The Case of the Cautious Coquette

Chapter 8

Mason, driving his car rapidly along Beachnut Street, said to Della Street, “All right, Della, I’m going to take you down to the Ketterling Hotel. You’ll be able to get a taxi there. Go see Paul Drake, tell him about these new developments, then go to my office and wait for me to call you.

“I’m going back to talk with Argyle, then I’m going to that South Gondola Street address.”

“You be careful. I think that whole thing is a trap.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but someone is playing games and I want to find out who.”

Mason drove rapidly and in silence to the Ketterling Hotel.

Della said, “Now, as I understand it, I’m to contact Paul Drake, fill him in with what’s happened, and then go to the office and wait?”

“Right.”

“I’ll be there,” she told him, jumping out of the car. “Good luck to you.”

He grinned. “That’s the trouble, we’re shot with luck. We have two guilty drivers and only one smashup.”

He drove to Argyle’s house at 938 West Casino Boulevard. The big Buick was no longer in the driveway. Nor did Mason get any answer when he rang the bell on the front door.

He returned to his car and, driving more rapidly now, went at once to South Gondola Street, where he took the precaution of parking his car a couple of blocks from Lucille Barton’s address. Then, having walked to the apartment house, he circled around to the rear, to inspect the garages.

Without much difficulty he found the garage bearing the number “208.” The doors were closed, but not locked. The interior was dark and gloomy.

Mason opened the door far enough to enable him to see that there was no automobile in the garage.

Having satisfied himself on that point, Mason crossed the street and walked down to the corner to a cigar store where there was a public telephone.

Dialing the unlisted number of his private office, he waited until he heard Della Street’s voice.

“Hello, Della,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve looked the place over. She’s out somewhere in her car. I’m going to try and find that notebook.”

“I was afraid you’d do something like that. How long will you be?”

“Not long.”

She lowered her voice and said, “Mr. Argyle’s in the waiting room. He’s having kittens.”

“What’s happening?”

“Apparently his conscience is bothering him.”

“You don’t think he wants to retract any of the statements he made?”

“Apparently not.”

“How long has he been there?”

“He says he left his place immediately after you talked with him. He’s really worried about something. He tells me he couldn’t talk freely with you when you were there and he’s very anxious to see you now.”

“Why couldn’t he talk freely?”

“He didn’t say.”

“There’s only one reason I can think of, his chauffeur and butler was present.”

“Well, why didn’t he simply send the man out?”

“I don’t know. There’s something strange about that relationship.”

Della said, “The chauffeur was down there sitting at the wheel of the Buick when I came in. Mr. Argyle went down right afterwards to tell him he needn’t wait. That was when I told him I didn’t know when you’d be in. Argyle says he’s going to wait, no matter how long it is.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “I’m on my way, Della. Try and hold Argyle there.”

Mason hung up the phone, walked rapidly up the street to the entrance of the apartment house, used his key to open the outer door, ran up the stairs to the second floor, made certain that the second floor corridor was empty, and then walked rapidly back to apartment 208.

Mason knocked, and received no answer.

He made another quick survey of the corridor, then quietly inserted his key in the door, clicked back the lock and, opening the door, stepped swiftly inside the apartment.

Lights were on in the apartment. The desk was open. The upper right-hand pigeonhole was empty. Both the notebook and the gun had disappeared.

Mason gave an exclamation of annoyance, took two steps toward the bedroom, then stopped.

From where he was then standing, he could look through the half-open bedroom door, across the lighted bedroom and through an open door into a bathroom.

A girl was standing in the bathtub behind a shower curtain, and evidently had just shut off the water.

A white enameled bathroom stool was standing beside the bathtub. On this stool was a blued-steel revolver, squat, ominous and ugly.

As Mason stood watching the silhouette of the woman against the shower curtain, a naked arm dripping with water reached around the end of the curtain.

The wet hand closed about the gun.

Mason swiftly stepped back out of the range of vision.

“Hello,” he called. “Anybody home?”

“Who... who’s there?”

“Hello,” Mason called. “This is Perry Mason.”

“Oh... are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“I was taking a shower. How did you get in?”

“I rang the doorbell. No one answered. I pushed against the door and it came open.”

“Oh,” she said, “sometimes that latch doesn’t click. Just sit down, Mr. Mason, and make yourself at home for a few minutes, but you’d better close that door into the bedroom. I’m definitely not decent.”

“I have to see you,” Mason said, “right away.”

She laughed. “Not right away.”

“There isn’t any time to waste,” Mason told her.

“My, but you’re terribly impatient. Close that outer door, will you please, Mr. Mason, and make sure it’s locked this time. And now the bedroom door, please. I’ll be with you in a second or two, just as soon as I dry myself and put on a housecoat.”

He closed the bedroom door, made certain the outer door was locked, then went over to the desk. After going through the contents for some ten seconds, he could find no sign of the notebook he had seen earlier in the day.

He crossed back to the chair by the table and waited.

After some four or five minutes the door from the bedroom opened. Lucille Barton, wearing a housecoat of dark velvety material which outlined the curves of her figure, came gliding toward him.

Mason arose to meet her.

She hesitated a moment, then, smiling a full-lipped smile, gave him her hand.

Mason drew her to him and put his arm around her.

“Why, Mister Mason, I didn’t expect this of you.”

Mason’s hands moved swiftly.

“Why, Mr. Mason, what are you looking for?”

“At the moment,” Mason said, “I’m looking for a gun.”

“Oh.” Her voice showed a very definite change of expression.

“Where is it?” Mason asked.

She said, “You saw me, didn’t you, Mr. Mason? You saw me through the shower curtain.”

“I saw the gun on the bath stool,” Mason said. “Where is it?”

“In my bedroom in my handbag.”

“Let’s go take a look at it.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Well get it.”

“What’s the matter, Mr. Mason? Don’t you trust me?”

“No.”

“Why, Mr. Mason, what’s come over you?”

Mason said, “I’m getting cautious, that’s all.”

“Why, Mr. Mason,” she said laughing, “that’s what Arthur Colson says about me. He says I’m too cautious.”

“And what,” Mason asked, “brought up that subject of conversation when you were talking with him?”

Her light laughter was her only answer. She opened the door, led the way into the bedroom and said, “Honestly, Mr. Mason, this is terribly unconventional.”

She moved over toward the bed, suddenly grabbed for the handbag.

Mason beat her to it.

She said sharply, “Mr. Mason, don’t you take that gun away from me. Don’t you try to...”

“What do you want a gun for?” Mason asked.

“For protection.”

Mason took the gun out of the handbag, pulled the catch which enabled him to open the cylinder and slipped the cartridges into his pocket. Having done that, he snapped the cylinder back into place, returned the empty gun to her purse.

“Why, Mr. Mason, you mustn’t do that.”

Mason said, “Let’s talk.”

“But we are talking — you’re not listening.”

“Where did you get this gun?”

“It was given to me.”

“By whom?”

“Mr. Hollister... No, I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask me.”

“How long have you had it?”

“For two or three weeks.”

“Why did Hollister think you needed it?”

“That’s... that’s something I can’t tell you, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “Let’s start getting a few things straight, Lucille. I don’t like to have anyone try to slip something over on me.”

“No,” she said, “I presume not.”

“You told me that you were engaged to Mr. Hollister.”

“Yes, I’m going to marry him.”

“Where is he now?”

“You mean right now?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. Up in the northern part of the state somewhere.”

“You don’t know where? He doesn’t call you?”

“No. You see I don’t have a telephone, Mr. Mason. That’s the bad part of this old-fashioned apartment house. There’s no way he can call me. He’ll drop me a letter. There’s probably one in the mail now.”

“You love him?”

“Mr. Mason, why are you prying into my private affairs this way?”

“Because I want to find out something about you and about some of the things that are going on.”

She said, “Mr. Hollister is a gentleman. I care for him very deeply. I certainly respect him. He’s a speculator who deals in oil properties. He’ll take business trips for a week or two at a time, then he’ll be back here in the city for perhaps — oh, sometimes as long as a month.”

“And when he’s gone, you start playing around with Arthur Colson?”

“Why, Mister Mason!”

“Well?” Mason asked.

She shook her head, and said, “No, it’s not that way. Arthur’s just a business partner, but why are you so curious?”

“Because I want to find out. I have to know what’s going on.”

“Why?”

“Because I think it concerns me, and I think there may be more to this than you know about — or else you’re trying to slip a fast one over on me.”

“Why, Mister Mason! I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve acted in the most mysterious manner ever since you came in here this morning. I... I would like very much to have you negotiate this alimony matter with my ex-husband, Willard Barton, but I’m not going to permit you to make a lot of nasty insinuations just because I want you to do that for me. Of course, naturally, I respect you.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Under those circumstances tell me more about Arthur Colson.”

“What about him?”

“I want to know all about him. Not the business part, the other.”

“Heavens, he’s just a friend. He’s more a friend of Anita’s than he is of mine.”

“Who’s Anita?”

“Anita Jordon, a girl that I know.”

“Describe her.”

“She’s small, with very dark eyes, and nice dark hair. She likes to dress smartly and — you’d like her. She’s just as cute as can be.”

“All right. Now we’ve talked about everything else, let’s come back to the question, and talk about Arthur Colson.”

“What about him?”

“How long have you known him?”

“Not very long. He... he’s an inventor. Sort of the dreamy, studious type. We have difficulty getting him to relax and do any — well, any playing around. He likes to read. He’ll spend nights in research work at the library, reading. Then he’ll go home and make plans and pound away on his typewriter.”

“What does he invent?”

“Oh, lots of little gadgets. He’s made money out of some of them.”

“What sort of gadgets?”

“Well, right now he’s working on something in connection with infra-red rays. Before that, he worked out a device that opens and closes doors and does things like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“It works with invisible light, what I think they call a black light. A beam runs across the room and as soon as some object crosses that beam it closes a circuit and does things — oh, for instance, like making electrical contacts so that the minute you walk into the house the electric stove clicks on and starts cooking, the radio turns on, and lights come on, and... I don’t know, Mr. Mason, I think it’s just a gadget. So many of his things are scientifically fine, but impractical when you want to work with them.”

“And what’s your interest in him?”

“It’s just as I told you. I’m financing him.”

“And why did you put up money for his inventions?”

“Because I think it’s good business.”

“And he’s here until after midnight at times?”

“Well, sometimes when Mr. Hollister isn’t here, and I... oh, Arthur gets blue and lonely. You see, he makes it a rule to take only one day a week for relaxation. I’m trying to get him to take his evenings off. He’s definitely not the type that knows how to play. He’s dreamy and abstract, and sometimes he can be something of a bore.”

“But he likes Anita Jordon?”

“Yes.”

“And she likes him?”

“I guess so. Anita’s — well, Anita’s selfish in a way. You know, she wants security. I think she’d like very much to have someone marry her and settle down. I’ve tried to tell her that marriage doesn’t mean security, but you can’t argue with a girl about a thing like that.”

“No,” Mason said, “you can’t. Now, suppose you quit lying, Lucille, and tell me who bought this gun for you.”

“I think you’re attaching a perfectly exaggerated importance to that gun, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “When a woman takes a bath and has a gun on a stool right beside the bathtub, I feel that she’s the one who’s attaching an exaggerated importance to the weapon.”

“Someone has sworn he’s going to kill me. Arthur is afraid and I’m afraid.”

“Who’s that someone?”

“You wouldn’t know him.”

“You can’t be certain,” Mason said. “I know lots of people. What’s his name?”

“His name is Pitkin — Hartwell L. Pitkin. He’s a tough, coarse, uncouth individual. I made a mistake and married him when I was just a kid. I was only eighteen at the time, not old enough to have any sense about men. He had batted around and I felt he was a man of the world who could give me everything I wanted. I’d lived more or less of an isolated existence in a small town and...”

“How long did you live together?”

“Between two and three years.”

“Then what?”

“Then I ran away.”

“What do you mean, you ran away?”

“Just that.”

“Did you get a divorce?”

“Eventually, but at the time I left him, I just ran away.”

“With someone?” Mason asked.

“You’re terribly direct, aren’t you, Mr. Mason?”

“Were you with someone?” Mason repeated.

“Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“So what happened?” Mason asked.

“Hartwell swore that he’d follow us, find us and kill us both. He couldn’t find me. He never did. I changed my name and then I got a divorce in Reno and...”

“And what happened to the man you ran away with?”

“He was killed in the war. I loved him.”

“And then what?”

“He left me some insurance and — well, I married Willard Barton.”

“All right, now tell me about Hartwell Pitkin.”

“He... he’s found out I’m in the city. Not the address yet.”

“He’s here in the city?”

“Yes.”

“Where? What’s he doing?”

“He’s working for a man by the name of Stephen Argyle. He lives at 938 West Casino Boulevard. He doesn’t know that I know where he is, but I found that out — and the worst of it is, Mr. Mason, that Ross Hollister and this man, Argyle, belong to the same club, play cards together and all that.

“Now you can see my predicament. Even if I should marry Ross Hollister it wouldn’t really solve anything. You can imagine how a a man like Ross would feel if he realized he’d married the ex-wife of his friend’s chauffeur. It would humiliate Ross, and his friends would laugh at him... and Hartwell Pitkin is crazy jealous.

“Oh, Mr. Mason, it’s a mess!”

“Now,” Mason said, “I am beginning to understand.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Mason gently but firmly pushed her toward the door of the bedroom. “Get some clothes on, Lucille. We’re going places.”

“Mr. Mason, why are you so... so grim?”

“Because you’ve been trying to slip something over.”

“I have not!”

“Did you get all this furniture as spoils from your last marriage?”

“Don’t be silly. It’s a furnished apartment.”

“Oh, I see. They furnish Oriental rugs, antique desks, and...”

“All right. If you have to know, I’ll tell you about those. I saw you stretching your neck when you came in here this morning. Ross Hollister likes the good things of life. He intends to keep his place in Santa del Barra after we’re married, but he wants to keep this place up too. He’s an expert on furniture and interior decorating, and gradually he’s bringing down bits of furniture he can spare from his place in Santa del Barra.

“That rug, for instance, came in Sunday. And his snooty old housekeeper had to wire me yesterday morning asking if he’d given me an Oriental rug. As though it’s any of her business! She comes in by the day and goes home at four-thirty. Ross takes his dinners out, but he pays her just as much as if she were there all the time. I can tell you one thing, when we’re married that woman is going to go — fast!”

“Why did she wire you? Why not ask him?”

“Because he left Santa del Barra at six o’clock Monday to secretly lease some lands on which he has a very confidential report from a geologist He’s a whiz at...”

“All right,” Mason interrupted. “We’ll hear more about him later. Right now go get some clothes on. You’re going places.”