“Uh huh. May be on the trail of Tidings himself. If he’s missing, I think I can put my finger on the person who saw him last.”
Mason sat up in his chair to drum nervously with the tips of his fingers on the edge of his desk. “Darned if I know whether I want to try to capitalize on that or not, Paul,” he said.
“How soon would you know?”
“After two o’clock this afternoon.”
Drake said, “I don’t think it’ll keep that long, Perry. There’s too much pressure being brought to bear. Some newspaper chap or some detective will stumble onto it.”
“What have you got?” Mason asked.
Drake said, “Tidings told an intimate friend three days ago that he was going to spring a trap on his wife. He said he was going to move in on her and let her forcibly eject him. Seemed to think there was some legal point in that which would give him an advantage. He said his wife had been waiting to get a cause of action on desertion. He was going to move in on her just before the year was up.
“I looked her up through the records of the Bureau of Light and Power. It’s a place up on one of those steep hillside subdivisions where there’s a swell view and privacy. I have a hunch Tidings went there Tuesday after he left his office. Want to go find out?”
Mason said, “I guess so. . . . Della, get Byrl Gailord on the phone for me. If I’m going to mix into this now, I’d better know exactly where I stand.”
“Where does she fit into the picture?” Drake asked, as Della Street noiselessly glided from the office.
“It’s a long story,” Mason said. “Apparently, she’s the daughter of Tidings’ first wife. In reality she isn’t. There’s a question of adoption mixed into it. . . . What else is new, Paul?”
“Oh, a lot of routine stuff,” Drake said. “I can’t find out anything about Peltham’s girl friend.”
“Is he married?”
“No. He’s a bachelor, pretty much of a businessman, rather austere, something of an ascetic, and referred to by his friends as a cold, calm, reasoning machine. . . . Are you sure he has a heart-throb, Perry?”
Mason laughed. “You,” he said, “are giving me the information. I’m a lawyer protecting the confidence of a client. . . . You give, and I take.”
Della Street opened the door of her secretarial office, holding a telephone in her hand. “She’s on your line, Chief,” she said.
Mason picked up the telephone on his desk. “Hello. Miss Gailord?”
A rich, well-modulated voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Mason. Thank you for calling. I believe I have an appointment with you for two o’clock this afternoon.”
“You have,” Mason said. “In the meantime, events are moving rather rapidly. I suppose you’ve seen the newspapers?”
“Yes. What does it mean?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “But I have a hot tip I’m going out to investigate now. The only information I have at present is that contained in the newspaper account. . . . I take it you’re familiar with what Mrs. Tump has been doing in your behalf?”
“Yes.”
“And that meets with your approval?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You want me to represent you?”
“Certainly. Mrs. Tump is acting for me.”
“Do you know Mr. Peltham?”
She hesitated for a moment, then said, “He’s Mrs. Tump’s friend. I believe he’s the one who sent her to you.”
“So I understand. Now you must be pretty well acquainted with Mr. Tidings?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How do you get along?”
“We were always friendly. It never entered my head to doubt him until I started checking up recently. I tried to find out where I stood and Uncle Albert—I’ve always called him that—became furious. He said Mrs. Tump was poisoning my mind, that she was trying to get control of my property—but she isn’t. I trust her absolutely. I know some things I can’t tell even you, Mr. Mason, but she is empowered to act for me in every way.”
“Thank you,” Mason said. “That was what I wanted to find out. I’ll see you at two o’clock, then.”
He hung up and said to Della, “Get me that Journal on the phone, Della. Let’s see if there’s been an answer sent in to that ad of mine.”
Della Street nodded, put through the call, and a few moments later signified to Mason that his party was on the line. Mason said, “Perry Mason talking. I put a personal ad in your paper to make the morning edition. I wonder if there’s been any answer to it.”
“Just a moment. I’ll check it up with the classified ad department,” the man said. Mason could hear steps retreating from the telephone, and a moment later returning; and the man’s voice said, “Yes, Mr. Mason. A young woman left a reply at the counter not over an hour ago. It says simply, ‘Okay. Go ahead. R.P.,’ and it’s headed, ‘Answer to M.’—which, I take it, means your ad . . . . Anyway, we’re going to publish the ad in tomorrow’s edition so there’s no reason to keep it confidential.”
“Thank you very much,” Mason said, hung up, and nodded to Paul Drake. “Okay, Paul,” he said. “Let’s go drop in on the thwarted wife.”
4.
MASON SHIFTED into second at the foot of the grade. The road wound upward, twisting and turning around the steep sides of typical Southern California mountains. The subdivision was relatively new, and there were many vacant lots, some marked with a red placard bearing the word, sold. Here and there were scattered bungalows, obviously new. Up nearer the top of the grade, where a ridge offered more level building sites, half a dozen small homes were clustered.
“It’ll be one of those,” Drake said.
Mason looked at the house numbers and said, “Probably the last one in the row . . . Yes, here it is.”
The bungalow faced to the south and east. Above it, on the west, towered the slopes of the hill, covered with a thick growth of chaparral. Below, to the east, the city stretched in glistening brilliance, the white buildings reflecting the brilliant sunlight, spotless gems of intense white below the red patches of tiled roofs.
Mason looked the place over before he went up to ring the bell. It was within two hundred feet of the end of the subdivision, and, just beyond the house, the road, taking advantage of the little bench on the hillside, terminated in a big circle where cars could be turned around. The sunlight was warm and the air balmy. The sky was a blue, cloudless vault. Off to the far northeast mountain crests sparkled, a white coating of snow suspended above the pastel blues of distant slopes.
Mason said, “Curtains drawn tight. Doesn’t look as though anyone’s home.”
“If he’s here,” Drake said, “it’s a hide-out.”
Mason led the way up the short stretch of cement walk to the porch, and pressed his thumb against the bell button. They could hear the ringing of a bell on the inside of the house, but there was no answering sound of motion. There was about the place that dead silence indicative of an untenanted house.
“Might try the back door,” Drake suggested.
Mason shook his head, pressed his thumb against the button once more, and said, “Well, I guess . . . Wait a minute, Paul. What’s this?”
Drake followed the direction of his eyes. Just below the threshold was a jagged, irregular splotch of rusty, reddish brown.
Mason moved his feet and said, “There’s another one, Paul.”
“And another one back of that,” Drake said.
“All within eighteen inches of the doorstep,” Mason pointed out. “Looks as though someone had been wounded and gone in, or had been wounded and gone out. He must have been losing quite a bit of blood at that.”
“So what?” Drake asked.
Mason pulled back the screen door, examined the front door, and said, “It isn’t tightly closed, Paul.”
“Let’s keep our noses clean,” Drake warned.
Mason bent down to examine the bloodstains. “They’ve been here for a while,” he announced. “Wonder if the sun
would shine in here later on in the afternoon. . . . They look baked.”
He raised his eyes to determine the course of the shadows. The porch consisted of a slab of cement with a gable roof extending not over three feet from the side of the house, furnishing a somewhat scanty protection for the door, a roof which was more ornamental than useful.
“How about it, Perry?” the detective asked.
By way of answer, Mason knocked on the door, at the same time pushing against the panels with his knee.
The door swung slowly open.
“There you are, Paul,” Mason said. “You’re a witness to what happened. We knocked on the door, and the force of the knocking pushed the door open.”
“Okay,” Drake said, “but I don’t like it. Now what?”
Mason stepped inside. “Anyone home?” he called.
It was a typical bungalow with wide windows, gas radiators, an ornamental half-partition opening to a dining room, and a swinging door evidently leading to a kitchen. On the side of the living room were two doors which evidently opened into bedrooms.
The house had the atmosphere of a place that had been lived in. There were magazines on a wicker table in the center of the living room, with a comfortable chair drawn up near the table, a floor lamp behind it. A magazine lay face down and open on the wicker table.
Mason lowered his eyes to the floor on which were several Navajo rugs.
He pointed to a red splotch on one of the Navajo rugs. A few inches farther on was another. Then there was a spattering drop with irregular edges on the floor, another on the rug nearest the bedroom door on the left.
Mason followed the trail directly to the closed door of the bedroom.
Drake hung back. “Going in?” he asked.
By way of answer, Mason turned the knob and opened the door.
A blast of hot, fetid air rushed out of the bedroom to assail their nostrils. It was the oxygen-exhausted air of a room tightly closed in which gas heat has been generated, and it was an atmosphere which held the suggestion of death.
It needed only a glance at the fully clothed figure lying on the bed to confirm the message of that superheated, lifeless air.
Mason turned back to Paul Drake. “Call Homicide, Paul,” he said. “There’s a phone.”
The detective whirled to the telephone.
Mason stepped into the room and gave a quick look around.
Apparently it was a woman’s bedroom. There were jars of cream and bottles of lotion on the dresser. There were bloodstains on the floor. There was no counterpane on the bed. The top blanket had been soaked with blood which had dried into a stiff circular stain beneath the still body.
The corpse was clothed in a double-breasted gray suit, with the coat unbuttoned. Red had trickled down the trousers to dry in sinister incrustations. There were no shoes on the body. Gray, silk, embroidered socks which harmonized with the gray trousers covered the feet. The man lay on his back. His lids were half closed over glassy eyes. The jaw was sunken, and the interior of the partially opened mouth showed a grayish purple. About the lips was a crimson smear, which might have been the faint traces of lipstick, a stain which would hardly have been noticeable in life but which was now strikingly evident against the pallid skin of the dead man.
The gas radiator was hissing at full blast. The windows were tightly closed, the shades drawn.
Somewhere in the room a fly was buzzing importantly.
Mason dropped to one knee, looked under the bed, and saw nothing. He opened a closet door. It was filled with articles of feminine wearing apparel. He looked in the bathroom. It was immaculate save for rusty red splotches on the side of the wash bowl. A towel on the floor was stiff with dried blood. Mason opened the door into the adjoining bedroom. It was evidently used as a spare room for guests. There was no sign that it had been occupied recently.
Mason retraced his steps to find Paul Drake just hanging up the telephone.
“Tidings?” Drake asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mason said. “Probably.”
“Look in his clothes?”
“No.”
Drake heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you’re showing some sense. For God’s sake, Perry, close that door. . . . Let’s open a few windows, first.”
Mason said, “No, let’s go outside. We’ll leave things here just as they were when we came in.”
Drake said, “We’ve got our fingerprints on things. The boys from Homicide aren’t going to . . .” He broke off to listen. “Car coming,” he said.
A car purred past the house, swung in a turn at the end of the roadway, came back, and stopped.
Drake, who was nearest the front window, slid one of the drapes a few inches to one side, and said, “Coupe. Class at the wheel . . . She’s getting out . . . Swell legs . . . Overnight bag, brown coat, fox fur collar . . . Here she comes. What do we do, Perry? Answer the bell?”
Mason said, “Push that door shut with your foot, Paul. I think there’s a spring lock. Try and get the license number on the car.”
Drake said, “I can’t see it right now. She’s parked right in front of the house. If she drives away, I’ll get it.”
“Sit still and shut up,” Mason said.
They could hear the click-clack of heels on the cement, the sound of the screen door opening. They waited for the doorbell to ring, but heard instead the scrape of a key against the metal lock plate on the door. Then the latch shot back, and a woman entered the room.
For a moment her eyes, adjusting themselves to the subdued light of the interior, failed to take note of the two men. She started directly for the bedroom, then suddenly stopped. Her eyes became wide and round as she saw Mason. She dropped her bag and the coat from nerveless fingers, turned, and started toward the door. A key container dropped with a muffled clang to the wooden floor.
Drake stepped from the window to stand between her and the door.
She screamed.
Mason said, “Hold it.”
She whirled, at the sound of his voice, back to face him. She stared steadily for a moment, then said simply, “Oh.”
Mason said, “I’m an attorney. This man is a detective. In other words, we’re not thieves. Who are you?”
“How . . . how did you get in?”
“Walked in,” Mason said. “The door was unlocked and slightly ajar.”
“It was locked just now when I . . . when I . . .” She gulped as her voice caught in her throat, laughed nervously, and said, “This has knocked me for a loop. What’s it all about?”
She was in the late twenties or early thirties, a striking brunette with jaunty clothes which set off her figure to advantage, and she wore those clothes with an air of chic individuality. Her face had been drained of color, and the pattern of the orange rouge showed clearly against the pasty white of her skin.
“Do you,” Mason asked, “happen to live here?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re . . .”
“Mrs. Tidings,” she said.
“Does your husband live here?”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions. What do you want here anyway? What right did you have breaking in?”
“We didn’t break in,” Drake said. “We . . .”
“We just walked in,” Mason assured her, keeping Drake out of the conversation by interruption. “I think it will be to your advantage to answer that question, Mrs. Tidings. Does your husband live here?”
“No. We’ve separated.”
“Didn’t you patch up your differences recently?”
“No.”
“Weren’t there negotiations looking toward that?”
“No,” she said, and then added with defiance in her voice, “—if it’s any of your business, which it isn’t.”
Color was returning to her cheeks now, and her eyes flashed with resentment.
Mason said, “I think you’d better just sit down and take it easy for a few minutes, Mrs. Tidings. Officers are on their
way out here.”
“Why should officers be on their way here?”
“Because of something we found in the bedroom.” And Mason pointed to the stains on the floor.
“What’s that,” she asked, “ink? What is that on my floor? Good God! I . . .”
She took a step forward, stared down at the stains, and then a gloved knuckle crept toward her mouth. She bit hard on the black leather stretched taut over her knuckles.
“Take it easy,” Mason said.
“Who . . . who . . . what . . .”
Mason said, “We don’t know yet. I think you’d better prepare yourself for a shock. I think it’s someone you know.”
“Not . . . not . . . Oh, my God, it can’t be . . .”
“Your husband,” Mason said.
“My husband!” she exclaimed. There were both incredulity in her voice and a something which might have been relief. Then there was sudden panic again. “You mean that he . . . he might have done it, might have . . .”
“I think that the body is that of your husband,” Mason explained.
She gave a half-stifled exclamation and moved swiftly toward the bedroom door. Mason caught her arm.
“Don’t do it,” he said.
“Why not? I must find out . . .”
“You will, later. Right now, don’t spoil any of the fingerprints on that doorknob.”
“But I have a right to know. Can’t you see how I . . .”
“Quit looking at it from your viewpoint,” the lawyer interrupted. “Figure it from the police viewpoint. Do a little thinking.”
She stared at him silently for several seconds, then crossed over to sit down on the davenport. “What happened?” she asked.
“Apparently he was shot.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. He was in his office yesterday morning. I talked with him on the telephone. He must have come out here shortly afterwards. . . . Would you know anything about that?”
“No,” she said. “I’ve been away ever since Monday afternoon.”
“May I ask what time Monday?” Mason asked.
“Why?”
Mason smiled and said, “The officers will ask these questions. After all, it’s your house, you know. I thought perhaps it might help you a little if I gave you a chance to collect your thoughts before the officers get here.”
The Case of the Baited Hook Page 6
