Mason said to Della Street, “Do you think you can take a jolt, Della?”
She nodded.
“I want you to look here a minute.”
She followed Mason down the corridor, paused in recoil at the door of the bedroom.
Mason said, “Don’t touch anything. Stand here. Take a look. Get it all straight. I think those are cigar ashes in there by the bed. You can see where a cigarette burned a two-inch groove in the hardwood floor there. Notice the clothes that are packed in the suitcase and the folded clothes on the dresser.”
Della Street said, “She was packing up to leave.”
“And taking a bath,” Mason said. “Notice the lingerie laid out on the bed.”
Della Street nodded.
“She wouldn’t have taken a bath before she went to play tennis,” Mason said. “She was evidently killed just as she emerged from the bathroom.”
Della Street looked around at the bedroom, said, “That’s a traveling outfit that was laid out on the bed. She wasn’t intending to play tennis. She was going somewhere. Either she lied to Marilyn about the tennis, or Marilyn was lying to us.”
Mason said, “I think Marilyn is telling the truth—but I can’t see why Rose Keeling would have taken a hot bath just before going out to play tennis.”
“Can we look around any? Open drawers?” Della asked.
He shook his head. “We’ve gone too far as it is. We don’t dare touch a thing, not even a drawer handle. Come on, let’s go back and see what Marilyn’s doing.”
Mason held his finger to his lips for silence, tiptoed down the corridor. Della Street, puzzled, followed behind him.
Marilyn Marlow was seated at the little table which held the telephone. Her lips were a thin line of grim determination, and she was busily engaged in polishing the telephone receiver with a pocket handkerchief.
“What are you doing, Marilyn?” Mason asked.
She gave a sudden guilty start, dropped the receiver, then, realizing she was caught, defiantly picked it up again and continued polishing.
“I’m taking my fingerprints off that receiver.”
Mason said, “You are probably also removing the fingerprints of the murderer.”
“I can’t help that!”
“What have you done with the letter?” Mason asked.
“I still have it in my purse.”
Mason said, “You shouldn’t have taken the fingerprints off the receiver.”
“I’m not going to be connected with this, Mr. Mason! I can’t afford to be.”
Mason said somewhat wearily, “Okay, Marilyn, this is one of the times when I stick my neck out for a client. I suppose I shouldn’t do it. I know damn well I’ll be sorry for it before the case is finished, but when something like this happens, I can’t help it. Circumstances have framed you and put you into an impossible position.”
“What are you going to do?”
“We’re all going out. We’re going to leave the door slightly open. You’re going to get in your car and go home. Della Street and I are going to come back as soon as you’ve driven away. We’ll find the door partially open. We’ll walk up here and find things just as you see them now. Then we’re going to telephone the police.”
“Telephone the police!” Marilyn Marlow exclaimed in dismay.
Mason nodded.
“Why, that will bring them here and link you with it and …”
Mason said, “I can’t help it, Marilyn. I can cut a corner now and then, but I don’t dare to fail to notify the police when I’ve stumbled on something like this. Otherwise I’d be an accessory after the fact. However, when I talk to the police, I’m going to tell them only about my second visit to the flat. I’m going to tell them I came up to see Rose Keeling, that I had Della Street with me, that the door must have been pulled shut but hadn’t quite caught so far as the spring latch was concerned, that we rang the bell and took it for granted that the buzzer would signal for us to come up. We thought we heard that signal, pushed at the door and the door opened, as though the latch had been released by the electric control at the top of the stairs. We went up and to our surprise found no one in the living room. We looked down the corridor, in the bedroom, saw what had happened and telephoned the police.”
“You’re not going to say anything about me?”
“Not unless I’m asked specifically,” Mason said. “Naturally it’s never going to occur to the police to ask me if that was the first time I’d been in the flat this morning. I’ll tell them what happened and it will be the literal truth. I simply won’t volunteer the information that I’d been here once before.”
“And you want me to destroy that letter?”
Mason said, “That letter will crucify you. In a way it’s evidence. It’s evidence against you. As a lawyer, my only advice to you would be to turn that letter in to the police. If, however, you choose to ignore that advice, and destroy that letter, make a damn good job of destroying it. Burn it up where you can grind the ashes into a powder. And dispose of the ashes somewhere! Do you understand?”
“I … I think I understand.”
Mason said, “Come on, then. Let’s go down the stairs and get out of here. We’ll leave the door unlatched, so we can push it open.”
“You’re going to do all this for me?” Marilyn Marlow asked.
Mason said, “When you look me in the eyes and tell me you had absolutely nothing to do with the death of Rose Keeling.”
She came close to him, put her hands on his shoulders; her eyes looked up into his. “Mr. Mason, I tell you by all that I hold sacred I had nothing to do with her death. I’m telling you the truth. I’m telling you exactly what happened.”
Mason nodded. “All right,” he said, “I’ll take your word for it. Let’s go.”
She glanced dubiously at Della Street.
Mason laughed. “Don’t worry about Della. She’s been under fire before.”
“What will happen,” Marilyn Marlow asked, “if they should put two and two together? If they should find out what had happened?”
Mason said, “If they’re that clever, they’ll find out who really killed Rose Keeling.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said in a tone that failed to show any indication of enthusiasm.
“The question is,” Mason said, “will you back up my play? I’m risking a lot for you. Will you?”
“Mr. Mason, I’ll never, never tell a soul. You can count on my loyalty one hundred per cent. One thousand per cent!”
“One hundred is enough. Let’s go.”
10
Lieutenant Tragg came out of the bedroom and said to Mason, “You haven’t touched anything?”
“just the telephone receiver.”
“How did you happen to be here?”
“Rose Keeling is a witness on a will.”
“Who’s the beneficiary under the will?”
“A woman by the name of Marlow. She’s dead.”
“When did she die?”
“A couple of months ago.”
“Whom are you representing?”
“Her daughter.”
“What’s the name? What’s the address?”
Mason gave him Marilyn Marlow’s name and the address of her home.
“Know her telephone number?”
“Sure. I called her.”
“What do you mean, you called her?”
“I called her at the same time I called you.”
“From here?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got a crust!”
“Notifying my client of a development like this? Don’t be silly.”
“Telephone anyone else?”
“No.”
“Just the two calls?”
“That’s all.”
“Who came here? How did you get in?”
“The door must have been unlocked. We rang the bell and waited for the buzzer to sound, unlatching the door. I pushed. The door opened. I thought the buzzer had done it. I mu
st have been mistaken. The latch must not have been caught.”
“So you walked right up?”
“That’s right.”
“And started prowling through the woman’s flat?”
“Della Street was with me.”
“Who found the body?”
“I did.”
“Did Miss Street go in the bedroom?”
“No. She stayed here in this room.”
“What did you do?”
“Backed right out.”
“And then called me immediately?”
Mason said sarcastically, “What did you think we did, sit here and soak up atmosphere for fifteen minutes and then call you?”
Tragg chewed meditatively on his cigar. “Any theories about it?”
Mason said, “Sure. She was all packed to go away. She was taking a bath. The clothes she was going to wear were all laid out on the bed.”
“That’s quite obvious.”
“She’d done everything she needed to do to get started, done all the packing and stuff of that sort. Taking the bath was the last thing she’d planned to do before dressing and leaving the flat.”
“Even a cop knows that!” Tragg said, grinning.
“Therefore,” Mason went on, “she must have intended to be on her way within a reasonable time after she took her bath. If you call the airport, you might find there was a reservation in her name on a plane going somewhere. Unless, of course, there was a railroad ticket in her purse, and if there wasn’t, there might be a ticket held in her name at one of the ticket windows.”
“You think she was making a long trip?”
“Just taking a glance at those suitcases, I’d say she had been planning to take quite an assortment of clothes.”
“No other ideas?”
“No.”
“What did this Marilyn Marlow say when you telephoned her and told her Rose Keeling had been murdered?”
“She wanted to ask me a lot of questions. I didn’t have time to answer them, so I hung up.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to call you.”
“You mean you called her first?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re supposed to notify the police immediately, at a time like this.”
“That’s why I only took a second or two to give her the information that Rose Keeling had been murdered, and then hung up.”
Tragg said, “It’s a damn good thing you’ve got Della Street with you.”
“Isn’t it?”
“What did you want with Rose Keeling?”
“I wanted to see her about the will. I wanted to get a statement.”
“About what?”
“Her testimony in the will case.”
“What about it?”
“I wanted to check with her, that’s all.”
“Ever met her?”
“No.”
“Why the sudden rush to get her statement?”
“No sudden rush. I’d been putting it off.”
“Know what her testimony would have been?”
“Sure. She’d already testified when the will was admitted to probate. Now there’s going to be a contest after probate. I was just checking up as a matter of routine, to see if there were any new angles that hadn’t been covered in her previous testimony. I wanted to get the general background.”
Tragg stroked the angle of his jaw with the tips of his fingers. “The more I think of it, Mason, the more I think I’ll just keep you and Della Street out of circulation for a while.” He turned to one of the plainclothes officers and said, “Take Mason and Della Street downstairs and put them in a police car. Keep them there until I tell you to let them go. Be sure they don’t do any telephoning, don’t have any communication with anyone else, and don’t let them do any whispering. If they want to talk with each other, listen in on what they have to say.”
Mason said, “That’s a damn outrage, Tragg. I’m busy; I’ve work to do!”
“I know you have,” Tragg said soothingly, “but I want to make certain the work you have to do doesn’t interfere with the work I have to do.”
“And how long do we have to stay in custody?” Mason asked.
“Until we finish our investigation here.”
“When will that be?”
“When I feel that I’ve found out all there is to know.”
11
Mason and Della Street sat in the rear seat of the big police sedan. The chunky, uniformed cop who occupied the front seat had enormous shoulders, a thick neck, heavy forehead, small, deep-set eyes, a huge chin and a battered nose that had apparently been flattened and left largely to its own devices, so far as healing was concerned.
Mason leaned over to Della Street, said in a low voice, “Della, there’s one thing …”
“No whispering!” the officer growled.
“I was merely giving some instructions to my secretary.”
“Keep your voice up when you do! I’m supposed to listen in.”
“I don’t think anyone has any right to tell me what tone of voice I should talk in, or what instructions I should give to my secretary.”
The officer merely held open the door on the left side of the car, got out, opened the door at the back, climbed in and pushed Mason over to one side of the car and said, “Get over, buddy. I’ll sit between you. The ‘Loot’ said you weren’t to do any whispering, and when Tragg says you’re not to do any whispering, as far as I’m concerned, you’re not to whisper.”
Mason said, “Tragg has no right to order anything of that sort.”
“Okay. Have it your way. I don’t aim to stop you from doing anything that’s legal, so go right ahead and whisper. You can whisper across me. Whisper all you want.”
They sat in silence for several seconds. Then Mason said, “The verbal IQ of our esteemed contemporary of the governmental enforcement staff seems to be limited to the vernacular.”
“And so?” Della Street asked.
Mason, watching the officer’s expressionless countenance, said, “We might try polysyllabic circumlocution. The elimination of one of the subscribers to a clause of formal attestation enhances the importance of the remaining member of the trio who were present at the time of testamentary execution.”
“Now, what the hell!” the officer protested.
“Necessitating any remedial measures on our part?” Della Street inquired.
“Not necessarily remedial,” Mason said, “but precautionary.”
“In what way?”
“In view of the chirography transmitted yesterday, it might be well to ascertain specific details from the survivor of those present at the ceremonies incident to legalizing the cause of the testamentary controversy; and in the event I should be unavoidably detained, you might be able to expedite matters in that direction prior to interrogations by …”
“Say, bust it up. Bust it up!” the officer said. “What the hell’s the idea? Want me to get tough?”
“You certainly can’t put gags in our mouths, simply because Tragg wants us held for a while as material witnesses.”
“How the hell do I know what he wants you held as?” the officer asked. “I can sure as hell clap the bracelets on you, Mr. Mason, and handcuff you right around the pillar on that porch. And if you’re thinking of getting away from here any time soon, it’s going to make it a lot easier if I told the ‘Loot’ you weren’t trying to slip anything over. If I tell him you tried to foul me up with dictionary chatter, you’ll be here a long time.”
“Yes,” Della Street said, “I suppose that has its points, and, anyhow, on that one matter I see no need for additional clarification.”
“Who are you talking to? Me?” the officer asked.
Della Street nodded.
“Well, when you want to sing to me, make it a straight solo. Don’t warble, just sing.”
Della Street laughed. “Pardon me, I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“Nothing.”
Della Street turned to Mason. “Possibly a matter of emergency might result in a portion of the clerical force incident to the transaction of your business being liberated for the purpose of …”
“Oh, nuts!” the officer said. “You folks keep asking for it! Now, shut up. Another word out of either one of you and I’ll separate you so you won’t have a chance to talk.”
He climbed back into the front of the car, pressed the button which brought in the car police radio and said, “Car ninety-one, car ninety-one. Ring Lieutenant Tragg. Tell him the two birds I’m holding at his orders insist on singing funny tunes. What does he want to do about it?”
“Car ninety-one,” a voice asked, “relaying a message to Lieutenant Tragg?”
“That’s right. You know where he is. There’s a phone there. Get him.”
Mason said, “After all, our conversation was merely a …”
“Shut up!”
Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, of course, if that’s the way you …”
“I said shut up, and meant it!”
Mason winked at Della Street, lapsed into silence.
The officer swung around in the seat, his beady, deep-set eyes regarding them in sullen appraisal.
A few moments later the door of the flat where Rose Keeling had been murdered opened and Lieutenant Tragg hurried across the porch and down to the car. “What’s the trouble?” he asked.
The officer gestured with his thumb. “These two birds keep on singing,” he said. “I broke up the whispering, and then they started a lot of dictionary stuff, back and forth, stuff that was over my head.”
“All right, Mason,” Tragg said. “I thought you could take a hint. I see you can’t. Get out!”
“But, Lieutenant, I was merely …”
“Get out!”
The officer opened the door, reached in and grabbed the lapels of Mason’s coat and said, “When the ‘Loot’ says out, he means OUT. YOU coming?”
“I’m coming,” Mason said.
“Come with me,” Tragg ordered.
Mason followed him up to the porch. Tragg turned abruptly, said, “Wait a minute, I have some instructions to give the officer.”
Mason sat on the rail of the porch while Tragg moved part way down the cement walk which led to the sidewalk.
The Case of the Lonely Heiress Page 9
