The Case of the Duplicate Daughter

Chapter Two

Perry Mason, walking over to his office desk, grinned at Della Street, eyed the pile of mail on his desk with distaste, said, “Who is that you are promising to call back, Della?”

“A Muriell Gilman. Her father is Carter Gilman. I wanted to check the card index of clients, but I don’t think we have anything on him.”

Mason frowned a moment thoughtfully, then said, “There was a Gilman on one of my juries not too long ago. I’ve forgotten the first name. What’s it all about, Della?”

“His daughter thinks he’s disappeared.”

“Gilman... Gilman... Carter Gilman. That name sounds familiar. Look him up in the jury cards, Della. I think he was one of the jurors in that case where it turned out there had been a mistaken identification.”

Della Street moved over to the card index. Her nimble fingers ran through the cards of Mason’s confidential file of jurors and said, “Yes, here he is. Carter Gilman. He was a juror on that Jones case. You have him marked as exceptional. It’s the same address, 6231 Vauxman Avenue. Now wait a minute. Vauxman Avenue — that rings a bell.”

Della Street turned from the file, opened the appointment book, said, “A man who gave his name as Edward Carter telephoned yesterday and asked for an appointment sometime today. I gave him an eleven-thirty appointment. I asked him for the address and he said he was visiting here in the city with friends on Vauxman Avenue. Let me look up the number.

Yes, here it is, 6231 — the same address.”

“And this man gave the name of Edward Carter?”

She nodded.

“And Muriell says her father’s name is Carter Gilman?”

“That’s right.”

“Did this Edward Carter say what he wanted to see me about?”

“Said it would be a consultation on a very confidential, personal matter and he’d like to have at least half an hour.”

“And he has the appointment?”

“That’s right, at eleven thirty. I gave him the appointment. You’ll find it on your appointment card.”

“And what about the daughter?”

“I told her I’d call her back. She seemed terribly upset. I don’t suppose there’s anything anyone can tell her.”

“Get her on the phone,” Mason said. “I’ll talk with her.”

Della Street dialed the number, said, “Miss Muriel Gilman, please. Just a moment, Miss Gilman. Mr. Mason will talk with you personally.”

Mason picked up the phone, said, “Mr. Mason, Miss Gilman. Now what was it about your father?”

“I feel terribly silly,” Muriel said, “but my father was eating breakfast. I stepped out in the kitchen to refill his plate. I’d cooked fried eggs and homemade venison sausage. He’d asked for a second helping. He sometimes eats a very hearty breakfast and then seldom eats any lunch. When I came back with the sausage and egg he was gone.”

“Nowhere in the house?” Mason asked.

“I couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“How many eggs had he eaten?” Mason asked.

“Two, and two big slabs of sausage.”

“Let me ask you,” Mason said, “whether Carter is his first name.”

“Why, yes.”

“What’s his middle name?”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “Well, actually, Carter is the middle name. His first name is Edward, but he prefers the middle name, so he just signs everything Carter Gilman.”

“I see,” Mason said thoughtfully. “Now, can you tell me just what happened, please?”

“I don’t like to say over the telephone,” Muriell said, “but... Well, when I couldn’t find him anywhere in the house I was very much alarmed. Then, after a while, I partially regained my composure and started cleaning up the dishes. Then I couldn’t find his napkin. Wherever he’d gone he’d taken his napkin with him and so I went out to the workshop.”

“What’s the workshop?” Mason asked.

Muriell laughed nervously. “It’s hard for me to explain, Mr. Mason. I’m so upset and I know it’s hard for you to get a picture over the telephone, but his workshop is where he works at his hobby. He does woodworking and sometimes some modeling in clay. I’m out there now. A chair has been smashed and there’s money all over the floor and a pool of... of blood.”

“All right,” Mason said, “you sit tight. I’m coming right out. I’ll be there just as quick as I can make it— Have you said anything to anyone?”

“No.”

“Don’t say anything,” Mason said. “Don’t touch anything. Stay right there.”

“Daddy’s napkin is here on the floor,” she said, “and—”

“You sit tight,” Mason said, “I’ll be right out. Don’t touch anything. Now this workshop you mention is in a garage building in back of the house?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a driveway into the garage, of course. Is there a vacant stall in the garage where I can leave my car?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be driving my car,” Mason said. “I’ll drive into the garage. You wait for me.”

Mason glanced at Della Street. “You sit on the lid here, Della. I’m going out.”

“What about this eleven-thirty appointment?”

“I’ll be back for it,” Mason said, “but I doubt very much if we’re going to see Edward Carter.”

Mason grabbed his hat, hurried down the corridor, took the elevator to the foyer, walked to the parking lot, jumped into his car and drove out into the congested morning traffic.

It took him twenty-five minutes to reach the address on Vauxman Avenue.

The lawyer turned into the driveway, noticed the big mansion which somehow seemed austerely silent. He drove into the garage and parked the car.

A door opened. A young woman twenty years old with brown hair, warm agate-colored eyes, and a good figure which radiated long-legged grace, stood in the doorway. She tried a wan smile.

“Mr. Mason?” she asked as the lawyer got out of his car.

Mason nodded. “You’re Muriell Gilman?”

“Yes.”

“Is this the workshop?”

“No, this is Nancy’s darkroom — my stepmother’s darkroom.”

“And the sports car?” Mason asked, indicating a car in the middle section of the garage.

“That’s mostly for Glamis and me, but sometimes Nancy uses it. The other car, the club coupe, is a family car.”

“Are the rest of the family up?” Mason asked.

“Not a sound out of them,” Muriell said. “They usually sleep until noon.”

“Let’s take a look,” Mason said.

“If you’ll follow me, please,” Muriell said. “I’d better lead the way.”

She moved back into the darkroom. Mason, following her, noticed the shadowy outlines of photographic enlarging cameras, of a developing sink, of a printing box and filing cabinets.

“If you’ll just stand by that door and hold it open until I open the other door,” she said, “we won’t need to turn on the lights.”

Mason stood by the door waiting.

Muriell crossed to the other door, opened it, and said, “This is Daddy’s workshop.”

Mason looked inside, then took Muriell by the shoulders and gently moved her back beside him so that they stood in the darkroom looking at the interior of the workshop.

There were lathes, saws, sanders and other woodworking machinery. Strung along rafters over the room were bits of rare wood carefully arranged so that all surfaces were exposed to the air. There were other slabs of wood on the workbench. The place was redolent with the odor of cedar, of sandalwood and the aroma of finely powdered sawdust.

The red stain formed a glaring oasis among the hundred-dollar bills carpeting the floor.

“This is the napkin your father was using?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” Mason asked.

“Well... a napkin was missing, and this is one of our napkins.”

Mason bent and picked up the piece of linen, said, “There are some egg stains here.”

“I’m sure it’s Daddy’s, Mr. Mason. He had eggs and homemade venison sausage for breakfast.”

“How many eggs?”

“Two.”

“How many pieces of sausage?”

“There were two big slabs of sausage.”

“It was put up in the style of a country sausage?”

“That’s right, then frozen and thawed out for cooking.”

“What else did your father have?”

“Cereal, toast and coffee.”

“Any juice?”

“Yes, orange juice.”

Mason inspected the napkin carefully, then thought-fully folded it and slipped it in the side pocket of his coat.

“Then your father said he was still hungry?”

“He asked me if I’d mind cooking him another egg and another piece of sausage.”

“That took a few minutes?”

“Quite a few minutes because the sausage was still so frozen I had to cut it in the center with a meat saw.”

“I see,” Mason said. He moved across the cement floor to study the sinister red spot. While he was making his investigation, Muriell kept talking, telling him about her father, the events of the morning.

The lawyer listened to her carefully, then bent over the red spot. He looked puzzled for a moment, then gently touched his finger to the thick liquid. He rubbed thumb and finger together, smelled and said, “That’s not blood. That’s some kind of red enamel.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Muriell said. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Mason said, looking around, “and there’s the can of enamel there on the shelf.”

Muriell started over toward the can. “Just a minute,” Mason warned. “Let’s not leave any fingerprints on that can, if you don’t mind, Muriell. That can has been upset and then it’s been picked up again... You don’t have any idea when it was upset?”

She shook her head.

“Or, of course, when the chair was broken?”

“No, but there must have been a struggle and—”

“A struggle, surely,” Mason interrupted, “but we don’t know when that struggle took place, Miss Gilman; and we mustn’t jump at conclusions. It could be that your father entered the room and saw the can of paint lying on its side, and the broken chair, and decided to pick up the can of paint. You see, it’s a can of enamel with a small slip-on cap. The cap was loose. In all probability not all of the enamel drained out. However, I don’t want to touch the can to find out. Let’s be rather careful not to leave any fingerprints.”

“There must be some of my fingerprints here,” Muriell said. “I’m out here all the time. I come out to watch Daddy work.”

“I see,” Mason said. “However, I think it’s better if we don’t leave any fresh fingerprints. They might be superimposed on some other fingerprints. Let’s pick up this money and count it. Tell me details while we’re working.”

Together they picked up the hundred-dollar bills and Mason put them together in a sheaf. Then he turned to Muriell, “How many did you pick up?”

“Forty-eight.”

“Then,” Mason said, “there are exactly a hundred of these bills, making an even ten thousand dollars. Do you know anything about that or have any idea where the money could have come from?”

She shook her head.

“How about some rubber bands?” Mason said.

“There are some in Nancy’s darkroom. I know where she keeps them.”

“All right, let’s get some rubber bands.”

Muriell clicked on a light switch.

“Tut, tut!” Mason said, “I told you to be careful about touching things.”

“Oh, I forgot— How am I going to get the rubber bands without leaving fingerprints?”

“Use a handkerchief or the hem of your skirt,” Mason said.

She raised her skirt to take the hem in her hand and opened a drawer. The inside of the drawer was divided into partitions and each partition held rubber bands of a different size.

Mason used the tip of his fountain pen to lift out two rubber bands, then nodded to Muriell to close the drawer.

The lawyer slipped the rubber bands over the ends of the stack of currency.

“Your stepmother is quite a neat housekeeper,” he said. “This place is quite the opposite of the confusion in your father’s workshop.”

“I know. Nancy is a fiend for order as far as the darkroom is concerned. I don’t think she’s quite so particular about housekeeping, but in her darkroom everything has to be perfectly spick-and-span and in apple-pie order.”

“Your father is somewhat different?” Mason said.

She laughed. “If you refer to Daddy’s workshop as being in apple-pie order, it would have to be an open-faced apple pie made with scrambled apples.”

“I see,” Mason said. “Now, do you have a picture of your father that you can get?”

“Why, yes, there’s a framed portrait in my room but—”

“It might not be advisable for you to go to the house right at the moment,” Mason said. “Are there any here in the darkroom?”

“Oh, yes, I guess there must be. Nancy has dozens of pictures. She likes to do portrait work. She has a technique by which she makes a very light image of the portrait on paper, then uses paints to build up and color the photograph until it looks like a regular oil painting. Unless you studied it closely you wouldn’t realize that it had a photographic base.”

“Then there should be some photographs of your father here,” Mason said. “Let’s see if we can find one without touching anything.”

They moved around the darkroom. At length Muriell said, “I think there are some in this drawer.”

She bent down to clutch the edge of her skirt between thumb and forefinger before opening the drawer.

“Yes,” she said, “here are several.”

“We’ll just take this top one,” Mason said, taking an eight-by-ten enlargement from the top of the drawer. “Now, that’s your father?”

“Yes, that’s Daddy. The lighting is a little flat and the image is printed rather light on the paper because that’s the way Nancy likes to work, but that’s Daddy, all right.”

Mason studied the rounded face with some interest.

“How old is he?”

“Well, let’s see, Daddy’s forty-two or maybe it’s forty-three.”

“And your stepmother?”

“Heavens knows,” she said, laughing. “She’s in the late thirties but she’ll never tell you her age and we never ask.”

“How old is Nancy’s daughter, Glamis?”

“She’s just twenty.”

“And you?”

“I’m just the same age... Mr. Mason, what are we going to do about Daddy? He must have taken the sedan. Should we trace it?”

Mason said, “I’ll call you back a little after noon. I’ll try and find out something. Your father has an office here in the city?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Where?”

“In the Piedmont Building.”

“What does he do?”

“He has an investment business, buying and selling properties, both for himself and for a list of clients who form investment pools.”

“He’s in the business by himself?”

“Well, I guess Daddy owns the business but there is an associate in with him.”

“And have you telephoned the office to see if your father is there?”

“I telephoned about... well, shortly before I called you, and they said he was expected in at any time. I left word for him to call me when he came in. I wanted to tell him about his brief case.”

Mason said, “Well, I’ll try and get a line on things and let you know a little after noon. In the meantime, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. You’d better take custody of this ten thousand dollars.”

She seemed in a sudden panic. “Oh, no, Mr. Mason. I don’t want to touch it. I don’t know where that money came from. I don’t know what this is all about and... well, now that I know that red pool is just red enamel on the cement I feel terribly sheepish about this whole business. I guess I acted like a fool, dragging you all the way out here.

“But I do want you to know, Mr. Mason, that I’ll pay your bill, whatever it is. I have an individual checking account and... I guess I just went into a panic when I saw the money and the smashed chair and Daddy’s napkin and the red pool in the middle of the floor.”

“I can understand how you felt,” Mason said. “I think everything’s going to be all right. Just don’t say anything about my having been here, and I’ll just drive back to the office. Now remember, you’re not to say a thing about the fact I was here — not to anyone. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“At least not until after I’ve telephoned you,” Mason said, “and I’ll call you shortly after noon. You’ll be here?”

“I most certainly will.”

“All right,” Mason told her, “I’ll call you.”

Back in his office, Mason reported to Della Street. “Put this sheaf of currency in the safe, Della. Here’s an eight-by-ten enlargement of Mr. Carter Gilman and, for your information, the sinister red spot on the floor turned out to be the contents of a can of red enamel which had been turned over.

“Carter Gilman had evidently taken the sedan to work. Usually he walks four blocks to a bus stop. This morning he got up, left the house without a word, and took the sedan, unless he...”

“Unless he what?” she demanded.

“Looked in his workshop, found an intruder, had a fight, spilled ten thousand dollars in currency on the floor and then was taken for a ride while he was unconscious.

“And in that event, whoever returns to look for the ten grand will perhaps have a little difficulty finding it.”

“Perhaps not too great difficulty,” Della Street said. “You may wind up as the target for an enterprising gunman.”

“We’ll have to take a chance on that,” Mason said. “We have approximately half an hour before that appointment.”

Della Street eyed Mason’s desk. “You’ll only have time to skim through the important letters on top of the pile.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Then at eleven-thirty we’ll take a good look at Mr. Edward Carter Gilman and find out just why he should have made an appointment under an assumed name.”

“Since he was reading the paper,” Della Street said, “do you want me to take a look on the financial page and see if I can get a clue?”

“It probably would be time wasted,” Mason told her. “We don’t know what his particular investments are and it wouldn’t do any good just to make a blind stab. After all,” he said, laughing, “a man gets up from breakfast and leaves in a hurry for his office. People do that every day. Hundreds of people, millions of people. We live at a rapid tempo.”

“I know,” Della Street rejoined, “but somehow the picture of that fried egg and the special homemade venison sausage on the plate...”

“Della,” he said, “you’re hungry. What did you have for breakfast?”

“Dry toast and coffee,” she said. “I got on the scales yesterday and—”

“That’s it,” Perry Mason said. “You’re hungry. Let’s tackle this mail and forget Edward Carter Gilman until eleven-thirty.”