Case of the Beautiful Beggar

Chapter 8

Perry Mason entered the office at nine o’clock the following morning to find Della Street opening mail and segregating it into three piles Urgent, Important, and Unimportant.

Mason casually glanced through some of the letters on the Urgent pile, said, “Well, I guess we may as well do a little catching up, Della... Have you heard anything from Daphne?”

“Not yet.”

Mason glanced at his watch. “In an hour, Dr. Alma will be out at the sanitarium to examine Horace Shelby. I imagine there’ll be some action about that time.”

“What sort of action?” Della asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “Several things are possible. Either they’ve drugged the old man, ignoring Dr. Alma’s orders or they’ll try to invent some reason why Dr. Alma can’t see him.”

“And what will Dr. Alma do?” Della Street asked.

“From the way he talked,” Mason said, “I imagine he’ll tell the sanitarium people he’s going to see Horace Shelby or they’re going to be hauled into court for contempt.”

“And if he’s drugged?” she asked.

“Dr. Alma will find it out and so report to the Court.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“If he isn’t,” Mason said, “I’m betting ten to one that Horace Shelby is as bright as a dollar. Probably rather the worse for wear as a result of his experience but he’ll be logical and coherent and I think we’ll get the Court’s order appointing a conservator set aside. And the minute that happens, Shelby will order the Finchley’s out of his house, make a will in favor of Daphne Shelby, and everything will end happily.”

“What about the business you did of cashing the check? Won’t they make trouble over that?”

“They’ll try to,” Mason said, “but my best guess is that they’re going to have their hands full with other things. In a matter of this sort, the best defense is a counteroffensive... All right, let’s get some of these letters out of the way.”

The lawyer dictated until ten o’clock, then stretched and yawned.

“That’s enough for the time being, Della. I can’t get my mind off the Goodwill Sanitarium and what’s apt to be happening out there... Give Daphne a ring. Let’s tell her to stand by. There’s just a chance the whole opposition may collapse.”

“You’re optimistic this morning,” Della Street said, reaching for the telephone.

“Had a wonderful nights sleep,” Mason said, grinning, “a good breakfast, and — Hang it, Della, just the way Dr. Alma talked over the telephone made me feel that he knows what he’s doing. The minute a doctor of that caliber who knows what he’s doing enters a case of this kind he strikes confusion into the other side.

“If the so called sanitarium and rest home is in danger of losing its license or thinks it is, they’re very apt to swing right around to the other extreme.”

Della said into the telephone, “Miss Daphne Shelby, please. She’s in Room 718.”

She held the phone for a while, then frowned looked at her watch and said to Mason, “There’s no answer.”

“All right,” Mason said, as Della waited, “leave a message for her. Tell her to call Mr. Mason when she comes in.”

Della duly transmitted the message, then hung up the telephone.

“I have an idea she slept late and is in the dining room eating breakfast,” Mason said.

“Or perhaps out shopping,” Della said. “After all, she came into quite a windfall, thanks to your financial skulduggery.”

“No skulduggery about it,” Mason said, grinning. “Darwin Melrose is the kind of attorney who goes into so darned much detail he sometimes lets the general issue slip through his fingers.

“Melrose was so specific about the fact that the exact amount of the balance which was in the account that day was to be turned over to Borden Finchley, as the conservator, that he entirely forgot to mention that the Court had appointed Finchley as conservator of all of Horace Shelby’s property and that any accounts, credits, or other tangibles which the bank held in its possession or which might come into its possession were to be turned over to the conservator. He simply made a specific demand for that one account and then had Finchley check the account out to the last penny, opening a new account at another bank in the name of Borden Finchley, conservator.”

Mason chuckled. “If the guy wants to get technical with me, I’ll get technical with him.”

“What will Judge Ballinger say about it?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I think the judge is rather broadminded and I think he has a pretty shrewd suspicion there’s something in this case that won’t stand scrutiny. Of course, the fact that Daphne is no blood relative is the thing that puts us behind the eight ball. If it weren’t for that, I’d walk into court and start shooting off fire works. As it is now, I have no official standing the Court can recognize.”

The telephone rang. Della Street picked up the instrument, said, “Yes, Gertie,” and to Mason said, “that’s probably Daphne calling now.”

Mason nodded, started to reach for the telephone, then paused at the expression on Della’s face.

She turned and said, “It’s Dr. Alma and he says its very important that he talk to you immediately.”

Mason nodded, picked up the phone, said, “Yes, Mason talking.”

Dr. Alma’s heavy masculine voice came over the wire.

“Mr. Mason,” he said, “I’m down here at the so called Goodwill Sanitarium and Rest Home. As you know, I came here under court order to examine Horace Shelby.”

“What about him?” Mason asked. “Nothing’s happened to him, has it?”

“A good deal has happened to him,” Alma said.

“Good heavens, he isn’t dead!”

“We don’t know,” Alma said. “He isn’t here.”

“He isn’t there?”

“That’s right.”

“What happened? Did they let Finchley take him out somewhere?”

“I don’t know and I’d like very much to find out,” Dr. Alma said. “The man is gone. They say he’s ‘escaped’.

“Before anyone has a chance to clutter up the evidence any more, I’d like to find out... You have a private detective who works with you, who has quite a bit of experience in investigation, I believe.”

“That’s right,” Mason said.

“And you yourself are a legendary figure. I wonder if you and your detective could get out here?”

“Will they let us in?” Mason asked, winking at Della Street.

“Let you in?” Dr. Alma exploded. “I’ll let you in! I’ll turn this place wrong side out if they don’t put all of their cards on the table and play ball right down the line!”

“I’ll be right out,” Mason said.

Mason slammed up the telephone receiver, grabbed his hat, said to Della Street, “Call Paul Drake. Tell him to take his car and join me at the Goodwill Sanitarium in El Mirar. Call Daphne Shelby again. Get her alerted to what has happened. Tell her to sit tight and wait for word from us — not to leave the hotel room.”

“If she doesn’t answer?” Della Street asked.

“Have her paged,” Mason said. “I’m on my way.”

The lawyer dashed out of the door and sprinted down the corridor.

It took Mason thirty four minutes’ fast driving to reach El Mirar.

He slammed his car to a stop at the parking place near the gate and noticed, without attaching any significance to the fact, that the signs asking for help had now been removed and that the door to the office was standing wide open. The woman who had been so curt the afternoon before was now effusive in her greeting.

“Doctor is expecting you, Mr. Mason. They’re down in Unit 17. It’s right down this walk to the right.”

“Thank you,” Mason said. “A private detective by the name of Paul Drake will be out here any minute. When he comes, send him down to Unit 17.”

“Yes, indeed,” she said, and her hard mouth twisted into what was intended as a cordial smile. Her eyes, however, were cold, blue and hostile.

Mason hurried down the walk to Unit 17, a small cottage standing in a row of similar cottages.

The lawyer heard angry voices from inside.

He walked up to the porch and jerked the door open.

The tall man who whirled to face the lawyer as he entered the room was somewhere in his forties — alert, slightly stooped, almost as tall as Mason, and, quite obviously, very indignant.

The other and older man was a head shorter — an apologetic, cowed individual who was very much on the defensive.

Mason sized up the situation at a glance.

“Dr. Alma?” the lawyer asked of the tall man.

Dr. Alma’s indignant smoldering eyes focused on Perry Mason, then softened. “You’re Perry Mason,” he said.

“Right.”

The two men shook hands.

“And this is ‘Dr.’ Tillman Baxter.”

Mason didn’t offer to shake hands with Dr. Baxter.

“Dr. Baxter,” Dr. Alma went on, “is licensed as a naturopathic physician in another state. He has theories about diet.”

“I’m licensed to run this rest home,” Baxter said.

“Doubtless you are,” Dr. Alma said, “but how much longer that condition is going to exist is anyone’s guess. Now, I want to know everything there is to know about Horace Shelby. You say you don’t keep charts.”

“This isn’t a regular hospital,” Baxter protested. “This is a rest home.”

“And you don’t keep records of treatment?”

“We keep records of the important things.”

“What do you consider important?”

“Anything which indicates a change in the physical or mental condition of the patient.”

“You’ve told me you don’t keep a record of drugs that are administered?”

“We do not administer drugs. That is, as a rule.”

“What do you do?” Dr. Alma asked.

“We give our patients rest, privacy, and healthful food. We—”

“I was told that Horace Shelby was under heavy sedation,” Mason said. “Who gave it to him?”

“Heavy sedation?” Dr. Baxter asked lamely.

“That was my understanding,” Mason said.

“An outside private physician had been prescribing for Mr. Shelby,” Dr. Baxter said. “We, of course, honor prescriptions given by the patient’s own doctor.”

“Who is this doctor?”

“I can’t remember his name right now.”

Mason looked around the room, taking mental inventory of an iron frame hospital bed, wash-stand, chest of drawers with a mirror, worn linoleum on the floor, drab lace curtains on the window.

“Where does this door go?” Mason asked.

“The bathroom,” Dr. Baxter said.

Mason jerked the door open, looked at the old-fashioned bathtub, the toilet, the worn linoleum, the crowded cubicle, the wavy mirror over the shallow medicine cabinet.

“This other door?” the lawyer asked.

“The closet. That’s where the patient keeps his clothes.”

“I looked in there,” Dr. Alma said. “The clothes are gone.”

Mason looked in the closet at the row of clothes hooks along the wall.

“He took everything?” Mason asked.

“As nearly as we can tell, everything,” Dr. Baxter said. “Of course, the man had virtually no personal possessions. An attendant shaved him. The man had a toothbrush and toothpaste and those are left in the medicine chest in the bathroom. Aside from that, he had virtually nothing except the clothes he wore when he was received.”

“In other words,” Mason said, “the man had no idea he was being taken to a sanitarium when he was railroaded in here.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dr. Baxter said, “and I couldn’t say it because frankly I don’t know.”

“A man going to a sanitarium carries at least a suitcase of clothes,” Mason said. “Pajamas, underwear, shirts, socks, handkerchiefs.”

“A normal man does,” Dr. Baxter said.

“And Horace Shelby wasn’t normal?”

“By no means. He was irritable, nervous, excited, aggressive and refused to co-operate.”

“Who brought him here?”

“His relatives.”

“How many?”

“Two of them.”

“Borden Finchley and Ralph Exeter?”

“Finchley was one I don’t know the name of the other person. There was a nurse with them, too.”

“Mrs. Finchley?”

“I believe so.”

“And the three of them strong-armed Shelby into this room?”

“They registered him in the sanitarium. He was disturbed at the time, but the nurse gave him some sedation.”

“You know what the sedation was?”

“It was a hypodermic.”

“Did she tell you what it was?”

“She said it had been prescribed by his regular physician.”

“Did you see a copy of the prescription? Did you know who the physician was?”

“I took her word for it. She was a registered nurse.”

“In this state?”

“I believe in Nevada, I don’t know.”

“How do you know she was a registered nurse?”

She told me so — and, of course, from the way she handled the situation I could see that she had had training.”

Mason suddenly backed into the room, picked up one of the straight-backed chairs, carried it into the closet, climbed up on it and reached back into the dark recesses of the closet shelf.

“What are these?” he asked, bringing out a set of straps.

Dr. Baxter hesitated, coughed, said, “Those are straps.”

“Of course, they’re straps,” Mason said. “They’re web straps. What’s their purpose?”

“We use them to restrain patients who are inclined to become physically unmanageable — they use them in all hospitals which treat mental cases.”

“In other words, you strap a man in bed?”

“When his condition requires.”

“And Horace Shelby was strapped in bed?”

“I am not sure. He may have been at one time.”

“And how long was he strapped in bed?”

“I would assume a very brief interval. We only use those straps when the patient becomes entirely unmanageable, and at times when we are somewhat shorthanded. You can see yourself that the straps have been removed, Mr. Mason.”

“They’ve been removed, all right,” Mason said, holding out two pieces of the strap. “They’ve been cut with a sharp knife.”

“Dear me, so they have!” Dr. Baxter exclaimed.

“Then,” Mason said, “if Horace Shelby escaped, as you claim, he must have had outside aid. Somebody must have cut those straps. A man who has been strapped in bed and has no knife can’t very well cut the straps which are holding him.”

Baxter said nothing.

Mason glanced at Dr. Alma.

Dr. Alma said, “I’m going to give this place a good airing. I’m going to find what it’s all about. Did you start this place, Baxter?”

“Dr. Baxter,” Baxter said.

“Did you start it?” Alma said, raising his voice.

“No. I am buying it from the man who had started it.”

“He’s a licensed M.D.?”

“I didn’t inquire particularly into his qualifications. I saw the license to operate the place and I had that license assigned to me.”

“By whom?”

“By the person who sold it to me.”

“You’d better be in court at two o’clock this afternoon,” Dr. Alma said. “I think Judge Ballinger is going to want to talk with you.”

“I can’t be in court. It’s a physical impossibility. I have many patients and I am shorthanded. We have been doing everything in our power to attract competent help but we simply can’t get them.”

“Nurses?”

“We have practical nurses,” Baxter said. “And we have one trained nurse, but much of our trouble is in getting competent household help. We are all of us doing double duty at the present time.”

There were steps on the porch.

Paul Drake’s voice said, “Hello, Perry.”

“Come in,” Mason said.

Drake entered the room. Mason said, “Dr. Grantland Alma, Mr. Drake and Dr. Baxter.”

“You’re the detective?” Dr. Alma asked.

“Right,” Mason said.

“I think Mr. Mason has uncovered the key clue,” Dr. Alma said.

“Key clue?” Drake asked.

“To the disappearance of Horace Shelby.”

“The escape of Horace Shelby,” Dr. Baxter corrected.

“As far as I am concerned,” Dr. Alma said, “the man is gone and I don’t know how he went, where he went, or who took him.”

“He took himself,” Dr. Baxter said.

“You believe that?” Dr. Alma asked.

“Yes.”

“All right,” Dr. Alma said, “I’m going to quote you on that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been holding him here as an aged incompetent,” Dr. Alma snapped, “a man who was disoriented, who couldn’t take care of himself, who was incapable of managing his affairs.

“When he resented that treatment, you strapped him down to the bed. You wouldn’t allow visitors to see him You wouldn’t allow an attorney to consult with him.

“Now then, you adopt the position that this man was shrewd enough to find some way of cutting the straps that held him, getting up out of bed, dressing, getting out of the gate, out to the street — an aged, infirm man without enough money to get on a bus and, yet, he’s vanished.

“Now then, you just come into court and say that you thought he was aged, infirm, senile, and unable to take care of himself, and let’s see what the Court has to say.”

“Well, now, wait a minute, wait a minute,” Dr. Baxter said hastily. “Of course, he could have had help. What I meant to say was that he didn’t have any help from this institution. In other words, we weren’t trying to spirit him away so that the process of the court couldn’t be used in his case.”

“It isn’t what you meant to say it’s what you did say,” Dr. Alma said. “As far as I am concerned, I’m finished. I’m going back and make my report to the Court... How about you, Mason?”

“I can’t see where there’s anything to be gained by staying here,” Mason said, looking at the unhappy and frustrated Dr. Baxter. “Particularly, since we’re all due in court this afternoon... I take it Dr. Baxter has been subpoenaed?”

“If he isn’t, he will be,” Dr. Alma snapped. “I’ll see to that.”

“Now, just a minute, just a minute,” Dr. Baxter said. “I can’t be running around going to court. I am shorthanded as it is and—”

“I know,” Dr. Alma said with mock sympathy. “I have the same thing happen from time to time myself. They subpoena me to come to court and I lose a day at the office. It’s one of the duties of the profession, eh, Doctor?”

Mason moved to the door, led Drake to one side. “You have the car that has the telephone in it?” the lawyer asked.

Drake nodded.

“All right,” Mason said, “put men on the job. I want everybody you can pick up put under twenty four hour surveillance.”

“What do you mean ‘everybody’?”

“Exeter, Finchley, Mrs. Finchley, Dr. Baxter here — and stick around and see if you can get any clue as to how Horace Shelby left here.”

Drake nodded.

Mason said, “I have a hunch someone pulled a fast one. I noticed yesterday that there were two signs asking for help to run the place. Those signs have now been taken down. That means that someone applied for a job last night and got the job — probably a night job. See if you can find out anything about that person because that could well have been a plant — someone that Borden Finchley put in here to get Horace Shelby out of sight so that Dr. Alma couldn’t examine him.

“If you can get a line on that person — in case some person was hired last night — spare no expense to get all the information possible.”

Drake nodded. “Will do. It’s going to cost money.”

“Let it cost money,” Mason said. “We’re in a fight and we’re going for the jugular.”