The Case of the Daring Decoy

Chapter Six

Mason stopped at a telephone booth and called Paul Drake.

“Anything on the gun, Paul?”

“Hell, no! We’re just getting started.”

“Any identification of the corpse?”

“None so far. The police are grubbing around the hotel and can’t seem to get anywhere.”

Mason said, “I’m on the track of something, Paul. I’m going to have to take a chance.”

“You take too many chances,” Drake told him.

“Not too many,” Mason said. “I take them too often.”

“Well, that’s the same thing, only worse.”

“According to the law of averages, it’s worse,” Mason told him. “Now look, Paul, I’m going out to the Lane Vista Apartments. I want to see a Rose Calvert who is in Apartment 319. For your information, she’s probably going to be named as correspondent in a divorce suit by Mrs. Gifford Farrell.”

“What’s the lead?” Drake asked.

“Probably more of a hunch than anything else right now,” Mason told him. “The point is that there may be a private detective sticking around trying to get a line on her.

“Can you have one of your men get out to the Lane Vista Apartments, scout the territory and see if he can find someone who looks like a detective?”

“Sure. What does he do if he finds this guy?”

“I’ll be out there,” Mason said, “inside of thirty minutes. I can make it from here in about fifteen minutes, and your man should be able to make it in fifteen minutes. I’ll give him fifteen minutes to case the place.”

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Drake said. “My operatives are pretty clever at spotting men who are waiting around like that, but you just can’t tell what the setup is, and—”

“I know,” Mason said. “I don’t want the impossible. I just want to know whether the place is being watched.”

“And if it is?” Drake asked.

“I want to find out about it.”

“All right,” Drake said, “I’ll have a man there in fifteen minutes. I have a man sitting right here in the office who’s good. I’ll put him on the job.”

“Does he know me?” Mason asked.

“He knows you by sight. He’ll pick you up all right.”

“All right. I’ll be there within thirty minutes. I’ll park my car a block or two away and walk past the entrance to the apartment without looking in. Have your man pick me up and brief me on the situation. Can do?”

“Can do and will do,” Drake said.

“How long you going to be there, Paul?”

“Probably all night. At least until something definite breaks.”

“Okay, I’ll be calling you.”

“You’d better keep your nose clean,” Drake warned. “If any good private detective is out there, he’ll recognize you the minute he sees you.”

“That’s why I want to know if he’s there,” Mason said and hung up.

Mason looked at his watch, noted the time, drove until he found a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that was open, sat at the lunch counter and had two leisurely cups of coffee. He paid for the coffee, entered the phone booth, called the Gladedell Motel and this time got Gerald Conway on the line.

“Where have you been?” Mason asked.

“Nowhere. Why?”

“I called and you didn’t answer.”

“Oh. I just ran out to a drugstore for shaving stuff and a toothbrush. What did you want?”

“I wanted to tell you I have what I think is a complete proxy list. It doesn’t look too good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Just sit tight.”

Mason hung up and drove to a point within two blocks of the Lane Vista Apartments, where he parked his car at the curb, got out and walked along the sidewalk, walking directly past the entrance to the apartment house without hesitating.

Halfway to the next corner, a figure detached itself from the shadows and fell into step by Mason’s side.

“Paul Drake’s man,” the figure said without turning his head.

“Let’s take a look,” Mason told him.

“All right. Around the corner.”

“Anyone sitting on the place?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay,” Mason said, and the two walked around the corner until they came to the mouth of an alley.

The man paused, took a folder from his pocket containing his credentials and a small, fountain-pen flashlight.

Mason studied the credentials, said, “Okay, tell me about the stake-out.”

“I know the guy who’s waiting,” the detective said. “He’s from the firm of Simons & Wells. They make a specialty of serving papers.”

“Did he notice you?” Mason asked.

“Hell’s bells!” the man said. “I walked right into it with my chin out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know the guy who’s sitting on the job. I started to case the joint. This guy was on stake-out. He knew me, and I knew him.”

“You talked with him?”

“Sure. He said hello, and wanted to know what I was out on, and I asked him if he was waiting to serve papers and he said no, he was just making a preliminary survey. I asked him if I could have one guess as to the initials of the party, and we sparred around for a while. Then he admitted he was there to tail Rose Calvert. Seems like her middle name is Mistletoe.” The operative chuckled. “Some name!”

“Okay,” Mason said, “what about Rose Calvert? Is she in her apartment?”

“Apparently not. Hasn’t been in all afternoon. She was reported to have been in yesterday. A little before ten today she called a cab, loaded a bunch of baggage and went away. She hasn’t come back.”

“Dolled up?” Mason asked.

“Not too much.”

“Taking a powder?”

“She could have been taking a powder, all right. Quite a bit of baggage. There’s a letter in the mailbox outside the apartment, according to what this guy tells me.”

“This operative has been ringing Rose Calvert’s bell?” Mason asked.

“No. He found out she was out. He’s waiting for her to show. However, he goes off duty at 1:30 a.m. He didn’t start working until five-thirty this evening. There’s no relief coming on.”

“You take a look at the letter in the mailbox?”

“No. My friend told me about it.”

“What did you tell your friend?”

“Told him I was interested in another case.”

“Did you give him any names?”

“No, but I don’t think I fooled him any.”

“What about this letter?”

“It’s in an envelope addressed to Rose M. Calvert and it’s got a return address in the upper side from Norton B. Calvert. The address is 6831 Washington Heights, Elsinore.”

“You didn’t take a peek at the letter?” Mason asked.

“Hell, no! I’m not monkeying with Uncle Sam. I didn’t even touch the envelope. I got my data from my friend.”

“Stamp canceled and postmarked?”

“That’s right. Postmarked Elsinore yesterday.”

“How is the letter? Typewritten or ink?”

“Written in pencil.”

“From Norton B. Calvert, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“Who is this Norton B. Calvert? Husband? Son? What?”

“I don’t know. She’s pretty young to have a son living away from home. Around twenty-seven, as I get the impression.”

“Know how she was dressed?” Mason asked.

“Yes, she was wearing a tight-fitting, light-blue sweater, straight matching blue skirt, and high-heeled shoes.”

Mason digested the information in thoughtful silence.

“That mean anything to you?” the operative asked.

“I think it does,” Mason said, looking at his watch. “I’m going to play a hunch. What’s that address in Elsinore?”

“6831 Washington Heights, Elsinore.”

Mason said, “Let’s see. It’s about an hour to Corona and then about thirty minutes to Elsinore. That right?”

“I believe so. That won’t miss it very far.”

“Ring up Paul’s office,” Mason said. “Tell Drake to stick around until he hears from me. Have him tell Della Street to go home. Do you think this detective connected you with me?”

“Sure he did. Naturally he’s dying to find out what my angle is. When you came along, he would have been all eyes and ears. I let you go as far as I dared before I cut in on you, but I’m satisfied he was where he could watch us. He goes off duty at one-thirty, in case you want to call without being seen. She may be in by then.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Go back and watch the place so this detective can’t say you quit as soon as I showed up. Try to give him a line before he leaves. Tell him you’re going to be on duty all night as far as you know. When he quits at one-thirty, wait ten or fifteen minutes to make certain he’s gone, and then high-tail it back to Drake’s office.”

“Suppose she shows?”

“She won’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure. If she shows, it won’t make any difference. I just want to keep from giving this private detective any blueprints of my plans.”

Mason swung away from the man, walked around the block, went to where he had parked his car, got in, filled the tank with gas at the nearest service station, and took off down the freeway.

From time to time he consulted his watch, and despite the last cup of coffee, found himself getting sleepy. He stopped at Corona for another cup of coffee, then drove on.

When he got to Elsinore, he found the town completely closed up. The police station and fire station had lights. Aside from that there was no light anywhere.

Mason drove around trying to get the lay of the town. He saw a car turn into a driveway. A family who had evidently been to one of the neighboring cities at a late show got out of the car.

Mason drove up.

“Can anybody tell me where Washington Heights is?” he asked.

The man who was evidently the head of the family detached himself from the group, came over toward Mason’s car.

“Sure,” he said. “You drive straight along this road until you come to the first boulevard stop, then turn right, and climb the hill, the second street on the left is Washington Heights.”

“Thanks,” Mason told him, leaning slightly forward with his head to one side so his hat brim would be between his features and the other man’s eyes. “Thanks a lot!”

Mason pushed his foot gently on the throttle, eased away from the curb.

Mason located the 6800 block on Washington Heights, but missed 6831 the first time he went down the block. It was only after he turned and came back that he found a little bungalow type of house sitting back from the street.

Mason stopped his car, left the parking lights on, and his feet crunched up the gravel walk leading to the house.

A neighbor’s dog began barking with steady insistence.

Mason heard annoyed tones from the adjoining house telling the dog to shut up.

The lawyer climbed up on the steps of the small porch and groped for a bell button. Unable to find it, he knocked on the door.

There was no answer from within.

Mason knocked the second time.

Bare feet thudded to the floor in the interior of the house. The dog in the neighboring house started a crescendo of barking and then abruptly became silent.

At length a porch light clicked. The door opened a crack, held from opening farther by a brass chain which stretched taut across the narrow opening.

A man’s voice from the inside said, “Who is it?”

“I’m an attorney from the city,” Mason said. “I want to talk with you.”

“What about?”

“About your wife.”

“My wife?”

“That’s right. Rose Calvert. She’s your wife, isn’t she?”

“You better ask her whose wife she is,” the man said.

Mason said, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to discuss the matter out here where the entire neighborhood can hear. I drove down here to see you because I feel it’s important.”

“What’s important?”

“What I want to see you about.”

“Now, you look here,” the man said. “I’m not going to consent to a single thing. I’m hoping Rose will come to her senses. If she does, all right. If she doesn’t, I’m not going to make things any easier for her or for that fellow who has her hypnotized, and that’s final!”

He started to close the door.

“Just a moment,” Mason said. “I don’t want you to consent to anything. I just want to get some information.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s important.”

“Who’s it important to?”

“It may be important to you.”

The man on the other side o£ the door hesitated, then finally said, “Well, all right. You can come in. But this is a hell of an hour to get a man out of bed to start asking questions.”

“I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t urgent,” Mason said.

“What’s urgent about it?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Mason said, “and I don’t want to alarm you until I am sure. I’m an attorney, but I’m not representing your wife in any way. I’m not representing anyone connected with the aspect of the case in which you’re interested. I just want to get some information, and then perhaps I can give you some.”

“Well, come on in.”

The chain was removed and the door swung open.

The man who stood, tousle-haired and barefooted, in the entrance hallway was wearing striped pajamas. He was nearly six feet tall, slender, about thirty-two, with dark, smoldering eyes and long, black hair which had tumbled about his head.

“Come on in,” he said, yawning.

“Thanks. I’m Perry Mason,” the lawyer told him, shaking hands. “I’m an attorney and I’m working on a case in which it has become necessary to get some information about your wife.”

“We’re all split up,” Calvert said shortly. “Maybe you came to the wrong place.”

Mason said, “I want to talk with you.”

“There’s not much I can tell you about her, except that she wants a divorce.”

“There are no children?”

The man shook his head.

“How long have you been married?”

“Two and a half years. Can you tell me what this is all about? I’m sorry. I may have been a little bit short with you. I wake up kinda jumpy sometimes.”

Mason said, “I have something to tell you, but I want to be pretty certain I’m right before I tell you. This may take a little time. Fifteen or twenty minutes. Do you want to get some clothes on?”

“I’ll get a blanket to wrap around me,” the man said.

He vanished into the bedroom, came back with a blanket and wrapped it around him.

“Sit down there in that chair by the table,” he told Mason.

Mason seated himself, said, “This is a nice little bungalow you have here.”

The man made a little gesture of dismissal. “I rent it furnished. After we broke up, I thought for a while Rose would come back to me, but now I’ve about given up.”

“Were you living together down here?”

“No, I moved down here about three months ago — that was right after we split up.”

“What’s your occupation?”

“Running a service station.”

“Would you think me terribly presumptuous if I asked you to tell me about what happened in your marriage, how it happened you broke up, and—?”

“I guess it’s all right,” Calvert said. “We got off to a good start. We had been going together a couple of months. She was in a brokerage office. I was a salesman. We sort of clicked and we got married.

“She didn’t want children right at first. We decided we’d wait on that and that we’d both keep on working.

“Then an uncle of mine died and left me quite a nest egg. Not too much. It figured about sixty thousand, by the time taxes were taken out of it. So then I felt we could start having a family.”

“How much of that nest egg do you have left?” Mason asked.

Calvert’s lips tightened. “I’ve got all of it left.”

“Good boy I” Mason told him.

“And if I’d listened to her, I wouldn’t have had any of it left,” Calvert went on. “That was one of the things that started the trouble. She wanted to live it up, to travel, to get clothes, to do all the things, that take money.

“I wanted to save this money to invest in something. I wanted a business of our own. I didn’t want her to keep on working. I wanted children.”

“Did she want children?”

“She couldn’t be bothered.”

“All right, what happened?”

“Well, we got along all right, but I could see the novelty of marriage was wearing off and — Rose is a woman that men notice. She has a figure and she’s proud of it. She likes people to notice it.”

“And they do?” Mason asked.

“They do.”

“Precisely what caused the final split-up?”

“A man by the name of Gifford Farrell.”

“With Texas Global?”

“That’s right. He’s fighting a proxy battle. There are ads in the Los Angeles newspapers. He’s trying to get enough proxies to take over.”

“How long has he known your wife?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it was entirely his fault, but he certainly was on the make and she fell for him.”

“How long had it been going on?” Mason asked.

“I tell you I don’t know. I guess quite a while. I wanted to get ahead by plugging along and keeping my eye on the main chance.

“This Farrell is just like Rose. He’s a gambler, a guy who shoots the works, rides around in high-powered automobiles, spends three and four hundred dollars on a suit of clothes, wouldn’t think of looking at a pair of shoes that didn’t cost over twenty dollars. He’s a showman, likes to go out to night clubs and all of that.”

“And now your wife wants a divorce?”

“That’s right.”

Mason took his cigarette case from his pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all. I’ll join you. I smoke a good deal myself. Here.”

The man passed over an ash tray which was pretty well filled with cigarette stubs, said, “Wait a minute! I’ll empty that.”

He went out into the kitchen, dumped the ashes into a wood stove, came back with the ash tray, inspected the cigarettes in Mason’s cigarette case, said, “Thanks, I have my own brand.”

He took a package of cigarettes from his pajama pocket, extracted one, and leaned forward to accept the light which Mason held out as he snapped his lighter into flame.

The lawyer lit his own cigarette, said, “Do you have any pictures of your wife?”

“Pictures? Sure.”

“May I see them?”

“Why?”

“I want to be absolutely certain that you and I are talking about the same woman,” Mason said.

Calvert looked at him for a moment, took a deep drag on the cigarette, exhaled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils, got up, walked into the other room and came back with two framed pictures and an album.

“These are pictures she had taken,” he said.

Mason studied the framed, retouched photographs. “You have some snapshots?”

The man opened the album, said, “This goes back to when we first met. She gave me a camera for my birthday. Here are some of the more recent pictures.”

Mason thumbed through the album. Within a half-dozen pictures he was virtually certain of his identification.

He closed the album and said, “I’m sorry to have to bring you the news, Calvert. I can’t be absolutely certain, but I’m practically certain that your wife was involved in a tragedy which took place a few hours ago.”

Calvert jerked bolt upright. “An automobile accident?”

“A murder.”

“A murder!”

“Someone killed her.”

For several long seconds Calvert sat absolutely motionless. Then his mouth twitched downward at the corners. He hastily took another drag on his cigarette, said, “Are you sure, Mr. Mason?”

“I’m not absolutely sure,” Mason said, “but I think the body I saw was that of your wife.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“She was in the Redfern Hotel, lying on a bed. She was wearing a blue sweater, sort of a robin’s-egg blue, and a skirt to match.”

Calvert said, “That sweater was a Christmas present from me last Christmas. She likes tight-fitting sweaters. She’s proud of her figure. It’s a good one.”

Mason nodded.

“Have they got the person who... who did it?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Calvert said, “She was pretty well tied up with this Farrell. She was afraid of Mrs. Farrell.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I think Mrs. Farrell had threatened her at one time. I know she was afraid of her.”

“You had separated for good?” Mason asked.

“I never really gave up. I thought she’d come to her senses and come back. That’s why I came down here. At present I’m running this filling station. I’ve got a chance to buy a store here. I think there’s a good living in it, but I’m a man who goes at things like that pretty cautiously. I don’t act on impulse. I wanted to look this place over at first hand. The service station I have is Tight next door to the store. I think maybe I’ll buy it... How can I find out for sure about my wife?”

“Someone will probably be in touch with you within a short time, if the body is that of your wife,” Mason said. “It’s hard to make an identification from photographs.”

Calvert pinched out the cigarette. “How did you happen to come here?” he asked. “How did you find me?”

Mason said, “There’s a letter in the mailbox at her house. It had your address on the upper left-hand corner. I had to see some photographs. I thought perhaps you’d have them.”

“You saw... saw the body?”

Mason nodded.

Calvert said, “I hadn’t heard from her for six weeks, I guess. Then she wrote to me and told me she wanted to go to Reno and get a divorce.”

“Did she say that she and Farrell were planning on getting married?”

“No, she just said she wanted a divorce. She said that she could establish residence in Reno and get a divorce without any trouble if I’d co-operate.”

“What did she mean by ‘co-operate’?”

“She wanted me to file an appearance of some sort. It seems if I get an attorney and appear in court to contest the action, they can get around a lot of red tape in serving a summons and save a lot of delay. She said she was willing to pay for the attorney “

“And what did you tell her?” Mason asked.

“I told her that I’d co-operate if she was sure that was what she wanted,” Calvert said, “and then I’ve been thinking things over and... well, I just about decided to change my mind. When you came down here and got me up out of a sound sleep, I was mad! I made up my mind I wasn’t going to fall all over myself fixing it so she could get tied up with this man Farrell. He’s a fourflusher, a woman chaser — and he’s just no good!”

“Do you have the letter which your wife wrote?” Mason asked.

“I have it,” Calvert said. “Just a minute.”

He kicked off the blanket, walked into the bedroom again, came back with an envelope which he handed to Mason.

The lawyer shook the letter out of the envelope, read:

Calvert began twisting his fingers nervously. “I just can’t seem to picture her as being dead, Mr. Mason. She’s so full of life and vitality. You’re sure?”

“No,” Mason told him, “I’m not sure. But I think the woman I saw was your wife. She was blond with blue eyes, and she was wearing this blue sweater which just about matched her eyes. The eyes were only partially open, and... well, you know how it is with a dead person. Sometimes it’s hard to make a positive identification from photographs, but I think I’m right.”

“What was she doing at the Redfern Hotel?”

“I don’t know.”

“How does Gifford Farrell figure in this?”

“I don’t know that. I don’t even know that he figures in it.”

Calvert said with considerable feeling, “Well, you can bet your bottom dollar he figures in it somewhere. I guess I could have got along without Rose all right, if I’d felt she was being happy with somebody, but this... this thing — it just sort of knocks me for a loop.”

Mason nodded sympathetically.

Abruptly Calvert got up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. You’ve got the information you want and I... well, I’m just not able to keep on talking. I feel all choked up. I guess I’m going to take it pretty hard. I tried to pretend that I could get along without her, but I always had a feeling she was coming back, and— Just pull the door closed when you leave.”

Calvert threw the blanket into a crumpled ball on the floor, walked back hurriedly to the bedroom, kicked the door shut.

The house grew silent.

Mason switched out the lights, and felt his way to the door. Behind him he could hear harsh, convulsive sobs coming from the other side of the bedroom door.

The lawyer eased out of the house, tiptoed up the gravel walk. The dog in the adjoining house once more started a frenzied barking and was again calmed to silence by the man’s authoritative voice.

Mason got in his car and drove back toward the city.

From Corona, Mason called Paul Drake.

“This is Perry, Paul. Any news?”

“Nothing important.”

“Body been identified?”

“Not yet. At least not as far as anyone knows.”

“Anything else new?”

“Sgt. Holcomb rang up and wanted to know where you could be reached.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I didn’t know where you were, but I knew that you intended to be at the district attorney’s office at nine o’clock in the morning.”

“What about Della?”

“I told her you said to go home, but she didn’t go. She’s sticking it out. She’s got a percolator full of hot coffee... What the heck are you doing down at Corona?”

“Running down a lead,” Mason said. “Now look, Paul, here’s something I want you to do.”

“What?”

“Cover the Redfern Hotel. Find out if there were any check-outs from the seventh floor between six and eight last night. If there were, I want those rooms rented by some of your operatives.”

“You can’t ask for a specific room by number,” Drake said. “It would make them suspicious...”

“Don’t be that crude,” Mason told him. “Have operatives go to the hotel. They’re just in from a plane trip. They don’t want to get too high, but they want to be high enough to be away from the street noises, something on the seventh floor. Then start getting particular until they get the rooms we want.”

“Check-outs tonight? Is that right?”

“Well, it’s yesterday night now,” Mason said, “but I want any check-outs between — well, say between six and nine just to be safe.”

“You coming in here?” Drake asked.

“I’m coming in,” Mason told him. “What have you found out about the gun? Anything?”

“Not yet. We’re working.”

“Well, get some action,” Mason told him.

“Do you know what time it is?” Drake asked.

“Sure, I know what time it is,” Mason said. “And I’ll tell you something for your information. By tomorrow the police will be swarming all over us. If we’re going to do anything at all, we’re going to have to do it before nine o’clock this morning.”

“I’ve got ten men out,” Drake said. “They should turn up something. Come on in and have a cup of coffee. I’ll try to get a line on the hotel. I’ve got a couple of men in there already. They’re buying drinks, tipping the bellboys and trying to get them to talk.”

“What kind of a place?” Mason asked.

“You can get anything you want,” Drake told him.

“Who runs it? The clerks?”

“The bell captains run that end of it.”

“Well, we may want something,” Mason told him. “I’m coming in, Paul. I’ll be seeing you in an hour.”