The Case of the Deadly Toy

Chapter Eleven

From the nearest phone Mason called Paul Drake.

“Rush some men out to the airport, Paul. Look for Robert Selkirk, a boy of seven years of age, aristocratic in bearing. He’s accompanied by a woman named Grace Hallum, blonde, blue eyes, twenty-seven years old, with a good figure. She worked for a while as a model, married, collected some alimony and is living now partially on alimony and partially by supplementing her income by baby-sitting. They’ll probably have a couple of hours’ start on you and will have been on a plane for someplace outside of the jurisdiction of the local courts. Try Mexico City first, then try everything you can get. Cover all passenger lists, see if you can locate a woman, any woman, traveling with a seven-year-old boy.”

“There’ll be hundreds of them,” Drake said.

“Not with a departure time of the last two hours. My best guess is that reservations were first made over the telephone, then Barton Jennings took some cash and some of the kid’s clothes in a suitcase up to Grace Hallum’s apartment. He transferred the clothes there, came out with the empty suitcase.

“A taxicab went to the Cretonic Apartments and picked them up. See if you can locate the cab driver, find out what airline they were traveling on. Get busy.”

“Okay,” Drake promised. “You coming up here?”

“We’re on our way,” Mason told him.

The lawyer hung up the phone and he and Smithy drove back to the parking place at the office.

“I could tell by the way he was carrying that suitcase when he came out that there was something wrong,” Smith said. “That’s what it was, all right; the suitcase was empty when he came out.”

Mason nodded.

They entered the elevator.

“Your secretary just came in,” the operator told Mason.

“Stop at Paul’s office?” Mason asked.

“I don’t think so. I think she went on down the corridor to your office.”

“I’ll pick her up,” Mason said.

They stopped at Drake’s office. “Go on in,” Mason told Smith, “and tell Paul about what happened. I’ll see if Della Street has anything on her mind and then come back.”

Mason walked down to his office, latchkeyed the door, found Della Street standing in front of the mirror.

“Hello,” she said. “I just got here.”

“How come?” Mason asked.

“I rang the unlisted phone in your apartment, no answer. I rang Paul and he said you were out on a hot lead. I thought I’d come up and see if you needed anything.”

“Good girl,” Mason told her. “We’re working on something hot.”

“What is it?”

“Robert Selkirk. The way things look now, his mother and his stepfather left him alone while they went to the airport to meet Norda Allison. Robert was sleeping in a tent in the patio. It’s beginning to look as though Robert got frightened, sneaked into the house, took possession of that .22 Colt Woodsman, then went back to bed in his tent in the patio. Sometime in the night he was aroused by someone prowling around. That just could have been Mervin Selkirk who was engaged in planting that printing press in the Jennings’ storeroom.

“Evidently the dog they keep knew Mervin Selkirk well enough so he let Selkirk prowl around the place as a friend. Whoever it was, it was someone the dog knew.

“Robert got frightened and took a shot in the dark. That shot probably hit the boy’s father. He left a blood trail all the way to his automobile, drove to the country club and died before he could get out of the car.

“Barton Jennings was supposed to take Robert to this camping expedition where the boys were going with their dogs. So he was able to ditch the dog somewhere, probably at a boarding kennel, and take Robert up to another baby sitter the boy knew. He did all that before five o’clock in the morning.”

“Good heavens,” Della Street said, “you mean the boy killed his own father?”

“It was an accident,” Mason said. “Now then, Barton Jennings is giving the boy a good brain-washing. He’s making Robert think it was all a nightmare, some hideous dream that he had in which he dreamed that he had pulled the trigger on the gun.

“In order to keep the boy from being called as a witness, they’re trying to spirit him out of the country. By the time anyone can get the boy back as a witness, the kid will be convinced he may have had a nightmare but that he didn’t actually pull the trigger on the gun.”

Della Street watched Mason for a moment with thoughtful eyes. “So what do you do?” she asked.

Mason said, “I block the attempt. I get hold of the boy before his brain has been washed, and...” Suddenly his voice trailed off into silence.

“Exactly,” Della Street said. “What’s it going to do to a seven-year-old boy if he believes that he has killed his father?”

Mason started pacing the floor. “Hang it, Della,” he said, “my duty is to my client. I can’t sit back and let a client take a murder rap simply to spare the feelings of a seven-year-old boy... And yet I can’t have that seven-year-old boy dragged up in front of the authorities.”

“As far as that’s concerned, how are we going to prove our contention once we get him picked up?” Della Street asked.

Mason paced the floor, saying nothing.

“Can’t you,” she asked, “use the knowledge you have so you can drop a monkey wrench in the prosecutor’s machinery and get Norda Allison acquitted without dragging the boy into it?”

“I’m darned if I know,” Mason admitted, and then added, grinning, “of course, you would look at it from a woman’s viewpoint and want to protect the child regardless of anything else.”

“It’s the right viewpoint,” Della Street said.

“Come on,” Mason said, changing the subject, “let’s go down to Paul Drake’s office and see what he’s discovered.”

He held the door open and the two of them walked down the echoing corridor of the deserted building to enter the offices of the Drake Detective Agency. Mason waved a greeting to the girl who was busy at the switchboard, held the gate open for Della Street and they walked down to Drake’s office.

Drake was just hanging up one of his telephones as Mason and Della Street entered the office. Smithy was sitting in a corner of the office, scribbling in a notebook.

Drake said, “Well, we’ve traced your taxicab, Perry, we were lucky. One of my operatives picked up the trip on the dispatcher’s records and managed to interview the driver. He was particularly impressed with the little boy. It happens he has a kid of his own and the youngster made quite an impression.

“Here’s what happened: On the trip out to the airport the woman was telling the boy about going to Mexico City, all about Mexico and something about the history of Mexico City. She told him he’d see the famous Calendar Stone in the museum and quite a few things of that sort. The boy seemed to have something on his mind and she kept up quite a steady stream of conversation.

“They were going to take an American Airlines plane to Dallas and then from Dallas to Mexico City. He took them to the American Airlines.

“Now here’s a peculiar thing. They never got on that plane.”

“What plane?”

“The one on which they had reservations. Reservations had been made over the telephone for Mrs. Hallum and son. The reservations were confirmed all the way to Mexico City. They were told they would have to pick up their tickets thirty minutes before plane time and they promised to be there. They never showed up.

“The airlines felt certain there had been some unexpected delay in transportation to the airport and actually didn’t sell out the reservations until the last minute. Then about five minutes before time of departure they had a couple of stand-bys and they put the stand-bys aboard the plane and wired Dallas to cancel the two tickets on the Mexico City flight unless other information was received.”

“Then what happened to the woman and the child?” Mason asked. “Was it just an elaborate plant to throw us off the trail?”

“It could have been,” Drake said, “but somehow I’m not so certain.”

“Wasn’t it unusual for the woman to be talking so much about Mexico City in the taxicab?” Della Street asked. “Wouldn’t that indicate it was a plant?”

“It might,” Drake said, “but the taxi driver felt certain it was on the up and up. Those taxi drivers get to handle a lot of people and become pretty darn good judges of human nature.”

Mason nodded.

“Well,” Drake asked, “what do we do?”

“Cover all the other airline offices,” Mason said, “and see if the pair switched to another airline, and—”

“That’s being done,” Drake said, “but it’s quite a job. I thought you’d want to know about the taxi driver right away.”

Mason nodded.

One of the telephones on Drake’s desk rang sharply. Drake picked up the receiver, said, “Paul Drake talking,” then frowned in thoughtful concentration as the receiver made a series of squawking noises which were audible throughout the room.

“Okay,” he said, “that’s a lead. Stay with it. Have you got a description of that man?”

Again Drake listened and then said, “See what you can do.”

He hung up the phone, turned to Mason and Della Street and said, “Well, part of the mystery is clearing up.

“One of my operatives scouting for leads around the place found that a porter remembered the woman and the boy. He took their baggage to the weighing-in scales at the American Airlines desk. The woman and the boy went up to the ticket counter, then two men came up and talked with the woman — one man did most of the talking. He had an air of authority. Then they took the two suitcases off the weighing scales, and the two men, the woman and the boy walked out toward the curb.

“The porter didn’t know what happened after that. He was hanging around because he expected a tip for handling the baggage and no one offered to tip him. Naturally he remembered the transaction.”

“The devil!” Mason exclaimed.

“Police?” Smith asked.

“Could be,” Drake said. “They acted with that unmistakable air of authority. The porter said he didn’t think they looked like police.”

“They don’t any more,” Mason commented thoughtfully. “Good police detectives look like bankers or sales executives.”

Drake said, “Incidentally, Perry, I heard from the operative I sent up to the camp, where Robert and his dog were supposed to be.”

“They weren’t there?” Mason asked.

“Robert wasn’t there. He never did show up at the starting point. My man had a wild-goose chase: took a trip by automobile, then transferred to saddle horse, rode five miles over mountain trails, got bitten by a dog, turned around and rode the five miles back. He says the only two places he isn’t sore are on top of his head and the soles of his feet. He said that was some gathering of kids and dogs, mongrels, purebreds and general canines of all sizes. They’d started out with the dogs on leash, but after a while they just turned ’em loose. The guy in charge said they’d only had a couple of dog fights and then everything had worked out beautifully. The dogs seemed to enter into the spirit of the thing.

“The man in charge said Robert and his dog had been booked for the trip but hadn’t shown up. There were seven kids in all.”

Mason was thoughtful for a while, then said, “Keep a watch on Jennings, Paul. See what you can find out.”

“Something in particular?” Drake asked.

“If they started for Mexico City,” Mason said, “he undoubtedly arranged for some sort of a code signal, either by way of telephone or telegram, to let him know that they were safely outside the jurisdiction of the court. When he doesn’t hear from them, he’ll begin to get alarmed.

“In the meantime, if the police have moved in, they’ll be trying to find out just what it is Robert Selkirk did and just what it is he knows. I’m going to apply for a writ of habeas corpus for Norda Allison tomorrow morning.

“If the police have Robert, there’s no use trying to do anything more about him, but I sure would like to know whether they have him, and if so, what story they got. Any chance of finding out?”

Drake shook his head. “Not if they don’t want you to know, Perry. They’ll have Robert and the woman buried somewhere. They may tell Barton Jennings what has happened so he won’t be too nervous.”

“Suppose they do? Then what?” Mason asked.

“That’ll mean they’re all working hand in glove,” Drake said.

“And if they don’t?”

Drake grinned. “That’ll mean Robert has told his story to the police and the police don’t like it. Then they won’t be so certain Norda Allison is guilty.”

“Keep your operatives on Barton Jennings,” Mason said, “and if he begins to get a little restive and nervous, we’ll know that it’s time to rush a preliminary hearing for my client.”

Again the phone rang, again Drake picked up the receiver, said, “Hello,” listened in frowning concentration, asked a couple of questions, hung up the telephone and turned to Perry Mason. “This,” he said, “is completely cockeyed.”

“What is?”

“The printing press on which envelopes had been addressed to Norda Allison was found where it had been concealed out in some brush at the San Sebastian Country Club. It was on a lower level of the hill on which the clubhouse is situated. It’s about twenty yards from a service road which winds up to the back of the clubhouse through some thick brush. In an airline it’s about two hundred yards from the place where the body of Mervin Selkirk was found, but it’s out of sight of that location.

“And,” Drake went on before Mason could make any reply, “in the middle of the inked circular steel disc on top of the printing press was found a very nice imprint of the right middle finger of Norda Allison.”

“Well,” Mason said, “that opens up a lot of interesting possibilities.”

“Keep talking,” Drake said.

Mason was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “If Norda Allison’s story is true, she must have made that fingerprint on the printing press sometime early yesterday morning.”

“And Mervin Selkirk was killed sometime around two or three o’clock, according to the best estimate the police can get at the moment,” Drake said.

“Then the printing press must have been taken out to the Country Club after Selkirk’s death,” Mason said. “This may give us an opportunity to drag Barton Jennings right into the middle of it.”

Paul Drake said dryly, “You’re overlooking one thing, Perry.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re assuming your client is telling the truth about when that fingerprint got placed on the printing press.”

“I always assume my clients are telling the truth.”

“Yes, I know,” Drake retorted, “but figure it out, Perry. Suppose she found the printing press in his car, took it out, drove down the service road and hid it in the brush.”

Mason thought the thing over. “I think it’s quite apparent now that someone is trying to frame my client.”

“Famous last words,” Drake said ironically. “Incidentally, Mervin Selkirk kept a room at the San Sebastian Country Club. He’s been a member for several years. Two weeks ago he arranged for a room there. They have a couple of dozen they rent out, mostly on week ends. Mervin Selkirk said he wanted his by the month.”

Mason thought over Paul Drake’s statement, then abruptly turned to Della Street. “Come on, Della. We’re going to see Horace Livermore Selkirk and suggest that he file habeas corpus proceedings to force the authorities to surrender his grandson, Robert Selkirk.”

“You’re going to tell him what you know?” Della Street asked.

“Not only that, but I’m going to tell him what I surmise,” Mason said, grinning.