The Case of the Cautious Coquette

Chapter 3

The address on South Gondola Avenue was a relatively small apartment house. The list of names on the left of the door indicated there were some thirty-five tenants.

Mason found without difficulty the name which had been clipped from the center of a visiting card, “Lucille Storla Barton.” The figure opposite was “208” and there was a worn push button to the right and a speaking tube.

Mason deliberated for a few seconds over the push button, but curiosity about the key got the better of him. He fitted the key to the lock in the outer door and twisted it. The lock immediately clicked back and the door opened.

Mason found himself in a narrow lobby where a few uncomfortable chairs had been placed uninvitingly in a cold, symmetrical design. There was a public pay-station telephone in one corner and a cubbyhole office, separated by a low counter from the rest of the lobby. Back of this was a door marked “Manager” and on the counter was a placard reading, PRESS THIS BUTTON FOR THE MANAGER. Mason walked through the narrow lobby, into a corridor flanked with the doors of apartments. The elevator was lighted and back some thirty feet down the corridor. The building had three floors and Lucille Barton evidently lived on the second.

Mason pushed the button on the automatic elevator and when the lighted cage slid to a stop, opened the door, got in and pushed the button for the second floor.

Rattling upward, the lawyer realized it well might have been quicker had he climbed the stairs.

Apartment 208 was toward the rear of the building. Mason followed the doors back until he came to the one he wanted. He pressed a bell button and waited. There was no sound from within the apartment. Mason tried his knuckles on the door and again had no luck.

Surreptitiously, the lawyer inserted the key and twisted with thumb and forefinger.

The latch came smoothly back. The door opened.

Through the open crack in the door, Mason could look through a dark living room into a bedroom lighted by an overhead electric light. The bed had not been made and a feminine nightgown lay across it where it had been thrown. The lawyer could hear the sound of water running in a bathroom.

Mason gently closed the door, removed the key, waited in the corridor for some two minutes, then pressed the button again.

This time he heard sounds of motion and a feminine voice on the other side of the door asked, “What is it, please?”

“Is this Miss Barton?”

“Yes.”

“I want to talk with you. My name is Mason. I’m a lawyer.”

The door opened a cautious crack. He saw laughing, saucy blue eyes, molasses-taffy hair, and a hand holding a robe tightly at the neck. Even, white teeth flashed in a smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason,” she said, “but I’m not presentable. I’m just getting up. You’ll have to... to wait or come back.”

“I’ll wait,” Mason said.

“I’m afraid I don’t know you, Mr. Mason. I...” She looked him over from head to foot, then her eyes widened. “You’re not the Perry Mason?”

“Perhaps you’d better say that I’m a Perry Mason.”

She said, “Honestly, Mr. Mason!”

There was a moment of silence. Then she said, “Look, Mr. Mason, it will only take me a second or two to get into some clothes. Things are in sort of a mess, but if you’ll just step into the living room, please, and — you can raise the shades and make yourself comfortable — I’ll be with you in just a few seconds.”

“Or,” Mason said, “I can come back, and...”

“No, no, come on in and sit down. It’ll only take me a minute to make myself presentable.”

She held the door open.

Mason entered the dark living room.

“If you don’t mind raising the curtains, Mr. Mason, and — well, just sit down and make yourself at home.”

“Thanks,” Mason told her.

She moved swiftly across the sitting room to the bedroom and closed the door.

Mason walked over to the windows, raised the shades, and let in the morning sunlight.

Mason saw to his surprise that the apartment represented an incongruous clash of the cheap and the costly. A small but exquisite Oriental rug made the larger drab rug beside it seem hopelessly shoddy. The furniture was for the most part expensive, comfortable and had been selected with taste. Against this note of quiet luxury a few pieces of cheap furniture, their mediocrity emphasized by the aristocratic articles surrounding them, gave a jarring note.

On the table an ash tray was still well filled with cigarette stubs. Some of them had lipstick, some did not. A small kitchenette disclosed an empty bottle of Scotch on the sink, a couple of glasses, and two empty soda bottles. A magnificent, antique walnut writing desk was over in the corner. Mason hesitated for a moment, then swiftly walked over toward it, inserted his fingers in the ornamental metal handle on the top of the door and pulled. The desk was firmly locked.

Mason returned to a chair by the table in the center of the room, picked up an old magazine, settled himself, crossed his legs and waited.

He had to wait about five minutes. Then the young woman came out of the bedroom wearing a chambray housedress which looked simple and domestic, but which had been carefully cut for the purpose of showing various curves and contours. She was wearing well-shaped shoes with medium high heels. Her legs were smoothly stockinged and very visible.

She said, “I’m not human in the morning until I’ve had my coffee, Mr. Mason. If you’ll pardon me, I’ll put a percolator on the stove. I suppose you’ve had breakfast.”

“Oh, yes.”

“You make me sound hopelessly lazy,” she laughed, “but... how about a cup of coffee with me?”

“Thanks. Put my name in the pot and I’ll join you.”

She went into the kitchen, busied herself with the coffeepot.

“Nice apartment you have here,” Mason said, getting up and strolling around the room.

“It’s large,” she said, “and I get the morning sun. The building is old-fashioned, but the way things are now that’s very convenient. I have lots of elbow room and there’s a private garage which goes with the apartment — and that’s more than I’d have in a more modern apartment.”

“I see you have a portable typewriter. Do you write?”

She laughed. “I pound out a letter once in a while. There was a time when I thought I was going to write the great American novel. I’m not only too dumb, I’m also too lazy.”

Mason lifted the cover from the portable typewriter, said, “I want to make a memo. A matter has been bothering me. Would you mind if I used this typewriter for a minute? It’s something that had escaped my mind until just now and...”

“Not at all,” she said. “Go right ahead. There’s some stationery in the drawer there in the table. I’ll be with you in a minute. I’m going to put on some toast and a soft-boiled egg. How about you?”

“No thanks. I’ve had breakfast. Just a cup of coffee for me, please.”

Mason opened the drawer in the table. There were two piles of stationery, one the conventional full letter-size sheets such as are used in preparing manuscripts, the other a pink tinted stationery, apparently matching the stationery on which the letter that had been received by the Drake Detective Agency had been typed.

Mason fed a sheet of this paper into the machine and hurriedly wrote out a memo dealing with an imaginary witness in a fictitious case, involving the validity of a will, a witness who must be questioned along certain lines. When he had completed the memo, he put the cover back on the machine.

The aroma of coffee came from the kitchenette.

A few moments later Lucille Barton appeared with a tray and two coffee cups. There was toast on a plate, a small bottle of cream, a sugar bowl, a soft-boiled egg in a cup.

“Sure you won’t have anything except coffee?”

“That’s all, thanks,” Mason said.

She put the tray on the table, said, “Just make yourself at home, Mr. Mason. I’m honored by this visit, but I’m also just a little bit frightened.”

“Why frightened?”

She said, “I don’t know. There’s something about having a lawyer call on you, particularly a famous lawyer such as you are. I suppose — well, why suppose? Let me drink my coffee, and then tell me what it is.”

She sipped her coffee, added cream and sugar, poured cream into Mason’s coffee, and handed him the sugar bowl. After a few seconds she said, “Well, here’s hoping it isn’t too serious. What have I done, Mr. Mason?”

“Nothing as far as I know,” Mason said. “That’s delicious coffee.”

“Thanks.”

“Mind if I smoke?” Mason asked.

“Of course not.”

Mason took his cigarette case from his pocket, lit a cigarette.

Lucille Barton munched on toast, watched him with speculative eyes, smiled easily and naturally whenever she caught him looking at her.

She was, Mason decided, in the late twenties, and evidently a young woman who knew her way around, but there was nothing hard about her. She seemed as naturally naive and as spontaneous with her friendship as a young puppy, anxious to make friends with everyone in a joyful world.

“Well,” she asked, “when do we start?”

“Now,” Mason said. “Where were you on the afternoon of the third — day before yesterday?”

“Oh, good heavens,” she said, and then laughed throatily.

“Where were you?”

“Is that a gag?” she asked, cocking a quizzical eyebrow. “Tell me, are you really serious?”

“Yes.”

“The third — let me see... Heavens, I can’t tell you, Mr. Mason.”

“Do you keep a diary?”

“Come, come, Mr. Mason. Do I look that dumb?”

Mason said, “I’ll put it another way. Were you near the intersection of Hickman Avenue and Vermesillo Drive?”

She puckered her forehead in an attempt to search her recollection. “On the third?”

“On the third.”

Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t believe I was.”

Mason said, “Let’s go at it again from a slightly different angle. I have reason to believe that you were with some man in a light-colored sedan. You had had a flat tire and had pulled into the curb to fix it. There was an accident there at the intersection just as you were getting ready to drive away, and you noticed something about the car, or about one of the cars that had been in the accident. It was a dark sedan and...”

She was shaking her head vigorously now. “Mr. Mason, I’m quite certain there’s some mistake. At the moment I can’t recall where I was, but I do know very definitely that I haven’t seen any accident within the past few weeks and I certainly wasn’t riding in any car which had a punctured tire. That’s something a person wouldn’t forget in a hurry, don’t you think?”

“It would certainly seem so.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t forget a thing like that... Why are you interested, Mr. Mason?”

Mason said, “I’m representing the occupants of the car that was hit. There was a young man, Bob Finchley, a chap twenty-two years old, who has a broken hip. We hope it will heal up all right so he won’t be crippled, but it’s a serious injury, and it’s certainly going to take some time, even with the best of luck, before he can...”

“Oh, that’s too bad!” she interrupted. “I can’t imagine anything worse than a young man being smashed up. I do hope there is no permanent trouble.”

“Well hope for the best,” Mason agreed.

She finished the egg and toast, readied for a cigarette. Mason held a light and she placed her hands over his. She guided the match to the end of the cigarette. Her hands were warm, vital, and her touch was not too firm, not too delicate, just close enough to let the softness of her fingertips register for a moment on Mason’s hand. Then, as she moved her own hand away, she slid the fingertips along the lawyer’s fingers. “Thanks,” she said, looking up at him with eyes that were suddenly serious. “I suppose you know, Mr. Mason, that I admire you tremendously.”

“Do you?”

“I most certainly do. I’ve followed many of your cases. I think you’re — well, you’re brilliant and magnetic and powerful, and you’re willing to stand up and fight for the underdog. I like that.”

“Well, that’s certainly gratifying,” Mason said. “I try to do the best I can when I’m working on a case. Is there any way that you have of finding out where you were on the afternoon of the third?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Mason. I’m quite certain I can check back over daily events and puzzle it out But I’m afraid I can’t do it now. Having such a famous personage sharing coffee with me in my apartment is a little too much of a thrill. I don’t suppose you know it but I’m as nervous as can be. This is something I’ll remember for a long time, Mr. Mason.”

“When do you suppose you can let me know where you were on the afternoon of the third?”

“I don’t know. It may be — oh, it may come to me within an hour or two. Do you want me to telephone you?”

“If you will, please.”

“I’ll cudgel my wits — although it’s very difficult for me to think back and remember just where I was on any given date. I mean even yesterday. Of course, if I keep thinking long enough, I’ll remember some little thing and then that will pave the way for something else. Let’s see... day before yesterday...”

“I take it you’re not working at any regular job.”

She smiled. “I have an allowance.”

Mason impaled her eyes with his. “Alimony?”

She quickly averted her glance, then suddenly turned defiant eyes back to his. “Anything wrong with that?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Mason said.

“And does it make any difference — in the matter you’re investigating?”

Mason laughed, and said, “That would seem to be a nice way of asking me if it’s any of my business.”

“Well, I was just wondering what — well, whether you were investigating me and this story about the automobile accident was something to sort of pave the way.”

“No,” Mason said. “I’m telling you very frankly that I’m interested in you because I’m trying to uncover witnesses to that automobile accident.”

“Well, I’m quite certain that I didn’t see any automobile accident, and I’m quite certain that wherever I was on the afternoon of the third, I wasn’t at the intersection of Hickman Avenue and — what was that other street?”

“Vermesillo Drive.”

She said, “I know where Hickman Avenue is, but I don’t even know where Vermesillo Drive is, Mr. Mason.”

“You own a car?”

“Well, it’s transportation. It’s a good-looking car, but the engine is in bad shape.”

“What color?”

“A light tan sedan.”

“Well, of course,” Mason interrupted, “that’s primarily the point I’m interested in, but I would like to know just where you were at that time.”

“How did you happen to come here in the first place, Mr. Mason?”

Mason smiled. “I can’t divulge the source of my information, but I had reason to believe you might be the person I was looking for. You certainly answer the description.”

“But you can’t tell me how you got my description — who gave it to you?”

“No.”

She said, “Mr. Mason, I wonder — do you believe in Fate?”

“Why not?” Mason asked with a swift glance of appraisal.

She said, “It just happens, Mr. Mason, that I’m in need of someone to — to do something for me — a lawyer.”

Mason instantly became cautious. “I’m not in a position to take on any more responsibilities. I have a desk piled up with mail now and I...”

“But you took on this accident case and that only occurred day before yesterday.”

“That’s different. There was an element of urgency about it and, frankly, the case appealed to me.”

She said, “Mr. Mason, let me tell you something about my case. I think it will appeal to you.”

“I warn you, I can’t handle it.”

“Well, let me tell you anyway. I’ve been married twice. The first time was simply tragic. The last time I was — well, I was more cautious.”

“And it worked out all right?” Mason asked.

“It didn’t. My second husband was wealthy. That’s one thing that helped. I had made up my mind I’d never marry again, but then he came along and he had money and — well, I married him.”

“And the marriage broke up?”

“Yes, but I’m getting alimony.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred dollars a week,” she said.

Mason whistled.

“Well?” she asked defiantly. “Do you think that’s too much? You should see how much money he makes!”

“I take it you weren’t married very long,”

“Five years, and during that time he made a lot of his money.”

“That, of course, makes it different,” Mason admitted.

“And now he’s going into court trying to do something about my alimony, trying to get it reduced.”

“You can’t blame him for that.”

“I thought perhaps you could talk to him and...”

Mason shook his head emphatically. “In the first place it wouldn’t be ethical for me even to talk to him. Your husband has a lawyer representing him and...”

“No, he doesn’t, Mr. Mason.”

“You mean he’s taking the matter up with the Court by himself?”

“No, he... well, I’ll explain it this way. He had a lawyer who made an application to have alimony reduced about six months ago and the Court refused to do it. The judge intimated he thought my husband had got slightly the best of the property settlement. You see, I worked with my husband in his business, and I really made a lot of that money for him. My husband got peeved at the lawyer he had and swears that when he takes the matter up in court again he’ll do it himself.”

“He’ll probably wind up with some lawyer representing him, however,” Mason said.

“I don’t think so. Willard Allison Barton is a very determined, very ingenious individual. I think I’d be more afraid of him in a court than I would of any lawyer — except you, of course, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “I don’t do much work involving domestic relations.”

“Mr. Mason, will you please listen?”

“All right,” Mason said, settling back in his chair.

She said, “I’m going to marry again, and this time I really know it’s going to work out all right. This man is an older man and a wiser man. He’s very understanding. I feel differently about him than I have about the others.”

“Well,” Mason said, “that should dispose of the alimony matter. As soon as you get married again, your alimony will cease.”

“But can’t you see, Mr. Mason, I don’t want to bum my bridges. I’m really entitled to this alimony. If you should warn Willard Barton that you were going to ask for an increase if he dragged me into court again, it would keep him from making a move.”

“But if all alimony is going to cease within a few months, why not...?”

She said bitterly, “I’m not going to let him off. I’d go to him and offer to settle the whole business for twenty-five thousand cash. He’d jump at that.”

Mason said coldly, “And you want me to engineer that deal for you, is that it?”

She started balancing the spoon on the edge of the coffee cup.

“Well?” Mason asked.

She said, “You think I’m terribly scheming and designing. I’m only cautious. I want to protect my interests.”

“So it would seem.”

“Mr. Mason, look at it from a business viewpoint. Think of what a fool I’d be to give up two hundred dollars a week for any man, any man.”

“If you were sure of having the alimony continue,” Mason pointed out.

“Mr. Hollister wants to fix things so marrying him won’t entail a financial sacrifice on my part. You do think I’m a gold-digger, don’t you, Mr. Mason?”

“You’re certainly not madly in love.”

“Well, Mr. Mason, it isn’t as bad as it sounds. I’ve really been unfair to myself. As a matter of fact, it was Ross Hollister’s own idea — I did tell him that I had finished with marriage, that I wasn’t going to make any more matrimonial ventures, and then he asked me why and kept probing. You just have to see him to understand the sort of man he is. He’s very understanding and sympathetic, but he’s always probing. He has ways of working right into the back of your mind and pulling out ideas that you yourself hardly knew that you had.”

“So he found out that you were worried about giving up two hundred dollars a week and a perfectly satisfactory alimony for a husband. Is that right?”

“That’s right, and I’ll tell you what he did, Mr. Mason, all of his own accord. He put some property in trust so that it will be mine as soon as I marry him. He has already given me an insurance policy for twenty thousand dollars on his life and he’s agreed to see that I have an allowance of seven hundred and fifty dollars a month just for my own clothes and spending money and things — you know, my own personal expenses, quite outside of running the household, and he has a very swank convertible roadster ordered that he’s going to give me for my very own as a wedding present.”

“Well,” Mason asked, and then added dryly, “what more do you want?”

“I want his love and respect!” she blazed at him. “He’s already made these arrangements. The papers have even been signed. The insurance has gone through — and if my husband comes into court and asks to have the alimony reduced, Ross Hollister will never say a word, but all of our married life he’ll think I knew my financial boat was about to spring a leak and that I was looking for a transfer. Can’t you see the thing from my position?”

“You’re afraid that if your ex-husband starts a move to reduce the alimony Mr. Hollister will feel you knew that was coming, were afraid of the outcome and manipulated things so he...”

“Exactly!” she interrupted.

“When is your wedding going to take place?” Mason asked. “Why not hurry it up a little?”

She said, “Well, there’s a little trouble about that. Mr. Hollister has been married before and there’s some technicality — something about his divorce that’s holding things up temporarily.”

“I see,” Mason said.

“Mr. Mason, can’t you please go and talk with Willard Barton? He’s at the Broadway Athletic Club. He lives there... but you mustn’t give him any inkling, not even the faintest inkling as to the name of the man I’m going to marry.”

“Does he know Hollister?”

“Of course he knows him. Mr. Hollister is a member of the club, although he lives in Santa del Barra. Good heavens, Mr. Mason, they’ve even played poker together. Willard would die, just simply die, if he knew. In fact, you’ll have to be very tactful in talking to him. He’s inclined to be insanely jealous as far as I’m concerned — I guess that’s one of the troubles — one of the reasons our marriage didn’t work out better. He was always bringing my other husband into the conversation, wanting to know if I still didn’t care for him, and...”

“Your first husband is alive?” Mason asked.

She went back to balancing the spoon on the cup.

“Is he?”

“Yes.”

“And you have seen him recently?”

“Mr. Mason, why do you ask that question?”

“I don’t know. I’m simply trying to get information.”

“But I don’t see why you...”

Abruptly Mason threw back his head and laughed, said, “You’re a very ingenious young lady, Lucille. I have to give you a medal for ingenuity, but I’m not interested in your case, although I will admit that the unconventional approach intrigues me.”

“What do you mean, the unconventional approach?”

Mason said, “You saw the ad in the paper. You evidently had some way of knowing that I was representing the Finchleys. You thought that if you could get me here and get me in a rather disadvantageous position, you...”

She pushed back the chair, her eyes were blazing. “Mr. Mason, that’s absolutely uncalled for! That’s entirely untrue. I don’t even know what ad you’re talking about! And there’s certainly been no attempt to get you into what you are pleased to refer to as a ‘disadvantageous position’! What do you think I am, anyway?”

“Well, what are you?” Mason asked.

“I’m a woman. I’m human and I’ve been disappointed in love. And I don’t want to have my alimony reduced. I know you can scare my ex-husband to death. If he only thought I knew you, and that you were interested in me — in my case, I mean...”

Mason pushed back his chair, got to his feet, bowed and said, “I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe you, and I can’t waste any more time. It was a good attempt. I’m sorry that I can’t fall for it. Perhaps if I had been caught in your apartment between two and five I might have been forced to take your case. Thanks for the coffee.”

Mason picked up his hat, walked to the door. “And that business of pretending you can’t remember where you were day before yesterday is just a little too crude. Bait another trap and try another lawyer, Mrs. Barton.”

And Mason pulled the door shut, leaving her standing there, her face flushed and angry.