The Case of the Duplicate Daughter

Chapter Fifteen

Mason, pacing his office, said to Paul Drake, “Hang it, Paul, there’s something wrong with this whole case. Somebody drew ten thousand dollars out of a bank and got an even amount — ten thousand dollars. It was to be used to pay blackmail. Don’t tell me anyone could do that without leaving a trace.”

“They did it,” Drake said, “and they didn’t leave a trace. I’ve exhausted every lead I can think of.”

Mason said, “I’m sitting on top of a volcano with ten thousand dollars in my safe. That ten thousand dollars is probably evidence. I’m going to have to do something about it. I don’t want to betray a client, but I can’t conceal evidence. I’m going to have to get in touch with the police and tell them that I found this money. If the police should find out I have the money before I reported it I would be in quite a fix. Every hour that I have that money, every minute that I have it without reporting it, I’m skating on thin ice.”

“Well, why don’t you report it, then?”

Mason shook his head. “I’m not going to sell a client down the river, Paul. I’m going to find out where that money came from before I make a move. Now, you’ve followed instructions and had your men working on Vera Martel’s activities for the week preceding her death?”

Drake nodded, said, “I’m spending a lot of money having men try to uncover every bit of information they can about her. No one knows much. She was working on several cases. She was away from her office for two days, but that was nearly ten days before she was murdered.”

“Where did she go?” Mason asked.

“Search me,” Drake said. “We haven’t been able to find out.”

“Find out,” Mason said. “There was an air travel card and a couple of gasoline credit cards in her purse. Get busy. Find out where the gasoline credit card was used. Start right now and see what you can find out about that air travel card.”

“That was ten days before the thirteenth,” Drake protested.

“I don’t give a damn when it was,” Mason said. “There’s something missing in this case and I want to find it before the police do. You can imagine the spot I’ll be in if the police find out about—”

The telephone rang.

Della Street picked it up, said, “Hello,” then said, “Muriell on the phone, Mr. Mason. She’s been crying, is pretty much upset.”

Mason nodded, said, “Listen in, Della,” and picked up the receiver.

Muriell’s voice came over the wire. She was so emotionally upset that it was hard to understand her.

“Mr. Mason,” she said, choking back sobs, “I’ve... I’ve been disloyal... I’ve... I’ve sold you down the river.”

“Go on,” Mason said. “Try and be as brief as possible, Muriell. There may not be much time. What did you do?”

“The police gave me — I guess it was a third degree. They got me in the district attorney’s office and they really dragged me over the coals and they threatened me and... well, I told them about everything.”

“The money?” Mason asked.

“The money,” she said.

“What did you tell them about it?”

“Everything.”

“What else?”

“I told them everything I knew.”

“About your father disappearing?”

“Yes.”

“About the fact that you telephoned me?”

“Everything, Mr. Mason... Oh, I don’t know what made me do it! It just seemed as though pressures were building up inside of me and they kept hammering away: hammering, hammering, hammering all the time.”

“When did this happen?” Mason asked.

“Right after court adjourned. I was picked up and hurried into this district attorney’s office.”

“Why didn’t you refuse to go?”

“I didn’t have an opportunity. A policewoman just took me on one side and an officer on the other and they said, ‘Right this way. The D. A. wants to talk with you,’ and there I was and... well, then they just seemed to know how to go about it, and I told them everything.”

“Are you in any sort of custody?” Mason asked.

“No. They let me go but they served me with a subpoena. I’m going to have to be a witness tomorrow, Mr. Mason. I’m going to have to be a witness against Daddy! Oh, Mr. Mason, I just feel terrible. I don’t know what to do.”

“All right,” Mason said, “you’ve gone this far. Now, don’t get despondent, don’t get the idea of jumping off a bridge or taking an over-dose of sleeping pills. You’ve been served with a subpoena. You’re going to have to be a witness. You can take it and I can take it. Now, quit worrying about it. Take a couple of aspirins and settle back and relax.”

“But I’ve let you down terribly.”

Mason said, “It’s all right. I’ll handle things.”

Mason hung up the telephone, said to Paul Drake, “Well, that does it. I suppose that any minute now I’ll be served with—”

He broke off as Lt. Tragg, accompanied by a plainclothes man, pushed open the door from the outer office.

“Well, hello, folks,” Tragg said. “Caught you in conference, eh?”

Mason said, “It would help a lot if you’d have yourself announced, Tragg.”

Tragg smiled and shook his head. “I’ve told you a dozen times, Mason, the taxpayers don’t like it.”

“And what’s the urgent business that brings you here?” Mason asked.

Tragg smiled. “Well, now, Perry,” he said, “the district attorney wants you as a witness.”

“Me as a witness?” Mason asked.

“That’s right,” Tragg said. “A subpoena duces tecum, Mr. Mason, ordering that you be in court tomorrow morning at ten o’clock and that you bring with you the sum of ten thousand dollars in currency or any other currency or any other article which you picked up in the workshop of Carter Gilman at 6231 Vauxman Avenue on or about the thirteenth day of this month, or at any other time thereafter.

“I’ve warned you, Perry, that you shouldn’t mix into things the way you do. Now, if you’d just spoken up and told the police about finding ten thousand dollars out there on the floor it might have simplified things a lot. But, no, you chose to keep your own counsel and now I’m sorry, Mason, but you’re going to be a witness for the prosecution and I’m a little afraid Hamilton Burger is going to take a very dim view of suppressing evidence.”

Lt. Tragg turned to the plain-clothes man and made a little gesture. “This is Perry Mason,” he said. “I identify him.”

The plain-clothes officer stepped forward and said, “A subpoena duces tecum, Mr. Mason. Here’s the original, here’s your copy. Be in court tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Have the articles mentioned in the subpoena with you.”

“That’ll be all,” Lt. Tragg said. “Be a little careful when it comes to cross-examining yourself, Mason. Don’t be rough on yourself because you’re going to be one of Hamilton Burger’s star witnesses. I can’t begin to tell you how much Hamilton Burger is looking forward to this.”

Mason took the subpoena. Lt. Tragg walked to the exit door of the private office, held it open for the plain-clothes man, started out, turned, and suddenly the smile left his face. “If I told you I was sorry, Perry,” he said, “I’d be giving aid and comfort to the enemy and might get a couple of demerits — so I won’t tell you I’m sorry — I won’t tell you I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Mason said.

“Not at all,” Tragg said, and closed the door.

“Well,” Drake said lugubriously, “you insist on skating on thin ice and now you’re trapped — Where does that leave you? Are you suppressing evidence?”

“Not necessarily,” Mason said. “How am I supposed to know it’s evidence? Nobody told me. All I’ve got to do is to prove that the title to that money is in my client, Carter Gilman, and I have a perfect right to it. I had Gilman sign a bill of sale giving me all of his right, title and interest in and to the contents of his workshop as a part of my fee; the contents to include everything that was in the workshop on the thirteenth.”

“Well,” Drake said, “you’re going to have to prove that he owned the money. He—”

The telephone rang. Della Street picked it up, said, “Yes... Yes... It’s for you, Paul.”

Drake came over and took the instrument, said, “Hello... Yes... What!... Good heavens!”

Della Street, listening to the detective’s voice, moved a chair up for him and Drake dropped into it as though his knees had buckled.

“You’re sure?” Drake asked. “Now, wait a minute. There can’t be any... Oh, good Lord... Well, that does it... All right. Now, look, there was an air travel card in Vera Martel’s purse. There were also a couple of credit cards for gasoline. Find out where those cards were last used. Get busy. I want a report on that right now... All right, I’ll be here for a while. Call me back.”

Drake said, “Perry, I hate to be the one that breaks it to you, but this is it.”

“What is it, Paul?”

“That money!” Drake said. “My operatives, checking around in Las Vegas trying to find everything that Vera Martel had been doing during the last ten days of her life, found that on the third of the month she went to the bank and drew ten thousand dollars in cash.”

Mason stood motionless, his face granite hard.

“All right,” he said at length, “they can’t prove it’s the same money.”

“That’s the hell of it; they can,” Drake said. “The banker wondered why she wanted that money in hundred-dollar bills and thought perhaps it was the payment of ransom in a kidnaping. He didn’t dare delay things long enough to tip her off but he told her he had to go back to the vault to get enough hundreds. He was only gone half a minute, but during that time he managed to take the numbers of six of the one-hundred-dollar bills that he gave her. He has those numbers.”

“Do the police know about it?” Mason asked.

“Not yet, but they will. The minute the newspapers blazon forth the fact that Hamilton Burger has called you as his star witness for the prosecution and that ten thousand dollars in cash figures in the deal, the banker will read the newspapers, come forward with the numbers on the bills and you’re sunk.”

Mason started pacing the floor. After a few minutes, the phone rang again.

Della Street, answering it, again nodded to Paul. “For you,” Della Street said.

“Well, thank heavens,” Drake said. “We’ve got all the bad news now, so this is bound to be something good.”

He moved over to the instrument, said, “Hello... Yes... This is Paul... Okay, thanks.”

He hung up and said, “I was wrong, Perry.”

“What is it this time?” Mason asked.

“Hartley Elliott,” Paul Drake said. “They really gave him the works, Perry. They didn’t put him in any nice separate cell where he would be treated like a gentleman. They didn’t give him an opportunity for any special treatment. They threw him in the tank with a bunch of drunks. By the time he wallowed around in a lot of filth, after a couple of drunks had vomited all over him, he’d had all the jail he wanted. He sent word to the district attorney that he wanted out, that he’d go on the stand and testify tomorrow.”

Mason said, “They couldn’t do that to a man in only on contempt.”

“They did it,” Paul said, “and it worked. The D. A. fished him out of the tank and he’s in the D. A.’s office now making an affidavit.”

Mason might not have heard the detective. He turned and resumed his pacing of the office floor.

Della Street watched him apprehensively, her eyes following him, sick with concern.

Drake, standing uncomfortably, finally said, “Well, I guess I’m not doing any good here. I’ll get out before someone else brings in some bad news.”

Mason gave no sign that he had heard, nor did he say anything as Drake said lamely, “Well, so long. I’ll see you folks later,” and left the office.

The lawyer continued pacing the floor, back and forth, back and forth, his head bowed slightly in thought, his eyes level-lidded with concentration.Della Street, knowing the lawyer’s moods, sat quietly, watching him with eyes that showed the depths of her concern and sympathy.

Twenty minutes later, Mason finished pacing the floor, moved over to sit down at the office desk. The tips of his fingers drummed silently on the blotter.

“Can you salvage anything out of the situation?” Della Street asked.

“I can go down fighting,” Mason said.

“How serious is it not reporting the finding of the ten thousand dollars?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “There aren’t any precedents for it. I assumed the money belonged to my client — either Gilman or his wife; that it had been intended as a blackmail payment and that they could give me title to it.”

“And as a blackmail payment it wouldn’t have been evidence?”

“It might have been,” Mason said, “but no one told me anything that indicated it was. Nobody would admit it. No one would admit getting that much money out of the bank. The reason for that is now apparent. They didn’t.”

“Then where did the money come from?” Della Street asked. “Why would Vera Martel leave her money there?”

“That,” Mason said, “is what I’m trying to figure out. This is a new angle. The blackmailer comes to pay money to the person who is being blackmailed. Now, figure that one out.”

The telephone rang again. Della Street picked up the receiver, said, “Paul Drake,” and Mason, picking up his own phone, said, “Yes, Paul, what is it this time?”

“I don’t know,” Drake said. “All I know is that we checked on the air travel card of Vera Martel. She took a plane to Redding, California on the fourth. She was gone two days.”

“Got a correspondent in Redding you can trust?” Mason asked.

“I have a good man there. He’s an ex-cop, private operator and—”

“All right, get him,” Mason said. “In a town the size of Redding, Vera Martel would stand out like a sore thumb. She got off the plane. She didn’t have a car. Either someone met her or she went to a hotel or a motel. Find out. Call me back. Tell your man he’s got two hours. We want the information by that time. Della Street and I are going out to dinner. You stay on the job. Get your man up in Redding working and get him working fast.”

Mason hung up the phone and looked thoughtfully at Della Street. “Now, why the devil would Vera Martel go to Redding on the fourth of the month and stay for two days?”

Della Street shook her head. “It’s all part of a puzzle — are you sure the solution lies with Vera Martel?”

“I can’t find a key to it anywhere else,” Mason said. “There’s no place else to turn and...”

“And?” Della Street asked, as the lawyer’s voice trailed off into silence.

“And,” Mason said, “we’re desperate.”

“Feel you can eat?” Della Street asked.

Mason’s grin was slightly forced. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I think I can. It isn’t eating, it’s taking on fuel, because we’re going to be in a dog fight tomorrow. I guess Hamilton Burger’s enjoying his dinner enough tonight for both of us. Let’s go.”

The lawyer and his secretary closed the door of the private office. Della Street slipped her hand into his and squeezed it, by the pressure giving him wordless assurance of her loyalty and sympathy.

The lawyer patted her shoulder, said, “It’s all right, Della, I’ve dished it out and I guess I can take it if I have to.

“It seems so terribly one-sided,” Della Street complained.

“I know,” Mason said. “Usually, when things turn against you they go all the way. Come on, let’s eat.”

They sought out the dim light of their favorite cocktail bar, had a cocktail, then moved into the restaurant and ordered dinner.

Mason ate slowly, methodically, and in silence. Della Street, after the second bite, found that she couldn’t touch the food and pushed her plate away.

There was no conversation. Della Street toyed with a water glass while Mason completed the task of eating.

When Mason had finished, Della Street walked over to the phone booth, called Drake’s office.

Paul Drake’s voice, seeming somewhat puzzled, said, “I’m striking some sort of pay dirt, Della, but I don’t know what it is. Can Perry come to the phone?”

“I’ll get him,” Della Street said.

She returned to Mason’s table and said, “Paul Drake is waiting on the telephone. He’s got something but he can’t evaluate it.”

Mason nodded, pushed back his chair, walked wordlessly to the telephone booth, closed the door, said, “Hello, Paul. What is it?”

“My man in Redding,” Drake said. “He’s a good man. He called in about ten minutes ago with a complete report. I have him waiting at the telephone.”

“All right. What’s the report?” Mason asked.

“Vera Martel arrived on a Pacific Airlines plane. She was met by Maureen Monroe. Maureen was waiting for her at the airport in a classy car and Vera Martel stepped into the car and went out to the Monroe home.”

“All right,” Mason said. “What about Maureen Monroe? Who is she?”

“Apparently she’s quite the upper crust in Redding. Her father owns a few thousand acres of timberland, a couple of sawmills. She’s the town’s most attractive dish.”

“All right. What did Vera do?”

“She went out to the Monroe residence. She was out there for a couple of hours, then Maureen drove her back to the hotel. Vera Martel got a room and took the first southbound plane.”

“Where to?”

“Back to Los Angeles.”

“Then what? Did she call on anyone we know?”

“I haven’t found out what she did there,” Drake said, “but her air travel card shows she took a plane to Las Vegas the next day.”

“Can your man find out anything about what happened up there?”

“No. Maureen Monroe is in San Francisco or Los Angeles. Her father is someplace in Oregon.”

Mason thought for a moment, then said, “Give me the number of the telephone where this guy is waiting in Redding, Paul. What’s his name?”

“Alan Hancock. I told him to wait at a telephone. I can call him and have him call you there at the booth. It may be easier than for you to try and put through a long-distance call.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “I’ll wait here. Tell him to call me at the restaurant.”

Mason returned to the table.

“What was it?” Della Street asked.

Mason told her.

“But, Chief,” Della Street said, “that was... gosh, that was more than a week before the murder. More than that. It couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder.”

“How do we know?” Mason asked.

“Well... we don’t,” Della Street said.

“When you start putting a jigsaw puzzle together,” Mason said, “you have to consider the sequence of events. The sequence may be equally as significant as the events themselves.”

“I don’t understand,” Della Street said. “What sequence...?”

A waiter approached the table and said, “There’s a long-distance call for you, Mr. Mason, from Redding. A gentleman named Hancock says you’re expecting the call. Do you wish to take it?”

Mason nodded. “Bring a telephone,” he said. “I’ll take it here at the table.”

The waiter brought a phone, plugged in the jack and handed the instrument to Mason.

Mason said, “Hello, this is Perry Mason... Yes, I’m expecting the call. Put him on.”

A moment later, a man’s voice said, “Mr. Mason, this is Mr. Drake’s correspondent in Redding, Alan Hancock. He said you wanted to talk with me.”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “What about this Monroe family? What can you tell me about them?”

“Mr. Monroe is the town’s leading citizen.”

“How old?” Mason asked.

“Oh, about fifty-two or fifty-three, I would judge. He’s made a fortune in lumber.”

“His wife?”

“She died a couple of years ago.”

“Now, when Vera Martel came up to Redding,” Mason said, “she had business with Mr. Monroe. Monroe sent his daughter down to pick Vera up— Now, do you have any inkling as to what the business could have been?”

“No, sir, I don’t. I do know that Mr. Monroe must have been expecting this Martel woman. He made the drive down from Dunsmuir, went directly to his house, stayed there until after Miss Martel had departed and then had his daughter take Miss Martel to the hotel. Mr. Monroe left the next morning.”

“What are his initials?” Mason asked.

“G. W.,” Hancock said. “Stands for George Washington.”

“What about the daughter? How old?”

“Right around twenty.”

“Good-looking?”

“Beautiful.”

“Ever been in any trouble?”

“Not that anyone knows about. She’s a wonderful girl. She’s engaged to be married.”

“Oh-oh,” Mason said. “When’s the wedding?”

“Next month.”

“What’s the man’s name?”

“Harvey C. Kimberly.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Nothing. He’s in New York, I believe. He’s from Phoenix, Arizona. His family is very wealthy. There’s quite a background of yachts and all that. But I guess the young fellow is all right. He’s a bit older than she is — twenty-five, I believe.”

Mason said, “All right. Dig up everything you can find in the line of newspaper publicity. There must have been quite a bit of it.”

“Heavens yes, there was lots of publicity.”

“Photographs of the prospective bride and groom and the family?”

“That’s right.”

“You can put your hand on pictures of G. W. Monroe?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not very long.”

“When can you get a plane out of there?”

“Well, let’s see. Tomorrow morning...”

“Forget it,” Mason said. “Round up all of the pictures you can get. Get all of the newspaper stories. Find out everything you can, and then charter a plane about two or three o’clock in the morning that will get you down to Sacramento so you can pick up the first airliner from Sacramento in here. If you can’t pick up a regular airliner, charter planes to get here. I want you to meet me here in court at ten o’clock in the morning. Drake will give you detailed instructions. Don’t leave Redding until the last minute. Put in all the time you can scouting around up there and getting every bit of information and gossip you can pick up. I’ll be seeing you at ten o’clock.”

The lawyer hung up the telephone, turned to regard Della Street with thoughtful but unseeing eyes.

After a moment, she shifted her position and said, “Well?”

Suddenly Mason grinned. “Get Paul Drake on the phone,” he said. “There’s a rich young man, Harvey C. Kimberly, from Phoenix, Arizona; a background of wealth, yachts, polo ponies and what-not, but with it all he’s supposed to be a good Joe who is probably trying to fit himself to carry on in the footsteps of an illustrious father and manage a family business which probably runs into the millions.

“Tell Paul I want everything we can get on Harvey C. Kimberly and I want it by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I want—”

Suddenly Mason ceased speaking. His eyes again showed the extent of his concentration. After a few moments, Della Street asked, “Anything else?”

Mason shook his head and said, “I’m toying with an idea, Della. It’s the damnedest idea anyone ever had, but it accounts for the ten thousand dollars.”