam he’s working.”

  “Well,” she said, “that’s a load off my mind. I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Mason, that it takes a good deal to get me worried. I’ve been in some pretty tight spots. But there’s something about this—that sinister feeling in the place . . . You just feel as though somebody had been killed in there. It gives you the creeps. . . .”

  “One more thing,” Mason said. “Has there been any man in the picture? Have you been ordered to see any man, or to be seen with any man?”

  “Only Mr. Hines. He has taken us to dinner with him every night since we’ve been there.”

  “Where?”

  “Small restaurants—nice places, but rather small.”

  “Made any passes?”

  “No. Of course not. I’ve got a gun in that purse, Mr. Mason—and I can use it. If he gets fresh with Eva, I’ll pin his ears back. If he gets rough, I’ll let him look at th
e business end of that gun as a little reminder.”

  “Do you have a permit to carry the gun?”

  “No.”

  “You’d better get rid of it then. You’ll get into trouble with it and be in a spot.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll take care of myself. You see that Eva doesn’t get into any trouble, and let me worry about my affairs. I can get by all right.”

  “Better either get a permit for that gun or get rid of it. And don’t do anything more on the job until I get there. Just go back and sit still.”

  “Very well.”

  “All right. Remember, I’ll call in an hour. Go on out and do just as I told you.”

  3

  IT WAS twenty minutes of twelve when Mason climbed the steps to the lobby of the apartment house and pressed the button opposite the card bearing the name Helen Reedley.

  Almost at once the sound of a buzzer indicated that the catch had been thrown on the outer door. Mason pushed it open, entered the lobby, found the automatic elevator, and went up to the third floor. He strode down the corridor, found the apartment he wanted, and tapped peremptorily on the panel.

  Almost immediately the door was thrown open. A man bowed affably and extended a hand—the same man who had given Cora Felton the ten dollars. “Mr. Mason, I’m very pleased to meet you. Perry Mason, the famous attorney. This is indeed a pleasure. Won’t you come in?”

  “I wanted to see Miss Reedley,” Mason said as he started to walk through the dim foyer.

  “Unfortunately, Miss Reedley has a very severe headache, and—” the man said, and stopped abruptly. “Oh . . . oh!”

  As Mason entered the room the light had fallen on his face and the man had recognized him. There was consternation in the blue eyes bulging behind nose-pincher glasses that left two angry red spots where they dug into the high bridge of a prominent nose.

  “Mr. Mason!” the man exclaimed. “I didn’t know that you were . . . we’ve met before.”