The Case of the Daring Decoy

Chapter Nine

Promptly at nine o’clock Mason held the door of the district attorney’s office open for Jerry Conway.

“Perry Mason and Mr. Conway,” he told the secretary at the outer desk. “I told the police I would be here at nine o’clock with my client to answer questions. We’re here.”

The girl at the desk said, “Just a moment!”

She picked up the telephone, put through a call, then said, “You may go in, Mr. Mason. Right through those swinging doors and all the way down the corridor, the office on the far left.”

Mason and Conway walked down the long corridor, opened the last door on the left.

Hamilton Burger, the big, barrel-chested district attorney, sat behind the desk facing the door. He was flanked by Lt. Tragg, one of the most skilled investigators in the Homicide Department, a uniformed police officer, and Alexander Redfield, who did ballistics work for the authorities.

The spools of a tape recorder on the table were revolving slowly.

Hamilton Burger said, “Good morning, gentlemen. I have decided that this interview should be recorded. I trust there is no objection?”

“None whatever,” Mason told him.

“Thank you,” the district attorney said sarcastically. “I may also state for your information that there is a microphone in this office, and the conversation is also being monitored by a police shorthand reporter.”

“Quite all right,” Mason said. “This is my client, Gerald Conway, gentlemen.”

“Sit down,” Hamilton Burger invited. “What is your occupation, Mr. Conway?”

“I’m president of the California & Texas Global Development & Exploration Company.”

“As I understand it, you had occasion to consult Mr. Perry Mason sometime last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember the time?”

“It was, I believe, shortly before seven o’clock.”

“And how did you get in touch with Mr. Mason?”

“I looked up a night number in the telephone exchange, called it, was directed to the Drake Detective Agency, and so managed to get in touch with Mr. Mason.”

“And what did you want Mr. Mason to do?”

“I wanted him to advise me in connection with a disturbing incident which had happened in the Redfern Hotel.”

Hamilton Burger glanced suspiciously at Mason. “You’re going to let him tell his full story?”

“I’m going to let him tell his full story,” Mason said.

“All right, go ahead,” Hamilton Burger said. “Go right ahead.”

Conway told about the mysterious telephone calls, about the offers to give him the list of stockholders who had given proxies to Gifford Farrell’s proxy committee. He told about his hesitancy, his final decision to have a meeting with the mysterious Rosalind.

He told about calling in his secretary to take down the conversation, about going out and following instructions to the letter, about the telephone call which had been received while he was waiting at the booth in the drugstore.

Conway then went on to tell about his trip to the Redfern Hotel.

Mason said, “Just a minute. I want to interrupt for a couple of questions.”

“Later,” Hamilton Burger said. “I want to get his story now.”

“I’m sorry,” Mason said, “but you have to know a couple of things in order to understand the full import of that story. About the time element, Mr. Conway, you had been told that the telephone would ring at six-fifteen?”

“That’s right.”

“When did the telephone ring?”

“It was a few minutes earlier than that.”

“What difference does that make?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“It makes a lot of difference, as I will be prepared to show later on,” Mason said. “Now, one other thing, Mr. Conway, when that call came in, that is, the one you received at the drugstore, it was a woman’s voice, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“Was it the same voice that you had heard earlier? In other words, was it the voice of the woman who had described herself as Rosalind?”

“That’s another point. I didn’t think it was at the time, and the more I think of it, the more certain I am that it wasn’t.”

Mason said, “I don’t think my client understands the full import of this, gentlemen. But the point is that the woman who described herself over the telephone as Rosalind was going to call Mr. Conway at six-fifteen and tell him to go to a certain place to get the information he wanted. When she called the pay station at six-fifteen, there was no answer. The reason was that Mr. Conway had already received his erroneous instructions and was then on his way to the Redfern Hotel.”

“Why would someone give him erroneous instructions?” Lt. Tragg asked.

“You be the judges of that,” Mason said. “Now, go on, Conway, and tell them what happened.”

Conway described his trip to the hotel, the envelope that he had received containing the key to Room 729. He told of going up to the room, knocking at the door, receiving no answer, then being tempted to retrace his steps, turn in the key, and call the whole thing off.

However, he pointed out, the prospect of getting the information which would be of the greatest value to him was too much of a temptation. He had used the key, had gone in. With dramatic simplicity he described in detail his adventure with the young woman who was clad only in the scantiest of apparel.

Then Conway described the panic which had gripped him when he realized the weapon he had taken from the young woman had been fired once, and recently. He decided he should consult Perry Mason.

“And what did Perry Mason advise you to do?” the district attorney asked.

Mason interposed with an urbane smile, “At this point, gentlemen, my client’s story ends, except for the fact that he found a paper containing a list of stockholders who had sent in their proxies in his car. This list which I now hand you contains Conway’s initials on each page, and also my initials are on each page.

“My client’s car is parked downstairs, and I reported that fact to the police before we came up and suggested they would want to search the car.

“My client has nothing to say about anything that happened after he consulted me. I am perfectly willing to answer questions from that point on. However, you must realize that the advice of an attorney to a client is not anything which can be produced in evidence, and questions about it should not be asked.”

Hamilton Burger’s face slowly purpled. “As a citizen, you’re bound by laws the same as anyone else. Whenever you try to conceal a weapon with which a murder has been committed—”

“A murder?” Mason asked.

“A murder!” Hamilton Burger shouted. “A murder was committed with that weapon!”

“But I didn’t know it! I didn’t know there had been a murder. Conway didn’t know there had been a murder. He only knew that he had taken possession of a weapon under circumstances which made the whole thing look suspiciously like a frame-up. He called on me to investigate. I investigated.”

“But as soon as you investigated,” Burger said, “you went to that room and encountered a corpse.”

“That’s right.”

“And then you knew that the gun was the murder weapon!”

“Indeed I did not!” Mason said. “I didn’t know it was the murder weapon. I don’t know it now.”

“The hell you don’t!” Burger shouted. “Anyone with the intelligence of a two-year-old kid would have known it, and you’re not that big a fool. Where’s the gun?”

Conway took the gun from his pocket and passed it across to Hamilton Burger. “It’s loaded,” he said.

Burger looked at the gun, handed it to Alexander Redfield.

The ballistics expert looked at the gun, swung open the cylinder, looked at the exploded shell, took a sharp, pointed engravers’ tool from his pocket and etched on the shells the relative position which they occupied in the cylinder of the gun. Then he snapped the cylinder shut, and dropped the gun in his pocket.

“Now then,” Hamilton Burger said, “I want to know what happened last night. I want to know where this man was all night.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Mason said.

“It has a lot to do with it,” Burger said. “He resorted to flight.”

“To flight!” Mason said.

“You’re damned right he did!” Burger said. “Don’t think the police are entirely dumb, Mason. We found out about Conway a short time ago, after we had identified the corpse. We found out that Conway had gone up in the elevator of your office building last night, that he had gone to Paul Drake’s office, that an hour or so later your estimable secretary, Della Street, came up in that elevator, that shortly afterward Conway went down and just a few moments later Della Street went down. I think the inference is fairly obvious. You had telephoned Della Street to get your client out of circulation.”

“But why should I want him out of circulation?” Mason asked.

“So he couldn’t be questioned.”

“Then why should I bring him here this morning?”

“Because now you’ve had time to concoct a story!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. District Attorney,” Perry Mason said, “but your suspicions are not justified by facts. There was no flight. Mr. Conway simply felt that it would be inconvenient for me to consult with him during the night at his apartment. I was doing some investigative work, trying to find out the extent of what I felt was a frame-up. Therefore, I had Mr. Conway wait at a place where he would be more available and where I could call on him at night without disturbing anyone or attracting undue attention.

“Mr. Conway, for your information, gentlemen, was at the Gladedell Motel. He occupied Unit 21, and I’m quite certain you will find that he registered under his own name. It is certainly not flight for a person to go to a motel and register under his own name, driving his own car, and registering the correct license number of that car.”

“All right!” Burger shouted. “Then why did you withhold this evidence until nine o’clock this morning?”

“What evidence?”

“This gun! The one that Redfield has. The murder weapon.”

“But I don’t know it’s a murder weapon,” Mason said. “I knew that you wouldn’t be at your office until nine o’clock in the morning. I made arrangements with Mr. Conway to come here at the earliest possible hour this morning. We arrived just as soon as your office opened. In fact, I think an investigation would disclose that you are here unusually early this morning because you wanted to question my client.”

“That’s just a run-around,” Hamilton Burger said. “You should have given this weapon to the police last night, and you know it.”

“Why?”

“Because a murder was committed with it.”

“Oh, I certainly hope not,” Mason said. “Oh, I certainly do hope not, Mr. District Attorney. That would complicate matters!”

“You mean you didn’t have the slightest idea that this was a murder weapon?” Burger asked sarcastically.

“How would I know it was a murder weapon?” Mason countered. “No one even told me how the young woman died. They told me to get out of the room and stay out of the room. The police didn’t reveal the result of their investigations to me. Was she killed with a revolver?”

“She was killed with a revolver, and this is the murder weapon, the one which you folks were concealing from the police all night.”

Alexander Redfield cleared his throat. “May I say something, Mr. Burger?”

“Not now!” Burger said. “I demand that Mr. Mason give us an explanation.”

Mason said, “There isn’t any explanation because I am not prepared to concede the premise on which you are acting. I don’t know that it’s the murder weapon. I did feel that an attempt was made to frame my client with a gun which had been discharged somehow. I wanted to try and find out something about that gun and where it came from.”

“And you did?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“I did,” Mason said. “For your information, that is a revolver which was purchased some three years ago by the Texas Global Company for the protection of its cashier.

“I can assure you, gentlemen, that I have been quite busy trying to get information in this case so that I could be of some assistance to you this morning.”

“You went to Elsinore last night!” Hamilton Burger charged.

“That’s right. I did indeed!”

“Why?”

“Because I felt there was a possibility Mr. Norton B. Calvert, who lives in Elsinore, could shed some light on the identity of the corpse.”

“All right,” Hamilton Burger said sarcastically. “Now tell us just what intuitive reasoning made you think he could shed light on the identity of the corpse?”

Mason said, “Mr. Burger, I will answer that question if you tell me that you are asking that question in your official capacity, and that as a citizen and as an officer of the court it is my duty to answer.”

“What are you trying to do?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“I’m trying to protect myself,” Mason said. “Do you tell me that such is the case?”

“I tell you such is the case. Answer the question.”

“Very well,” Mason said. “I felt there was a great possibility that, if there had been a frame-up — and mind you, I say if, gentlemen, I am not stating that there was a frame-up. I am simply stating that if there had been a frame-up — there is always the possibility that frame-up might have something to do with the Texas Global proxy fight.

“With that in view I did a lot of investigative work last night and I learned that Gifford Farrell had been taking a great interest in a Rose M. Calvert. I learned that the description of this young woman matched perfectly the description of the young woman whose body I had seen in the hotel bedroom. Therefore, I decided to go to see Rose Calvert’s husband and see if I could find some photographs of his wife. I felt that perhaps such a trip would disclose important information.”

“And that is the reason you went to see the husband?” Lt. Tragg asked, suddenly curious.

“That is why I went to see him.”

“How did you get his address?” Tragg asked.

“I was advised,” Mason said, “that there was a letter in the letter box at the Lane Vista Apartments where Rose Calvert has her apartment, addressed to her and bearing the return address of Norton B. Calvert of 6831 Washington Heights, Elsinore.”

“How did you know that letter was there?” Hamilton. Burger asked.

“I was advised it was there.”

“By whom?”

“By a detective.”

“And he looked at that letter?” Burger asked.

“No, sir. I don’t think he did. I think he in turn was advised by another detective, who was shadowing the apartment at the request of still another party.”

“Mrs. Farrell?” Lt. Tragg asked.

“I didn’t say that, Lieutenant. I didn’t mention any names. I am simply trying to tell you how it happened I went to Elsinore. I have been ordered to answer that question and I am trying not to withhold information. I don’t want you to think I am making any accusations. I am only exposing my mental processes.”

“Well, you seem to have had a remarkably brilliant flash of inspiration or intuition, or mental telepathy or psychic ability, or whatever you want to call it,” Hamilton Burger said sarcastically. “The body was that of Rose Calvert, but we didn’t know it until about six o’clock this morning. You evidently had the information some hours before we did, and did nothing about it.”

“I didn’t have the information,” Mason said. “I saw pictures and I noticed that there was quite a resemblance. I told Mr. Calvert that I was very much afraid his wife had been the victim of a tragedy. I felt that if he wanted to pursue the matter further, he would get in touch with the police.

“However, you can appreciate my position. I certainly couldn’t start saying that Rose Calvert had been murdered, and then have it appear the whole thing was a hideous mistake, and Rose Calvert would show up alive and well.

“Making an identification of a corpse whom you have seen only once from snapshots is rather a ticklish matter as you, Lieutenant, undoubtedly realize.”

“You’re being very conservative all at once,” Hamilton Burger said.

“I wanted to be sure,” Mason said.

“Moreover,” Burger went on, “you aren’t telling us the truth about how you secured the husband’s address.”

“What do you mean?”

“There wasn’t any such letter in the mailbox.”

“I was advised that there was.”

“Well, there wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Mason said, “but that’s how I got the address... I was told the letter was there.”

Hamilton Burger turned to Redfield. “Redfield,” he said impatiently, “get to your laboratory and test that gun. Fire test bullets from it. Identify it as the fatal weapon. At least let’s get that done. That’s what you’re here for.”

Redfield made no move to leave his chair. “May I say something, Mr. District Attorney?” he asked.

Hamilton Burger, his patience worn thin, shouted, “Well, what the hell do you want to say? That’s the second time you’ve made that crack.”

“And I was told not to say anything,” Redfield said.

“Well, if you have anything to say, for heaven’s sake, say it and then start checking on that bullet.”

Redfield said, “This gun is not the murder weapon. The fatal bullet which killed Rose Calvert was fired from a Colt revolver. A Colt has six grooves which are inclined to the left. This is a Smith & Wesson revolver and, for your information, it has five grooves which are inclined to the right.

“I knew as soon as Mr. Conway passed over this gun that it couldn’t possibly have been the murder weapon.”

“What?” Hamilton Burger shouted.

Lt. Tragg half-rose from his seat, then settled back.

Mason strove to keep a poker face. He looked sharply at Conway.

Hamilton Burger seemed to be trying to get his ideas oriented.

Suddenly he said, “So that’s it! It’s the same old razzle-dazzle. Mason has taken this murder weapon and switched it. He’s had his client turn in this other gun, and is acting on the assumption that no one can disprove his story without producing the young woman from whom Conway says he took this gun... And the minute that is done, there will be confirmation of Conway’s story... This is a typical Perry Mason razzle-dazzle!”

“I resent that!” Perry Mason said.

“Resent it and be damned!” Hamilton Burger shouted. “I’ve seen too many of your slick substitutions, your sleight of hand, your—”

“Just a minute,” Mason interrupted. “Don’t be foolish. I am perfectly willing to resort to some forms of unconventional action for the purpose of checking the testimony of a witness. However, I certainly would not be party to any substitution of a murder weapon and then have a client tell you a lie about it.”

“Poppycock!” Hamilton Burger said.

For a moment there was a silence. Everyone seemed to be at an impasse. Abruptly Burger picked up the telephone and said, “Bring Gifford Farrell in here, please.”

The door from an anteroom opened, and Sgt, Holcomb of Homicide Squad escorted a debonair individual into the district attorney’s office.

“Mr. Gifford Farrell,” the district attorney announced.

Farrell was in his thirties, a tall, broad-shouldered, thin-waisted, well-dressed individual. His face was bronzed with outdoor living. A hairline mustache emphasized the curve of his upper lip. He had smooth, dark eyebrows, dark, glittering eyes, so dark that it was impossible to distinguish the pupils. His hair was cut so that sideburns ran a couple of inches below his ears. He was wearing a brown plaid sport jacket, and gabardine slacks.

“You know Mr. Conway,” Hamilton Burger said.

Farrell’s thin lips came away from even, white teeth in a smile. “Indeed I do,” he said. “How are you this morning, Jerry?”

“Good morning, Giff,” Conway grunted.

“And this is Mr. Perry Mason,” Hamilton Burger said. “He has just accused you of trying to frame his client, Mr. Conway.”

Farrell’s lips clamped shut, his glittering, dark eyes regarded Mason with cold hostility.

“I have done nothing of the sort,” Mason said smoothly. “I have simply pointed out to the district attorney that I felt my client was the victim of a frame-up.”

“Well, you said that it was a frame-up over this proxy battle in Texas Global,” Burger said.

“I did indeed,” Mason said. “And I am quite willing to state that I think the probabilities are — mind you, gentlemen, I say the probabilities are — that the attempted frame-up was because of that proxy battle, and if there was a frame-up, then I believe there is a possibility Mr. Farrell should be considered suspect.”

“There you are,” Hamilton Burger said.

Farrell kept his eyes on Mason and said, “I don’t like that.”

Mason surveyed the man from head to foot and said calmly, “No one asked whether you liked it or not.”

Farrell took a quick step toward Mason. The lawyer made no move.

“Just a minute!” Hamilton Burger said.

Farrell stopped his advance.

Hamilton Burger said, “Farrell, what do you know about a gun that was purchased by the Texas Global Company for the protection of its cashier? The gun was purchased three years ago.”

Farrell frowned in concentration, shifted his eyes from Mason to Burger, said, “I’m afraid I know nothing, Mr. Burger.”

“Now, think carefully,” Burger said. “The gun was purchased, and I understand was turned over to the cashier who—”

“Do you know who okayed the invoice?” Farrell asked.

“Mr. Conway has admitted that he probably did.”

“I said I thought I might have,” Conway corrected.

Once again Farrell’s teeth flashed. “Well, gentlemen, there’s your answer!”

Mason said, “I take it you knew the young woman who was found dead in the Redfern Hotel, Mr. Farrell?”

Farrell’s eyes were impudent. “What if I did?”

“You knew her rather intimately, I believe.”

“Are you making an accusation?”

“I am asking a question.”

“I don’t have to answer your questions. I’ll answer questions asked by the police and by the district attorney.”

“This Rose Calvert was doing some work for you?” Hamilton Burger asked Farrell.

“Yes, sir. She was. She was doing some very confidential work. It was work that I didn’t want to entrust to a regular stenographer. I wanted someone who was outside of the business, someone whom I knew I could trust. I chose Mrs. Calvert.

“Now, I will say this, gentlemen. In some way it leaked out that she was doing this work, and an attempt was made to get her to deliver information to Mr. Conway. Conway offered her five thousand dollars in cash for copies of the work she was doing, listing the stockholders who had sent in their proxies. She refused the offer.”

Conway said angrily, “That’s a He! I never talked with her in my life — that is, about that work. I didn’t know she was doing it!”

Farrell said, “I have her assurance that you did.”

The district attorney looked at Conway.

“That’s an absolute falsehood,” Conway said. “I never rang up Mrs. Calvert in my life. I knew her only as a young woman who was in the brokerage office where I transacted my individual business and much of the business of the Texas Global. I used to chat with her, in the way one would chat with an employee under conditions of that sort. I didn’t know her otherwise.”

“How well did Farrell know her?” Mason asked.

“I’ll conduct this inquiry, Mr. Mason,” Burger said.

“In case you’re interested,” Mason told him, “Mrs. Calvert’s husband says that Gifford Farrell knew her quite well; in fact, too well.”

“And that is a falsehood!” Farrell said. “My relations with Rose Calvert were a combination of business and friendship.”

“Ever buy any clothes for her?” Mason asked.

Farrell said, “I did not, and anyone who says I did is a damned liar!”

“Then,” Mason said, “I have talked with a liar who says that you bought her a Bikini bathing suit. You sent a mail order to one of the magazines that advertises those things. However, there’s no use questioning your word, because the mail-order records will show that.”

Farrell’s face showed startled surprise. His eyes which had been glaring at Perry Mason suddenly shifted. He became conscious of the circle of men who were regarding him with keen interest, their trained eyes taking in every flicker of facial expression.

Farrell took a deep breath, then once more his teeth flashed in a quick smile. “I’m afraid, Mr. Mason, that you have been making a mountain out of a molehill. It is true,

I did send away for one of those Bikini bathing suits. It was just a gag. I intended to use it as the basis for a practical joke in connection with one of my associates.

“I can assure you that the suit had nothing to do with Rose Calvert.”

“Then how did it happen,” Mason asked, “that she put the suit on?”

“She didn’t!” Farrell snapped.

“Then how did it happen that you took her picture with the suit on, a picture which was posed in your bedroom while your wife was in New York?”

Try as he might, Farrell couldn’t keep the dismay from his face.

There was a long period of silence.

“Well?” Hamilton Burger asked. “We’re waiting, Farrell.”

Farrell said, “I don’t know what the idea of this is. I came up here to do anything I could to help find the murderer of Rose Calvert. I didn’t come up here to be cross-examined by some attorney who is trying to shield the murderer and drag a lot of red herrings across the trail.

“There has been a lot of talk about frame-up, and I guess perhaps I have been unusually naive. I don’t know who is trying to frame something on me, but if this question is going to hinge upon some Bikini bathing suit which I purchased as a joke, and some accusations in regard to pictures, I guess I had better get an attorney of my own.”

“Do you deny that you took such a picture?” Mason asked.

Farrell faced him and said evenly, “Go to hell.”

Mason grinned at Hamilton Burger. “The canary seems to have quit singing and started chirping.”

Sgt. Holcomb said, “I’ve had a long talk with Farrell, Mr. Burger, and I’m convinced that he’s all right. Perry Mason is just trying to use this business as a red herring.”

Hamilton Burger said abruptly, “I see no reason for letting this interview degenerate into a brawl. Conway has appeared and has told his story. The gun which he has handed us and which he insists he took from the Redfern Hotel is quite obviously not the fatal gun.”

“Not the fatal gun!” Farrell exclaimed.

Burger shook his head.

“Then he’s switched guns!” Farrell said.

“You don’t need to point out the obvious to this office,” Hamilton Burger said with dignity. “Mr. Mason’s legal ingenuity is too well known to need any comment from anyone.

“I desire to interrogate Mr. Farrell further.

“Mr. Mason and Mr. Conway are excused. Just go on out and I will send for you again if there are any further developments.”

Mason took Conway’s arm. “Come on, Jerry.”

Mason opened the door. Conway and Mason walked out together down the long corridor and out through the folding doors into the district attorney’s waiting room. The office was jammed with newspaper reporters. Flashbulbs popped in a dazzling array of blinding light flashes.

Reporters crowded around asking questions.

Conway tried to force his way through the reporters.

“Take it easy, Jerry,” Mason said. And then to the reporters, “We’ll make a statement to you, gentlemen. An attempt was made to frame a murder on my client, Gerald Conway. I don’t know whether the murder was committed and then the murderer, in desperation, tried to involve Mr. Conway, or whether the whole thing was part of a scheme to discredit Conway in connection with this battle for proxies in the Global Company. I can only tell you gentlemen what happened, and assure you of our desire to co-operate in every way possible in cleaning up this case.”

“Well, what happened?” one of the reporters asked.

Mason turned to Conway and said, “Tell them your story, Jerry.”

Conway frowned and hesitated.

“It’s a damned sight better to let the newspaper have your version,” Mason said, “than to get a second-hand, garbled version from someone who was present in the district attorney’s office — Gifford Farrell, for instance.”

Conway again related his story, while reporters crowded around making notes and asking questions.