The Case of the Horrified Heirs pm-75

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  The Case of the Horrified Heirs

  ( Perry Mason - 75 )

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  THE CASE OF THE HORRIFIED HEIRS

  FOREWORD

  A heavy rain in Scotland had swollen the streams. As one of them subsided, a small bundle was left by the receding waters.

  This bundle contained human flesh.

  A search revealed more bundles. Some of them were found days apart. Apparently, many of them had been thrown from a bridge into the turbulent flood waters.

  Nearly a month after the first discoveries, a left foot was found on the roadside some distance from the stream bed. Nearly a week later, a right forearm with hand was discovered.

  All of the recoveries were, of course, in a state of advanced decomposition.

  When the pieces were assembled, it was found there were two heads which had been mutilated by removal of eyes, ears, nose, lips and skin. All teeth had been extracted.

  It was apparent that a skilled hand had deliberately butchered two human beings in an attempt to make identification humanly impossible.

  While visiting in Glasgow, I was privileged to discuss this case with the distinguished medicolegal expert whose work contributed so much to a solution of the murders.

  This man is John Glaister, D. Sc., M.D., F.R.S.E. He is learned in the law and in medical science, being a barrister as well as a doctor of science and of medicine. His academic honors, the positions he has held in his long and distinguished career, would make this brief note too long for available space, should I attempt to enumerate them.

  Suffice it to say he helped make medicological history by his work in this baffling murder case. The distinguishing features of the bodies were “reconstructed” by scientific methods. Brilliant deduction determined the general neighborhood where the victims had lived, and shrewd detective work resulted in apprehending the murderer.

  My friend Professor Glaister is the author of Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology (E. 8c S. Livingstone, Ltd., Edinburgh amp; London; 11th Edition), one of the most comprehensive and authoritative books in the field. Those who wish to learn more of the puzzling murder case mentioned, and the scientific methods used to identify the bodies and apprehend the murderer, will find an account of the case in that book.

  Professor Glaister is a dedicated man. His is an honored name in his profession. He has contributed much to a science which protects the living by making the dead reveal their secrets. He is a dignified, impartial man, devoid of bias, devoted to finding out the truth, regardless of where the chips may fall.

  And so, I dedicate this book to my friend

  JOHN GLAISTER, D. Sc., M.D., F.R.S.E.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Murder is not perpetrated in a vacuum. It is a product of greed, avarice, hate, revenge, or perhaps fear. As a splashing stone sends ripples to the farthest edges of the pond, murder affects the lives of many people.

  Early morning sunlight percolated through the window of a private room in the Phillips Memorial Hospital.

  Traffic noises in the street which had been hushed to a low hum during the night began to swell in volume. The steps of nurses in the corridors increased in tempo, indicating an increase in the work load.

  Patients were being washed, temperatures taken, blood samples collected; then the breakfast trays came rolling along, the faint aroma of coffee and oatmeal seeped into the corridors, as if apologetically asking permission to push aside the aura of antiseptic severity, promising that the intrusion would be only temporary.

  Nurses holding sterile hypodermic syringes hurried into the rooms of surgery patients, giving the preliminary quieting drug which would allay apprehensions and pave the way for the anesthetic.

  Lauretta Trent sat up in bed and smiled wanly at the nurse.

  “I feel better,” she proclaimed in a weak voice.

  “Doctor promised to look in this morning right after surgery,” the nurse told her, smiling reassuringly.

  “He said I could go home?” the patient asked eagerly.

  “You’ll have to ask him about that,” the nurse said. “But you’re going to have to watch your diet for a while. This last upset was very, very bad indeed.”

  Lauretta sighed. “I wish I knew what was causing them. I’ve tried to be careful. I must be developing some sort of an allergy.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Out at the Trent residence, set in its spacious grounds reminiscent of a bygone era, the housekeeper was putting the finishing touches on the master bedroom.

  “They say Mrs. Trent will be home today,” she said to the maid. “The doctor asked her nurse, Anna Fritch, to be here and she has just arrived. She’ll stay for a week or two this time.”

  The maid was unenthusiastic. “Just my luck. I wanted to get off this afternoon-it’s something special.”

  It was at this moment that a pair of hands hovered briefly over the washbowl in a tiled bathroom.

  A trickle of white powder descended from a phial into the bowl.

  One of the hands turned on a water faucet and the white powder drained down the wastepipe.

  There would be no more need for this powder. It had served its purpose.

  Over the spacious house was an air of tense expectancy as various people waited: Boring Briggs, Lauretta’s brotherin-law; Dianne, his wife; Gordon Kelvin, another brotherin-law; and Maxine, his wife; the housekeeper, the maid, the cook; the nurse; George Eagan, the chauffeur. Each affected differently by the impending return of Lauretta Trent, they collectively managed to permeate the atmosphere with suppressed excitement.

  Now that the morning surgery was over and the surgeons had changed to street clothes, there was a lull in the activities at the Phillips Memorial Hospital.

  The patients who had been through surgery were in the recovery room; the first of them, recovering from the more minor operations, were beginning to trickle through the corridors, eyes closed, faces pale, covered with blankets as they were wheeled to their respective rooms.

  Dr. Ferris Alton, medium height, slim-waisted despite his fifty-eight years, walked down to the private room of Lauretta Trent.

  Her face lit up as the doctor opened the swinging door.

  The nurse looked over her shoulder, and seeing Dr. Alton, moved swiftly to the foot of the bed, where she stood waiting at attention.

  Dr. Alton smiled at his patient. “You’re better this morning.”

  “Much, much better,” she said. “Am I to go home today?”

  “You’re going home,” Dr. Alton said, “but you’re going to have your old nurse, Anna Fritch, back with you. I’ve arranged for her to have the adjoining bedroom. Technically, she’ll be on duty twenty-four hours a day. I want her to keep an eye on you. We shouldn’t have let her go after that last upset. I want her to keep an eye on your heart.”

  Mrs. Trent nodded.

  “Now then,” Dr. Alton went on, “I’m going to be frank with you, Lauretta. This is the third gastroenteric upset in eight months. They’re bad enough in themselves, but it’s your heart that I’m concerned about. It won’t stand these dietary indiscretions indefinitely. You’re going to have to watch your diet.”

  “I know,” she told him, “but there are times when the spiced food tastes so darn good.”

  He frowned at her, regarding her thoughtfully.

  “I think,” he said at length, “when you’re more yourself we’ll have a series of allergy tests. In the meantime, you’re going to have to be careful. I think it’s only fair to warn you that your heart may not be able to stand another of these acute disturbances.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The hands an
d the powder had done their work. The way had been paved; the preliminaries were all out of the way.

  Lauretta Trent’s life depended upon a woman she had seen only once, a woman whose very existence she had forgotten about; and this woman, Virginia Baxter, had only a vague recollection of Lauretta Trent. She had met the older woman briefly ten years ago as a matter of routine.

  If she tried, Virginia could probably have recalled the meeting but it was now entirely submerged in her mind, buried under the day-to-day experiences of a decade of routine problems.

  Now Virginia was following the stream of passengers filing past the airline stewardesses.

  “Goodbye.”

  “Bye now.”

  “Goodbye, sir.”

  “Goodbye. Nice trip.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye.”

  The passengers left the jet plane, inched their way to the broader corridors of the airport, then quickened their pace, walking down the long runway toward a huge illuminated sign bearing the word, “Baggage,” with an arrow pointing downward where an escalator descended to a lower level.

  Virginia Baxter steadied herself by putting her right hand on the rail of the escalator.

  She was carrying a top coat over her arm, and she was tired.

  In her late thirties, she had retained a trim figure and a way with clothes, but she had worked hard during her life and minute crow’s feet were beginning to appear at the corners of her eyes; there was just a suggestion of a faint line on each side of her nose. When she smiled, her face lit up; when it was in repose, there were times when the corners of her mouth began to sag ever so slightly.

  She stepped from the escalator at the lower level and walked briskly toward the revolving platform on which the baggage would appear.

  It was too early, as yet, for the baggage to make its appearance, but it was indicative of Virginia ’s character that she walked with nervously rapid steps, hurrying to reach the place where she would wait for several long minutes.

  At length, baggage began to appear on a moving belt; the belt transported the baggage to the slowly revolving turntable.

  Passengers began to pick out baggage; porters with claim checks stood by, occasionally pulling out heavy handbags and putting them on hand trucks.

  The crowd began to thin out. Finally, only a few pieces of baggage were left on the turntable. The trucks had moved away. Virginia ’s baggage was not in sight.

  She moved over to a porter. “My baggage didn’t come in,” she said.

  “What was it, lady?” he asked.

  “A single suitcase, brown, and a small oblong overnight case for cosmetics.”

  “Let me see your checks, please.”

  She handed him the baggage checks.

  He said, “Before I start looking, we’d better wait and see if there’s another truck coming. Sometimes there’s a second section of trucks when there’s an unusually large load.”

  Virginia waited impatiently.

  After two or three minutes, more baggage showed up on the moving belt. There were four suitcases, Virginia ’s and two others.

  “There they are now! Those two are mine,” she said. “The brown one-the big one in front-and the oblong overnight bag in back.”

  “Okay, ma’am. I’ll get them for you.”

  The suitcase, followed by the overnight bag, moved along the conveyor belt, then hit the slide to the revolving table. A few seconds later, the porter picked them up, compared the tags for a moment, put the bags on his hand truck and started for the door.

  A man who had been standing well back came forward. “Just a moment, please,” he said.

  The porter looked at him. The man produced a leather folder from his side pocket and opened it, showing a gold shield. “Police,” he said. “Was there some trouble about this baggage?”

  “No trouble,” the porter hastily assured him. “No trouble at all, sir. It just didn’t come in with the first load.”

  “There’s been some baggage trouble,” the man said to Virginia Baxter. “This is your suitcase?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure of it?”

  “Of course. That’s my suitcase and overnight bag and I gave the checks for them to the porter.”

  “Could you describe the contents of the suitcase?”

  “Why, certainly.”

  “Will you please do so?”

  “Well, on top there’s a three-quarter-length beige coat with a brown fur collar; there’s a checked skirt and-“

  “That will give us enough of a description to make sure,” the man said. “Would you mind opening it up just so I can look inside?”

  Virginia hesitated for a moment, then said, “Well, I guess it’s all right.”

  “Is it locked?”

  “No, I just have it closed.”

  The man snapped back the catches.

  The porter lowered the truck so the suitcase would be level.

  Virginia raised the cover and then recoiled at what she saw on the inside.

  Her three-quarter-length coat was there, neatly folded, just as she had left it, but on top of the coat were several transparent plastic containers and inside these containers, neatly wrapped, an assortment of small packages.

  “You didn’t tell me about these,” the man said. “What are they?”

  “I… I don’t know. I never saw them before in my life.”

  As though at a signal, a man with a press camera and a flash gun materialized from behind one of the pillars.

  While Virginia was still trying to compose herself, the camera was thrust up into her face and her eyes were blinded by a brilliant flash of light.

  The man, working with swift efficiency, ejected the bulb from the flash gun, inserted another bulb, pulled a slide back and forth on the back of the camera, and took another picture of the open suitcase.

  The porter had backed hastily away so that he was not included in the pictures.

  The officer said, “I’m afraid, madam, you’re going to have to come with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll explain it,” the officer said. “Your name is Virginia Baxter?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “We’ve had a tip on you,” the officer said. “We were told that you traffick in narcotics.”

  The photographer took one more picture, then turned and scurried away.

  Virginia said to the officer, “Why, of course, I’ll come with you, if you’re going to try to clear this up. I haven’t the faintest idea of how that stuff got in my suitcase.”

  “I see,” the officer said, gravely. “You’ll have to come to headquarters, I’m afraid. We’ll have that stuff analyzed and see exactly what it is.”

  “And if it should turn out to be-narcotics?”

  “Then we’ll have to book you.”

  “But that’s-that’s crazy!”

  “Bring the bags this way,” the officer said to the porter, closing the suitcase.

  He opened the overnight bag, disclosing jars of cream, a manicure set, a negligee, some bottles of lotion.

  “Okay,” he said. “This is all right, I guess, but we’ll have to look in these jars and bottles. We’ll just take both bags along with us.”

  He escorted Virginia to a plain black sedan, had the porter hoist the suitcase and overnight bag into the rear seat, put Virginia in the seat behind him and started the motor.

  “You’re going to headquarters?”

  “Yes.”

  Virginia noticed then that there was a police radio on the car. The officer picked up the microphone and said, “Special Officer Jack Andrews leaving the airport with a female suspect and a suitcase containing suspicious material to be checked. Time is 10:17 A.M.”

  The officer replaced the microphone on a hook, pulled away from the curb, and guided the car expertly and swiftly in the direction of headquarters.

  There Virginia was placed in charge of a policewoman and kept waiting for around fifteen minutes, then an officer deliver
ed a folded paper to the policewoman. She looked at it and said, “This way, please.”

  Virginia followed her to a desk. “Your right hand, please.”

  The policewoman took Virginia’s right hand before she realized what was happening, then grasping the thumb firmly, rolled it over a big pad and placed it on a piece of paper, rolling out a fingerprint.

  “Now, the next finger,” she said.

  “You can’t fingerprint me,” Virginia said, pulling back. “Why, I-“

  The grip on the finger tightened. “Now, just don’t make it hard on yourself,” the policewoman said. “The index finger, please.”

  “I refuse!- Good heavens, what have I done?” Virginia asked. “I-Why, this is a nightmare.”

  “You’re privileged to make a telephone call,” the woman said. “You can call an attorney, if you wish.”

  The words clicked in Virginia ’s mind.

  “Where is a telephone directory?” she asked. “I want the office of Perry Mason.”

  A few moments later, Virginia had Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, on the line.

  “May I speak with Perry Mason, please?”

  “You’ll have to tell me what it’s about,” Della Street said, “perhaps I can help you.”

  “I’m Virginia Baxter,” she said. “I worked for Delano Bannock, the attorney, during his lifetime and up to his death a couple of years ago. I’ve seen Mr. Mason two or three times. He came to Mr. Bannock’s office. He may remember me; I was the secretary and receptionist.”

  “I see,” Della said. “What is the present problem, Miss Baxter?”

  “I’m arrested for having narcotics in my possession,” she said, “and I haven’t the faintest idea of how they got there. I need Mr. Mason at once.”

  “Just a minute,” Della said.

  A moment later, Perry Mason’s deep but well-modulated voice was on the line. “Where are you, Miss Baxter?”

  “I’m at headquarters.”

  “Tell them to hold you right there, if they will, please,” Mason said. “I’m on my way.”