The Case of the Daring Decoy

Chapter Five

Mason picked up the house telephone in the lobby o£ the apartment hotel.

“Mrs. Farrell, please.”

The girl at the switchboard was dubious. “I beg your pardon. It’s after ten o’clock. Was she—?”

“She’s expecting the call,” Mason said.

“Very well.”

A moment later a woman’s voice said, “Hello.”

Mason said, “I’m an attorney, Mrs. Farrell. I’d like to see you on a matter of some importance.”

“Are you representing my husband?”

“Definitely not.”

“When did you wish to see me?”

“Right away.”

“Right away? Why that’s impossible...! What is your name, please?”

“Mason.”

“You’re not — not Perry Mason?”

“That’s right.”

“Where are you, Mr. Mason?”

“I’m downstairs.”

“Are you—? Is anyone with you?”

“No.”

“May I ask why you want to see me?”

“I’d prefer not to discuss it over the telephone,” Mason said. “I can assure you it’s a matter of some urgency and it may be to your advantage.”

“Very well. Will you come on up, Mr. Mason? I’m in lounging pajamas. I was reading and—”

“I’d like to come right away, if I may.”

“All right. Come on up. You have the number?”

“I’ll be right up,” Mason said.

Mason took the elevator, walked down a corridor, pressed his finger against the mother-of-pearl button beside the door of Mrs. Farrell’s apartment. Almost instantly the door was opened by a striking, redheaded woman who wore Chinese silk lounging pajamas, embroidered with silken dragons. There was the aroma of Oriental incense in the apartment.

“Mr. Mason?” she asked.

Mason nodded.

She gave him her hand. “How do you do? Won’t you come in?”

Mason found himself in the living room of an apartment which had at least two rooms.

Lights were low, and there was an air of scented mystery about the place.

The brightest spot in the room was where a silk-shaded reading lamp cast subdued light on a deep reclining chair and footstool.

An opened book lay face down on the table near the arm of the chair.

“Please be seated, Mr. Mason,” Mrs. Farrell said, and then when Mason had seated himself, glided across to the easy chair, dropped into its depths with a snuggling motion and picked up a long, carved, ivory cigarette holder, which contained a half-smoked cigarette.

She took a deep drag, said, “What is it you want to talk with me about, Mr. Mason?”

“About Texas Global and the proxy battle”

“Oh, yes. And may I ask why you’re interested?”

“I’m representing Jerry Conway.”

“Oh!”

“Why did you want to talk with him?” Mason asked.

“Me? Talk with Mr. Conway?”

“That’s right.”

She chose her words carefully. “I don’t want to talk with him. I know Mr. Conway. I like him. I have great confidence in his business management. I suppose you know, Mr. Mason, that my husband and I have separated.

“I expect to file suit for divorce on grounds which— Well, frankly, Mr. Mason, you’re a lawyer and you understand those things. The grounds may depend somewhat on the type of property settlement which is worked out.”

“There is considerable property?” Mason asked.

“As to that,” she said, “there are two ways of thinking. Gifford Farrell is a gambler and a plunger. There should be quite a bit of money, but Gifford’s attorney insists that there is very little.”

“However, he has an earning capacity?” Mason said.

“Yes. He’s accustomed to doing big things in a big way.”

“Therefore,” Mason pointed out, “it would be very much to your interest to see that he wins out in this proxy fight.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because then he would be in clover financially.”

She took a deep drag on the cigarette, exhaled, said nothing.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“I would say that was a fairly obvious conclusion, Mr. Mason.”

She extracted the end of the cigarette from the ivory holder, ground it out in the ash tray.

“May I fix you a drink, Mr. Mason?”

“Not right now,” the lawyer said. “I’m sorry I had to call at such a late hour. If you can give me the one piece of information I want, I can be on my way.”

“I didn’t know I had any information that you wanted, Mr. Mason, but— You say you’re representing Mr. Conway?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re here in his behalf?”

“Yes.”

“What is it you want to know?”

Mason leaned forward in his chair. “How it happens that, if you’re trying to negotiate a property settlement with your husband and want to get the most you can out of it, you offered to give Jerry Conway information on the number of proxies that have been received to date by the proxy committee?”

“Mr. Mason, what on earth are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Mason said. “I want to know why, and I want to know why you disguised your voice and took the name of Rosalind.”

She sat perfectly still, looking at him with startled slate-gray eyes.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“Why, Mr. Mason, what makes you think that I would do anything like that?”

Mason said impatiently, “Come, come! You used a telephone. Calls can be traced, you know.”

Startled, she said, “But I didn’t use this telephone. I—”

Abruptly she caught herself.

Mason said nothing, continued to regard her with steady, penetrating eyes.

She said, “Well, I guess that did it. I seem to have walked into your trap.”

Mason remained silent.

“All right,” she said suddenly. “I’ll tell you. I’m a stockholder of Texas Global. I have a fair block of stock in that company. I have a feeling that that stock is about all of the financial nest egg I’m going to get, and if Gifford Farrell gets control of that company, I don’t think the stock will be worth the paper it’s written on within a period of two years. If Jerry Conway continues as president, that stock is going to be very valuable.”

“Therefore, you’re for Conway.”

“I’m for Conway, but I don’t dare let it be known. I don’t dare do anything that could be seized upon by Gifford’s attorneys and twisted and distorted into evidence that they could use against me. I... Mr. Mason, how did you find that I made those calls?”

“That’s quite a long story,” Mason said. “Something has happened that makes it quite important to get at the facts in the case. Now, you sent Conway to the Redfern Hotel. Why?”

“I sent him to the Redfern Hotel?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

She shook her head.

“Yes, you did,” Mason said. “You had him running around so as to ditch persons who were supposed to have been shadowing him. Then you telephoned him at six-fifteen and told him to—”

“What did I tell him at six-fifteen?” she asked.

“You know,” Mason told her. “You told him to go to the Redfern Hotel and ask for messages for Gerald Boswell.”

She picked up the ivory cigarette holder and began twisting it in nervous fingers.

“Didn’t you?” Mason asked.

“I did not, Mr. Mason. I don’t know anything about the Redfern Hotel. I didn’t tell Mr. Conway to go there.”

“What did you tell him?” Mason asked.

She hesitated thoughtfully.

Mason said, “I think it’s going to be to your advantage to confide in me, Mrs. Farrell.”

“All right,” she said suddenly, “you seem to know enough. I’m going to have to trust to your discretion. You could place me in a very embarrassing position if you let Gifford know what I had done.”

“Suppose you tell me just what you did do.”

“I wanted to give Mr. Conway some information I had. I had a list of the persons who had sent in proxies. I thought it was an accurate, up-to-the-minute list that would be of the greatest value to him. I wanted him to have that list.”

“Why didn’t you mail it to him?”

“Because I was afraid someone knew that I had this list. If it was ever traced to me, and then my husband could prove that I had given it to the person he was fighting for control of the company, he’d use it to prejudice the court against me.”

“So what did you do?”

“I intended to give him a big build-up, send him out to a motel somewhere to keep a mysterious appointment, and then phone him and tell him that I’d planted the list in his car while he was waiting. I wanted it to be handled with such a background of mystery and all that he’d think I was very, very close to Gifford and terribly frightened. I wanted to do everything as much unlike myself as I possibly could. I wanted to cover my trail so thoroughly he’d never suspect me.

“I tried to arrange a meeting with him twice. Tonight he was to ditch the shadows, go to a public telephone in a drugstore that was a couple of blocks from here. I was to telephone him there at six-fifteen.”

“And you did?”

“I did,” she said, “and he didn’t answer.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“You didn’t get him on the telephone and tell him to go to the Redfern Hotel and ask for messages in the name of Gerald Boswell?”

She shook her head, said, “I know nothing whatever about the Redfern Hotel. I’ve heard the name, but I don’t even know where it is.”

Mason said, “You’ll pardon me, but I have to be sure that you’re telling the truth.”

“I’ve told you the truth,” she said, “and I’m not accountable to you. I don’t propose to have you sit there and cross-examine me. I don’t owe that much to Mr. Conway and I don’t owe that much to you.”

“Perhaps,” Mason said, “you owe that much to yourself.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“For your information,” Mason said, “a woman was murdered at the Redfern Hotel this evening. Conway was in the suite where the murdered girl was found. He was sent there by someone who telephoned the drugstore where he was to get his final directions and—”

“So that’s it!” she exclaimed.

“What is?”

“I lost control of him. Someone must have called him there just a few minutes before I did. I called him a minute or two before six-fifteen, got a busy signal on the line. I called him at almost exactly six-fifteen, and there was no answer. I kept ringing and finally a man’s voice answered. I asked if Mr. Conway was there, and he said he was the druggist in charge of the store, and that no one was there. He said a man had been there a few minutes earlier, and had left.”

Mason took out his cigarette case, started to offer her one of his cigarettes.

“Thanks, I have my own,” she said.

Mason started to get up and light her cigarette, but she waved him back, said, “I’m a big girl now,” picked up a card of paper matches, lit her cigarette, dropped the matches back on the table.

Mason snapped his lighter into flame, lit his cigarette.

“Well?” he asked.

She said, “It’s his phone that’s tapped. It’s not mine. I put in the calls from pay stations. You can see what happened. I was anxious to see that he wasn’t followed. I didn’t want anyone to know I had had any contact with him. Someone listened in on the conversation. What about that secretary of his? What do you know about her?”

“Very little,” Mason said.

“Well, you’d better find out,” she said, “because someone beat me to the punch on that telephone call and sent him to the Redfern Hotel. I was going to tell him to meet me in a cocktail lounge about a block and a half from the drugstore, but I wanted to be certain he wasn’t followed,”

“Do you now have an accurate list of the proxies, or—?”

“I now actually have such a list.”

“May I ask how you got it?”

She smoked for a moment in thoughtful silence, then extricated herself from the chair with a quick, lithe motion, said, “Mr. Mason, I’m going to confide in you.”

The lawyer said nothing.

She walked over to a bookcase, took down an atlas, said, “When a woman marries, she wants a man for her very own. She wants security. She wants a home. She wants companionship on a permanent basis.”

Mason nodded.

“I should have known better than to have married Gifford Farrell in the first place,” she said. “He’s a playboy. He doesn’t want a home, he doesn’t want any one woman, and he can’t give anyone security. He’s a gambler, a plunger, a sport.”

Mason remained silent.

Mrs. Farrell opened the atlas. She took out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph from between the pages and handed it to Mason.

Mason saw what at first seemed to be a naked woman, but after a moment saw she was wearing the very briefest of light-colored Bikini bathing suits.

Mason looked at the voluptuous figure, then suddenly started as his eyes came to focus on the girl’s face. He moved over closer to the light.

Mrs. Farrell gave a short laugh. “I’m afraid you men are all the same,” she said. “She’s wearing a light-colored Bikini suit, Mr. Mason. She’s not nude. She’s dressed!”

“I see she is,” Mason said drily.

“You have to look twice to see it.”

Mason nodded. “I’m looking twice.”

The photograph showed a blond young woman, with well-rounded curves, apparently the same young woman whom Mason had seen earlier in the evening lying dead on the bed in the Redfern Hotel.

“I take it,” Mason said, “that you have some connection with the woman shown in the photograph.”

Mrs. Farrell laughed. “I’m afraid the connection is with my husband.”

Mason raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation.

Mrs. Farrell handed Mason a piece of paper which was evidently a clipping from a popular magazine. The clipping illustrated a curvacious woman clad in a Bikini bathing suit and across the top of the ad was printed in large, black letters: “SHE’LL LOVE IT.” In smaller type appeared: “And she’ll love you for it. Get these private Bikini bathing suits. A wonderful, intimate, personal present, for just the right girl.”

The ad went on to extol the virtues of the specially made Bikini bathing suit.

“Yes,” Mason said drily, “I’ve seen these ads.”

“Evidently my husband answered this,” she said, “purchased a suit by mail, and persuaded this young woman to put the suit on,”

Mason studied the picture thoughtfully. “This is a posed picture?”

“It is.”

Again Mason studied the picture.

Mrs. Farrell said, “For your information, Mr. Mason, either the suit was donned for the occasion or— Well, I’ll be charitable and say that the suit was donned for the occasion... Do you find her so very attractive that you’re completely engrossed?”

“I’m sorry,” Mason said. “I was trying to make out the background.”

“Well, it’s dark and out of focus. I’m afraid you can’t get much from it, Mr. Mason. However, if you’ll notice the pattern of the rug beneath those high-heeled shoes, which are designed to bring out the shapeliness of her legs, you’ll notice a certain very definite pattern. For your information, Mr. Mason, that rug is in my husband’s bedroom. Apparently, the picture was taken while I was in New York a couple of months ago.”

“I see,” Mason said.

“My husband,” she went on bitterly, “is something of an amateur photographer. He took this picture and two others. Evidently he wanted something to remember the girl by.”

“And how did you get them?” Mason asked.

“I happened to notice that my husband’s camera, which is usually kept in his den, was in a dresser drawer in the bedroom. There was a roll of films in the camera and three films had been exposed. I’m afraid I have a nasty, suspicious nature, Mr. Mason. I slipped that roll of films out of the camera and replaced it with another. I turned the film to number four so that, in case my husband investigated, he wouldn’t know there was anything wrong, and in case he had the films developed and found three perfect blanks, he would think something had gone wrong with the shutter, when he was taking these pictures.”

“I see,” Mason commented drily. “I take it that there were then two other exposed pictures on this roll?”

“Yes,” she said significantly. “It was a well-exposed roll, and the model was well exposed.”

Mason strove to keep his voice from showing undue interest. “I wonder if you’ve been able to locate the model?” he asked.

“I have located the model.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“She is Rose M. Calvert, and in case you’re interested, the ‘M’ stands for Mistletoe, believe it or not. Her father, I understand, insisted on the name. It turned out to be quite appropriate.

“Rose Calvert was an employee in the brokerage firm which handles accounts for my husband, and, I believe, for some of the officials of the Texas Global Company. My husband has a roving eye, and Rose Calvert — well, you can see from the photograph what she has.”

“She’s still working with the brokerage company?” Mason asked.

“Not Rose. Rose, I understand, is living on the fat of the land. She has an apartment at the Lane Vista Apartments, number 319, but I’m afraid that’s just one of the perches where this young bird lights from time to time. Apparently, she drops in for mail, and to change her clothes. I’ve had the place under surveillance for a few days.”

“There are then two other pictures?” Mason prompted.

“Two others.”

Mason waited expectantly.

Mrs. Farrell shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Mason. They’re indicative of a progressing friendship. Evidently this young woman doesn’t have the slightest compunction about exhibiting her charms to men or to cameras.”

“I’m shockproof,” Mason said.

“I’m not.”

Mason studied the face of the girl in the picture.

Mrs. Farrell said, somewhat bitterly, “You men are all alike. For your information, Mr. Mason, those fine curves will be blanketed in fat in another ten years.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Mason said, handing back the photograph.

“My husband likes them like this,” Mrs. Farrell said tapping the photograph.

Mason almost automatically glanced at the lounging pajamas.

Mrs. Farrell laughed and said, “It’s all right, Mr. Mason. I don’t make any secret of it. Now, how about a drink?”

“Well,” Mason said, “I could be induced if you twisted my arm.”

“Hold it out,” she said.

Mason held out his arm.

Mrs. Farrell took hold of the wrist, held the lawyer’s arm tight against her body, gave it a gentle twist.

“Ouch!” Mason said. “I’ll take it! I’ll take it!”

She laughed huskily and said, “All right, sit down. I’ll have to go to the kitchen. What do you like, Scotch or bourbon?”

“Scotch,” Mason said.

“Soda?”

“Please.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” she told him, “but don’t wear that photograph out while I’m gone. I am going to have use for it.”

When she had left the room, Mason hurriedly moved over to the atlas in which the photograph had been concealed. He riffled through the pages but was unable to find any other photographs.

Mrs. Farrell entered the room, carrying a tray with two tall glasses.

Mason held his drink to the light. “That looks pretty stout.”

She laughed. “You look pretty stout yourself, Mr. Mason. I may as well confess that you’re one of my heroes. I’ve followed your cases with the greatest interest. I like your way of fighting.”

“Thanks!” Mason said.

She raised her glass.

“Here’s to crime!” Mason said.

“Here’s to us!” She touched the brim of her glass to his, let her eyes rest steadily on his as she raised the glass to her lips.

Mason waited until she had seated herself, then said, “I am interested in how you were able to secure the information that you offered Mr. Conway. The list of proxies.”

“Oh, that!”

“Well?” Mason asked.

She said, “Quite naturally, Mr. Mason, after I located this Rose Calvert, I became interested in her comings and goings. A couple of days ago, Rose Calvert was closeted in her apartment. It was one of the rare intervals when she was home for a fairly long period of time, and she was pounding away on a typewriter.

“I have a firm of detectives that seem to be very competent indeed. The man who was on duty managed to inspect the wastebasket at the end of the corridor from time to time, hoping that Rose Calvert would perhaps have made some false starts and he could find enough torn scraps to find out what she was writing. As it turned out, he did far better than that. Rose Calvert was evidently writing a very, very confidential document for my husband. She was instructed to make as many copies as possible and to use fresh carbon sheets with each copy.

“You know how a carbon sheet retains the impression of what has been typed, particularly if you can get the new carbon used in the first copy and there is nothing else on the sheet.

“The detective produced the sheets, and I found that I had a perfect series of carbon papers showing the typing that Mrs. Calvert was doing for my husband.”

“Mrs. Calvert?”

“That’s right. She’s married and separated. Her husband lives out in the country somewhere.”

“Know where?” Mason asked casually.

She shook her head. “I’ve heard of the place. It’s out toward Riverside somewhere... Would you like to see the carbons, Mr. Mason?”

“Very much,” Mason said.

She put down the drink and eased gracefully out of the chair. She walked over to a desk, opened a drawer and took out several sheets of carbon paper.

“As nearly as I can tell, these are the carbon papers used in making the first copy,” she said. “She was making an original and seven copies. So, of course, there were a lot of duplicate sheets of carbon paper. I carefully segregated the different sheets.”

“Have you copied them?”

“I haven’t had time. I’ve had them photostated. I intended to give Mr. Conway one of these complete sets of carbon paper. Since you’re here and are his attorney, I’ll give it to you.”

“Thanks,” Mason told her. “Thanks very much indeed.”

She glanced at him archly. “Don’t mention it. Perhaps you can do something for me someday.”

“Who knows?” Mason said.

“You’ll have to protect me, Mr. Mason. I don’t want anyone, least of all Mr. Conway, to know where those carbon copies came from.”

“You can trust my discretion,” Mason said. “However, I’m going to have to ask a favor. I want to use your phone.”

“It’s in the bedroom. Help yourself.”

Mason put down his glass, went to the bedroom, picked up the phone.

“Number, please?” the operator asked.

“Give me an outside line, please,” Mason said.

“You’ll have to give me the number. I’ll get it for you.”

Mason lowered his voice, gave the number of the Gladedell Motel. When the number answered, he said, “Can you ring Unit 21?”

“Surely, wait a moment, please.”

Mason waited for several seconds, then the voice said, “I’m sorry, that phone doesn’t answer.”

“Thanks,” Mason said, and hung up.

He returned to the other room.

Mrs. Farrell was stretched out on a chaise longue, showing up to advantage through the embroidered lounging pajamas.

“Get your party?”

“No. He didn’t answer.”

“There’s no hurry. You can try again — later.”

Mason sat down, picked up his drink, took a hasty swallow, said, “This is really loaded.”

He looked at his watch.

Her look was mocking.

“Now you’re terribly impatient. You want to hurry through your drink. Now that you have the information you want, the documents you want, you are giving every indication of being in a hurry to be on your way. Am I that unattractive?”

Mason said, “It isn’t that. It’s simply that I have a lot of work to do tonight.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Night work?”

“Night work.”

“I was hoping that while you were here you would relax and that we could get acquainted.”

Mason said, “Perhaps your husband is having your apartment watched. He might suggest that you were entertaining men in your apartment.”

Again she laughed. “Always the lawyer! Now, please, Mr. Mason, don’t tell anyone about the identity of Rosalind. I’m leaving it to you to protect me.”

“And,” Mason said, “I suppose I’m not to say anything about these pictures?”

“Not for a while,” she said.

“What are you going to do with them?”

She said, “When I’m through, I’m going to see that Mrs. Calvert has plenty of publicity. If she’s an exhibitionist, I’ll let them publish her picture where it will do the most good.”

“You seem rather vindictive,” Mason said. “Do you feel that she stole your husband?”

“Heavens, no!” she said. “But I’m vindictive just the same. I feel toward her the way one woman feels towards another who — I don’t know — she cheapens all of us. Before I get done with her, she’ll wish she’d never seen Gifford Farrell.

“All right,” she went on, laughing, “don’t look at me like that. I’m a cat! And I have claws, Mr. Mason. I can be very, very dangerous when I’m crossed. I either like people or I don’t. I’m never lukewarm.”

Mason said, getting to his feet, “I’m sorry, but I have to leave.”

Abruptly she arose, gave him her hand. “I won’t try to detain you any longer. I can see you really don’t want to stay. Good night.”

Mason stepped out into the corridor, carrying the sheets of fresh carbon paper in a roll.

“Good night — and thanks,” he said.

“Come again sometime,” she invited.