The Case of the Demure Defendant

Chapter Four

It was the day following Mason’s conversation with Dr. Denair and Nadine Farr that Della Street came hurrying into Mason’s private office.

Mason was in conference with a client at the time, but catching the urgency of Della Street’s half-surreptitious nod, he excused himself to the client and followed Della Street into the law library.

She motioned toward the telephone.

“Dr. Denair is on the line. He says it’s a major emergency, that I must get you at once. I told him I’d call you out of conference.”

Mason nodded, picked up the telephone and said, “Hello.”

“Perry,” Dr. Denair said, his voice crisply incisive and professionally businesslike, “please listen without interruption for a moment. Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“I’m afraid that confounded nurse of mine let the cat out of the bag. Thirty minutes ago, while I was out, officers appeared with a search warrant. They served it on Elsa Clifton. The search warrant specifically described a tape recording made by the patient in question in which she confessed to a murder. They demanded that the tape recording be surrendered.

“It is my personal opinion that they carefully timed their visit to coincide with my absence. I had not been gone over five minutes when the officers arrived. Elsa Clifton naturally was completely flabbergasted. She didn’t know what to do. She gave them everything they wanted.”

“The tape recording?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. They have it.”

“Where’s Nadine Farr?”

“Here with me. Now, Mason, the police are damned nasty about this thing. They told Elsa Clifton that I could be charged as an accessory after the fact and they intend to do something of the sort. I want you to protect my interests.”

“Tell Nadine to keep her mouth shut,” Mason said, “and you keep your mouth shut.”

“I see.”

“Now then,” Mason said, “I want you to get out of circulation for a little while. I want your patient out of circulation.”

“They’re coming for her.”

“Let them come. I have to talk with her before they take her. In the meantime I have something important to do. Does anyone know you’ve consulted me?”

“I don’t think so. There was no intimation that anyone possessed such knowledge.”

“Put that girl in a taxi,” Mason said. “Drive up here. Don’t get out of the taxicab. Della Street, my secretary, will be waiting at the curb. She’ll get in the cab with you and pilot you down to her apartment. Nadine Farr can stay with Della Street for a short time.”

“Couldn’t you go down there with us, Perry?” Dr. Denair asked. “I’d like to talk with you about—”

“You’ll talk with me later,” Mason said. “Wait down there.”

Mason hung up the telephone, turned to Della Street.

“Go into my office,” he said, “tell the client in there I was called out on a matter of major importance.

“Now get this, Della, because we’re going to have to cut things very, very fine. You go down and wait at the curb. Dr. Denair will be along presently in a taxicab. Nadine Farr will be with him. Jump in the cab with them, take them to your apartment^ wait there until you hear from me.”

“How long?”

“Until you hear from me.”

“Okay.”

“No one is to know where you are.”

She nodded. “But what about the office?”

“Let the office run itself. Gertie at the switchboard can take care of things, and Jackson, the law clerk, can handle routine matters. I’m going to be out of circulation until I join you at your apartment.”

Della Street regarded him speculatively. “You’ve evidently given that matter a little thought since yesterday.”

Mason said, “I’ve given it one hell of a lot of thought.”

He picked up his hat and went out.

Mason jumped in his car and eased the machine out into traffic. Carefully observing all speed regulations, doing nothing to make himself conspicuous, he drove out on the freeway, climbed up into the foothills back of Pasadena until he came to Twomby’s Lake.

A few fishermen were out on the lake in boats. Some boys were swimming near the boat landing.

Mason picked up a stone, walked out to the end of the boat landing and tossed the stone with an awkward overhand motion, the way a woman would throw an object. Then he walked back to the shore, sauntered along to where four boys were swimming and called them over to him.

“How would you boys,” he asked, “like to earn five dollars apiece?”

Their eyes glistened.

Mason took folded bills from his pocket, peeled off four five-dollar bills, gave one to each of the boys.

“Now then,” he said, “the one who finds what I want gets another twenty dollars.”

“Gee, mister, what do you want?”

Mason said, “Let’s walk out to the end of the boat landing.”

The lawyer strode out to the end of the landing, the boys jogging alongside to keep pace with his long-legged stride.

At the end of the landing pier Mason made a throwing gesture.

“Someone threw a bottle off here,” he said, “a small bottle. There are some lead shot in the bottle. I want to find that bottle. How deep is it out there — about twenty-five feet from the end of the landing?”

“About ten feet,” one of the boys said.

“What kind of a bottom?”

“Sandy.”

“Think you can find it?”

“Sure we can find it,” one of the boys said, adjusting goggles and putting rubber fins on his feet.

“All right,” Mason told them. “Go to it.”

The lawyer jumped back to avoid the splash as four youthfully enthusiastic bodies hit the water at almost the same time.

One boy came to the surface, threw his head back to get the wet hair out of his eyes, took a deep breath, then upended and shot down again into the depths. Another boy came up, then another, and finally the fourth. Then they all went down for second, third and fourth dives.

It was on the seventh dive that one of the youngsters emerged from the water to give a triumphant shout. In his hand was a small vial.

“You have it?” Mason asked.

“I have it.”

“Bring it in,” Mason told him.

The boy swam in to the pier. Mason grabbed the youngster’s wet, slippery hand to pull him up on the pier. The other boys, realizing that the quest was over, came swimming in somewhat dejectedly.

“What’s your full name?” Mason asked the boy.

“Arthur Z. Felton.”

“How old are you, Arthur?”

“Twelve, going on thirteen.”

“Where’s your home?”

The boy gestured toward the south.

“Do your folks know you’re here?”

“I came up with one of the older boys.”

“Do they have a telephone?”

“Yes.”

“Where are your clothes?”

“In the other boy’s car.”

Mason said, “Get your clothes. Get in the car with me. We’ll telephone your folks that you’re going to be detained for a little while — and oh, by the way, here’s your twenty dollars.”

The boy looked at him suspiciously. “My folks told me I wasn’t to go riding with anyone.”

Mason said, “I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer. This bottle is evidence in a case.”

“You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer?”

Mason nodded.

“Gee, I’ve heard about you.”

“And,” Mason said, “I think we’d better drive by your house and tell your mother where we’re going. I think perhaps that would be better than telephoning.”

“Okay, Mr. Mason. Here’s your bottle.”

“Not my bottle,” Mason said, “your bottle. Hang on to it, Arthur. Be sure that bottle doesn’t leave your possession. I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want anyone else to touch it. It’s yours.”

“Why?”

“It’s yours,” Mason said, “that is, you have it in your custody. It’s evidence. Now come on, let’s go get your clothes and get in my car.”

“Gosh,” Arthur Felton protested, “I can’t get in your car. I’m all wet.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” Mason told him. “Just hop in,” and then he added enigmatically, “it may be that you aren’t the only one who’s all wet.”