The Case of the Calendar Girl

Chapter Four

Perry Mason latchkeyed the door of his private office, tossed his hat on the shelf of the hat closet, grinned at Della Street and said, “Hi, Della. How did you recover from last night — okay?”

“Okay,” she told him.

“No sniffles?”

“No sniffles, no sneezes, no sinuses.”

“Good girl.”

“Paul Drake telephoned a few minutes ago and said he wanted to have you call just as soon as you came in.”

“Give him a ring,” Mason said. “The police have probably been giving him a bad time again.”

Della Street picked up the telephone, said to the switchboard operator, “Tell Paul Drake Mr. Mason is in now.”

Mason lit a cigarette, regarded the pile of mail on his desk with some distaste, pushed it to one side, said, “We haven’t heard anything from Ansley this morning, have we?”

“Not a word.”

Drake’s code knock sounded on the office door.

“Well,” Della said, “I guess Paul Drake decided to come down in person.”

“That means he wants something,” Mason said, grinning. “Open the door, Della, and let’s see what it is.”

Della Street opened the door, and Paul Drake, his face an unsmiling mask of grave concern, entered the office, said, “Hi, everybody. What the hell were you two doing last night?”

“Now that,” Mason said, “has all the earmarks of being an impertinent question.”

“I trust you weren’t out at Meridith Borden’s,” Drake said.

“We reported that a car had swerved into Borden’s driveway and overturned,” Mason said. “Isn’t that enough to satisfy the police?”

“You mean you haven’t heard?” Drake asked.

“Heard what?”

“It was announced on the radio on the newscast at eight-thirty.”

“What was?” Mason asked.

“Meridith Borden, noted public relations expert, was found dead in the palatial residence on his country estate at seven o’clock this morning by his housekeeper. He was lying on the floor in his photographic room and had been shot through the heart, apparently with a revolver.”

“Police find any weapon?”

“No weapon, no indication of suicide. On the other hand, no indication of a struggle. However, shortly after eleven o’clock last night a burglar alarm was turned in from the Borden estate, at least from the grounds. Police found indications that some unauthorized persons had been in the grounds and had probably managed to get over the wall.”

“Was the burglar alarm connected with police headquarters anywhere?” Mason asked.

“No. A passing motorist heard the siren of the alarm and saw the floodlights go on. Everything was normal at midnight when a sheriff’s patrol car made a regular run by the place, so someone must have turned off the lights and reset the alarm.

“The estate is protected by a masonry wall covered with broken glass and barbed wire on top. There are huge iron gates protecting the driveway, and there’s an electric timing system by which those gates are automatically closed at eleven o’clock each night. A bell or gong gives a warning sound one minute before the gates close. Then the gates clang shut, and after that the only way anyone can get in is by telephoning from the outer gate.”

Mason gave Drake’s statement thoughtful consideration.

“What do the police say about it?” Mason asked at length.

“They’re not saying anything just yet. They found some tracks in the damp soil around that automobile you reported, indicating that people had been milling around it, evidently looking for something.”

“Indeed,” Mason said.

“Someone had climbed over the wall,” Drake went on. “Some garments had evidently been thrown over the top of the wall covering the broken glass and barbed wire, and then people had climbed over. Police are inclined to think there were three people, and that one of them was a woman.”

“How come?” Mason asked.

“Tracks of a woman’s heels on both sides of the wall,” Drake said, “and the way the police have it worked out, it would have taken a minimum of three people to have scaled the wall. Two people could hardly have done it. A man could have boosted a woman up to the top of the wall, but she couldn’t have pulled him up by herself. However, she could have given an assist to another man who was also being helped up from the ground.”

“All very interesting,” Mason said.

“I thought you might find it quite interesting,” Drake observed. “Under the circumstances, the police are naturally taking quite an interest in the stolen car which was found overturned on the grounds.”

“When did they find the car, by the way?” Mason asked.

“Not until this morning. Police telephoned Borden last night to see if any such car was in the grounds, but there was no answer on Borden’s telephone. They sent a squad car out, and, since the gates were closed and the place locked up for the night, they decided to let it wait until morning.”

“Any indication as to the identity of the people who were in Borden’s grounds last night, Paul?”

“Not yet, Perry. At least, if the police have any evidence, they’re not releasing it. Doubtless you’ll receive a visit from members of the Homicide Squad this morning. They’ll want to ask you more about the client who reported the stolen car careening off the highway.”

“Well,” Mason said, “that starts the day off with a bang, Paul. I was afraid I was going to be up against a routine morning of answering mail. Thanks for telling me.”

“You want me to do anything?” Paul Drake asked.

“Just keep quiet,” Mason said.

“I mean along investigative lines.”

Mason stretched back in his chair and yawned. “I had met Meridith Borden a couple of times, and, of course, I’m sorry to learn of his tragic demise. But the mere fact that a client reported seeing a car swerve and go out of control into the Borden driveway doesn’t give me any interest in the Borden murder.”

Drake’s face showed unmistakable relief. “Well, thank heavens for that! I was afraid you’d become mixed up in something that could prove embarrassing. There’s no chance you, Della and your mysterious client were climbing over Borden’s wall last night, is there?”

Mason threw back his head and laughed. “You do a lot of worrying, Paul. What put that idea into your head?”

“The curve of the driveway,” Drake said dryly, “is such that a person following a car along the highway might have seen the car swerve into the Borden driveway, but couldn’t possibly have seen the car crash through the hedge and then roll over — not without stopping the car, backing up and then walking along the driveway to investigate. There’s evidence that quite a number of people were leaving tracks around the Borden driveway. Or, let me put it this way, there’s evidence that some people left a lot of tracks. There must have been quite a bit of nocturnal activity, probably prior to eleven o’clock, when the gates were automatically closed by this timing device.”

“I see,” Mason said thoughtfully.

“And,” Drake went on, “in view of the fact that the police are now investigating a murder which may have taken place between nine and eleven o’clock last night, it might be very embarrassing for you to with-hold information or to make some statement which you might have to amend at a later date.”

“Thanks for the tip, Paul.”

“Not at all,” Drake said. “You’re sure you don’t want me to do anything — any investigative work?”

“Not now,” Mason said.

“Okay. Keep your nose clean,” Drake told him, and, heaving his long length from the overstuffed chair, started for the door, paused, looked speculatively at Mason and said, “You know, the police are pretty thorough, Perry. There are times when you think they do dumb things, but once they start after something, they sure as hell keep after it.”

“Well?” Mason asked.

“You and Della went out to dinner,” Drake said. “I saw you when you left the office building. You were wearing a brown, double-breasted business suit. Della Street had on a dark-blue tailored suit with white trim. When you came into my office to report that an automobile had skidded into Borden’s driveway, you were wearing different clothes.”

“Do you always notice things like that?” Della Street asked.

“It’s my business,” Paul said. “The point is, Perry, that the police, as I have said, aren’t dumb. The fact that they haven’t called on you this morning may be because they’re digging out some facts to work with. They may have found some bits of clothing or some threads stuck to the barbed wires or the broken glass on the Borden wall. It would be just like the police to check on where you had dinner last night, to ask some of the waiters who know you how you were dressed, and then call on you this morning and ask if you’d have any objection to producing the clothes you were wearing last night.”

“Why should I have any objection?” Mason asked.

“There might be some significant tears in the cloth.”

“And if there were?”

“They might match threads that police found adhering to the barbed wire and the broken glass on top of the wall at Borden’s place.”

“And if they did?”

“You’d have some explaining to do.”

“And if I explained?”

Drake shrugged his shoulders. “It’s up to you, Perry. I’m not telling you how to practice law. I’m telling you what the score is.”

“Thanks,” Mason said. “I’ll let you know if I want anything.”

“Okay,” Drake told him. “Be seeing you.”

As soon as Drake had closed the door, Mason nodded to Della Street. “Get Ansley on the phone.”

Della Street hurried to the phone book, looked up his number, said, “Shall I have Gertie at the switchboard dial him, or—”

Mason shook his head. “Try him on our unlisted line, Della. Perhaps it’s just as well not to let Gertie know anything about this.”

Della Street’s nimble fingers dialed the number. After a moment, she said, “Mr. Ansley, please.”

She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, said to Perry Mason, “His secretary wants to know who’s calling.”

“Tell her,” Mason said.

Della Street removed her hand, said into the telephone, “It’s Mr. Perry Mason, the attorney, and it’s quite important.”

There was a moment’s silence, then she said, “I see. Will you please tell him when he comes in to get in touch with Mr. Mason, that Mr. Mason would like to have him call at his earliest convenience. And please tell him that it’s a matter of some importance.”

She hung up the phone, turned to Mason. “Ansley isn’t in. He phoned his office that he wouldn’t be in this morning and might not be in all day.”

“Didn’t leave a number where he could be reached?”

Della Street shook her head. “His secretary said he’s undoubtedly out on the job somewhere. There are no phones on those construction projects, and Ansley moves around quite a bit from the jobs to the supply houses. She said that she’d have him call as soon as he came in.”

“All right,” Mason said, “I guess that determines our pattern for the day, Della.”

“What does?” she asked.

“We’re out of the office and may not be in all day. I’ve got to talk with Ansley before I talk with the police.”

“How much time do we have before they develop a clue which will lead them here?” Della Street asked.

“That’s hard to tell,” Mason said. “Remember that my car was parked in front of Borden’s wall for a while last night. Someone may have noticed the license number. Remember that we told the police the stolen car was in Borden’s grounds and that a client had seen it swerve off the road and roll over, a story which is completely impossible because a motorist couldn’t have seen the car after it swerved off the road, and couldn’t have known that it rolled over. Put all of these things together in connection with a murder case, and you can gamble that our friends from the Homicide Squad are working on other clues pointing to me, otherwise they would have been here before this.”

“And the other clues are?”

“Probably threads torn from our garments. Did you notice Ansley’s coat?”

“I know there was a section torn from the lining,” she said. “I— Gosh, Chief, I could have been more careful. As it was, I was in a hurry and — well, those barbs seemed to be sticking in every place and I—”

“Sure,” Mason said, “you were simply trying to get the clothes free and get away from there as quickly as possible. You had no reason to realize the importance of not leaving threads or bits of cloth... I take it you have some shopping you’d like to do today and perhaps you’d like to spend the afternoon at a beauty parlor, or drop in at a matinee?”

“And in case I’m questioned, what do I say about where I spent the day and how I spent the day?”

“You are entitled to a day off,” Mason said. “You’ve been working overtime.”

“When?” she asked.

“That’s a good point,” Mason told her. “Don’t try to cover up. In case you’re questioned, say you did quite a bit of work last night.”

“And then what?”

“If they ask you anything else, state that you don’t answer questions concerning business matters unless I give you permission.”

“Chief, shouldn’t I stay with you today?”

Mason shook his head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to seem to be avoiding the police. If we’re together, we would have to be working. If we were working, it would have to be on some case. And if we were working on some case, we might be picked up and questioned before we’re ready to be questioned. If, however, you’re taking a day off, you can keep yourself out of circulation where the police wouldn’t be picking you up.”

“And how about you?”

“Well, I’ll have to take care of myself,” Mason said, grinning. “I think perhaps I can do it.”

“If word gets around that they want to question you, they’ll be able to pick you up. You’re too well known to circulate around the city without leaving a trail.”

“I know it,” Mason said, “but I don’t think they’ll announce that they want to question me. That is, they won’t give the information to the radio or the press — not just yet.”

“Suppose Ansley calls in while we’re gone?”

“I don’t think he will,” Mason said. “He won’t unless the police pick him up. Tell Gertie at the telephone that you’re taking a day off, that I’m going to be in and out during the day, that if Ansley should telephone, she’s to explain to him that I have to see him and that he’s to leave a phone number where he can be contacted.”

Mason walked over to pick up his hat.

“Be seeing you, Della,” he said.

Her eyes were anxious as she watched him out of the door.

Mason got his car from the parking lot, drove some twenty blocks until he was away from the immediate vicinity of his office, found a parking place, went to a drugstore and consulted the telephone directory. He found the number of Beatrice Cornell in the Ancordia Apartments and dialed it.

A woman’s voice, sounding calm and impersonal, said, “Yes, hello.”

“Minerva?” Mason asked eagerly.

“What number were you calling, please?”

“I want Minerva.”

“There’s no one named Minerva here.”

“Sorry,” Mason said, dropped the receiver into its cradle, returned to his car and made time to the Ancordia Apartments.

He found the name of Beatrice Cornell listed as being in Apartment 108.

Mason pressed the buzzer and almost instantly the electric door release sounded.

The lawyer opened the door, walked through a somewhat gloomy lobby, down a corridor, found Apartment 108 and tapped gently on the door.

The door was opened by a woman who said, with crisp, businesslike efficiency, “I’m Miss Cornell— Why, it’s Perry Mason!”

Mason bowed. “I called you last night, but I’ve never met you, have I?”

“Heavens, no! You’ve never met me. I’m one of your fans. I’ve followed your cases with the greatest interest. Your picture is very familiar to me... I suppose you want to see me about what happened last night — your phone call. Come in and sit down,” she invited.

Mason entered the sitting room of a double apartment, noticed a large, executive desk on which were three telephones. There was a smaller, secretarial desk with a typewriter, a stenographic chair and a considerable amount of typed material.

She caught the surprise in his face and laughed. “I run a sort of catchall service, Mr. Mason. I answer telephones for a whole select list of confidential clients who want to leave night numbers where messages can be taken, yet want a little more personalized service than the average telephone-answering service. For instance, I have several doctors who telephone me when they’re out on their evening calls. I keep track of exactly where they are, and, in case of any emergency, know where they can be located in the shortest possible time. I also have a mail service for clients, do a little secretarial work, run a model service, and, all in all, manage to make a living out of odds and ends. In fact, I’m building up a pretty good business.”

“Isn’t it rather confining?” Mason asked, accepting the chair she indicated.

“Sure, but it’s a good living.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Mason asked.

“Seven years, and I’ve built up a very nice business. Before that I was a photographic model. After a while I began to realize that every tick of the clock was undermining my stock in trade. First, I began to put on a little weight here and there, and then I had to start dieting, and... well, after a while I saw the light and got out of the business. Now I have a list of models I book for photographers who want professionals.

“But you didn’t come here to talk about me, Mr. Mason. I suppose you want to know about last night, and what you’re trying to find out is whether I was involved in an automobile accident.”

“And I’d like to find out about your models,” Mason said.

“That’s simple. I used some of my old connections and friendships to build up a model-booking service. I have half a dozen photographic models who let me handle their bookings.”

Mason said, “Thanks for your cordiality and co-operation. I hate to be a nasty, suspicious, skeptical audience, but you’re talking to an attorney in a matter which may be of some importance.

“A young woman was involved in an automobile accident last night. She was unconscious for a while. She gave your name and this address. My client took her to this apartment house and delivered her here.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “And you want some assurance that I wasn’t the woman?”

He nodded.

“How serious was the automobile accident?”

“One of the cars overturned.”

“You say this young woman was injured?”

“She was thrown out and apparently skidded for a ways. She was lying unconscious. Later on, she came to.”

“There were bruises?” she asked.

“Probably. On the legs and hips.”

“Well, Mr. Mason,” she said, “I was here last night. I answered telephones fifty times. I’m here every night. I feel certain I have no information that would help you.”

“Do you know Meridith Borden?” Mason asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Why?”

“He’s dead.”

“What!”

“He’s dead. The police think he was murdered sometime last night.”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed.

“And,” Mason said, “the automobile accident that I refer to is one that took place in the grounds of Meridith Borden’s country estate. You remember it was rainy last night. A car skidded off the road, went through the gates, crashed through the hedge, then turned over.”

“Does the registration of the car mean anything?” she asked.

“The car was stolen,” Mason said.

She was thoughtful for a few moments, then she said, “Well, I may as well tell you, Mr. Mason. Meridith Borden is— I mean, was... a client of mine.”

“In what way?”

“He was an amateur photographer. He played around with pin-up art. Sometimes he got models through me.”

“Recently?”

“No, not recently. I think that lately he’d made a private deal with some amateur model who wasn’t averse to serving cheesecake either for thrills or for cash.”

Mason said, “I’m trying to find out who it was who used your name. She was someone who probably knew Borden and she must have known you. She was taller than you, younger than you. She had dark, chestnut hair with brown eyes. She’s someone who knows you personally. She came to this apartment house about—”

“About ten o’clock?” Beatrice Cornell interrupted.

“Probably,” Mason said.

“I remember that my bell rang,” she said, “and I pressed the buzzer releasing the door catch on the outer door. But no one came to my apartment. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. Quite frequently you get wrong calls, and—”

“Do you always press the button opening the door without knowing who it is?” Mason asked.

“Oh, sure,” she said. “I suppose I should find out, but after all, I’m in business, Mr. Mason. I have two dozen different irons in the fire, and clients drop in to see me, to pick up personal messages or leave instructions, and some of these models—”

“Let’s concentrate on the models,” Mason interrupted. “Do you have a model of that description?”

“I have some models,” she said. “I... I don’t like to betray the interests of my clients.”

Mason said, “I’ll try a different approach. I am an amateur photographer. I’m looking for a model. I don’t want one of the slender, long-legged models, I want one with curves. A good figure but well curved. Could you put me in touch with one of your models?”

“I have some sample photographs,” she said. “I could show you those.”

“Please,” Mason said.

She smiled and said, “This is strictly business. These girls will want twenty dollars an hour. They’ll want pay from the time they leave their apartment until they return. You’ll have to furnish the transportation. You’ll have to furnish any special costumes you may want. You’ll have to see that they’re fed. They have stock costumes, Bikini bathing suits. Some of them want chaperons. Some of them will take a chance if they know you. Some of them will take a chance, period.”

“Do I get photographs and addresses?” Mason asked.

“You do not,” she said. “You get photographs with numbers on them. My addresses are my stock in trade. I get a commission on any booking. Most of the specimen photographs are in Bikini bathing suits.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Let’s take a look.”

She said, “Just a minute,” and went through a door to an adjoining room. Mason heard the sound of the drawer in a filing case opening and closing.

A moment later she was back with a dozen eight-by-ten glossy photographs of good-looking girls in attractive poses. Each photograph had a number pasted to it.

Mason regarded the photographs thoughtfully, eliminated several, said, “I’d like studio appointments with numbers six, eight and nine.”

“It’ll cost you twenty dollars an hour.”

Mason nodded.

She opened an address book.

Abruptly Mason said, “Wait a minute, Miss Cornell. I have a better idea. Ring up every one of your models on the list, ask if they’re free today and ask if they can pose for a series of bathing beauty pin-up pictures. And, of course, please understand that I want to pay for your time, whatever it’s worth.”

“All right,” she said. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get busy on the phone.”

Beatrice Cornell struck pay dirt on the third telephone call. She said, “Just a minute, dearie, I’ll... well, I’ll call you back.”

She hung up the telephone, turned to Perry Mason.

“That’s Dawn Manning,” she said, “an attractive girl with a beautiful torso, pretty well upholstered, an awfully good scout. She says she’s out of business for four or five days on account of some rather unsightly bruises. She says she was badly shaken up last night in a minor automobile accident.”

“That’s my girl,” Mason said.

“What do you want to do?”

“Could you get her to come out here?”

“She said she can’t pose.”

“Tell her,” Mason said, “that I’ve seen her photographs, I like her looks, that we can probably cover up the bruises so they won’t show. Ask her if she’ll come out here and meet me. Tell her she gets paid from the time she leaves her apartment. Tell her to jump in a taxi and come out.”

Beatrice Cornell frowned. “She’s going to feel that I’ve double-crossed her.”

“You haven’t double-crossed her at all,” Mason said. “You’re booking photographic models. I’ve heard of your services. You don’t need to mention that I’m an attorney. I’m simply Mr. Mason, a photographer. Ask her to come out here for an interview. Tell her you have the money.”

Beatrice Cornell hesitated, said, “Well, I guess it’s all right.”

Mason took his wallet from his pocket, took out a twenty and a ten. “There’s thirty dollars,” he said. “Twenty dollars for an hour of her time, and the balance will cover taxi fares and incidental expenses.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Are you going to tell this girl who you are and what you want?”

“That depends,” Mason said.

“You’re going to be a photographer?”

Mason nodded.

“Then you’d better get yourself a camera.”

“Is there a photographic store near here?”

“One about four blocks from here. I’m in close touch with him. Want me to telephone?”

“No,” Mason said, “I’d prefer you didn’t. I’ll walk in and get an outfit. I’ll have a chance to get back here by the time your girl arrives?”

“Probably. It might be a little better for you to let me talk with her first, and—”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”