The Case of the Duplicate Daughter

Chapter Three

As Perry Mason more or less surreptitiously looked at his watch for the fifth time within ten minutes, Della Street smiled and said, “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. You’re all worked up about that appointment, wondering if he’s going to show up or not.”

“It is now four and a half minutes past eleven thirty, Della.”

“At the sound of the chime,” Della Street said.

Mason threw back his head and laughed. “All right, let’s face it. I’m intrigued by this whole business.”

“A father leaving the breakfast table without saying good-by to his daughter?” Della Street asked.

Mason shook his head. “A father eating two eggs and a couple of slabs of homemade venison sausage, then asking his daughter to go back to the kitchen and cook one more egg and another slab of sausage.”

“Sounds like a working man,” Della Street said.

Mason nodded.

“So then he takes ten thousand dollars and throws it all over the floor of his workshop,” Della Street said.

“And drops his napkin, upsets a can of red paint and, having instructed his daughter not to call the police under any circumstances, leaves my name and telephone number for his daughter to find.”

Della Street digested that information. “It sounds almost as if he might have planned to murder someone,” she said.

“Now, as far as the food is concerned,” Mason went on, “there is only one logical explanation. He had to get rid of her for a few moments. That was the only way he could think of to do it.”

Della Street slowly nodded her head.

“In this day,” Mason said, “with people conscious of diet and calories, that’s quite a breakfast for anybody. But when you consider a man old enough to be the father of a grown girl eating a breakfast like that and then asking to have another egg and another slab of sausage — and not being there when the food comes to the table — the only logical explanation is that he wanted his daughter out of the way.”

“Why?”

“Heaven knows. It may have been because of something he read in the paper. It may be because of something he saw out of the window.”

“Now that’s a thought!” Della Street said. “He...”

The phone on Della Street’s desk rang.

Della picked up the receiver, said to the receptionist, “Yes, Gertie,” then turned to Mason and smiled. “Mr. Edward Carter is here for his appointment.”

“Have him come right in,” Mason said.

“I’ll bring him,” Della Street said, hanging up the telephone and moving with supple grace to the door which led to the outer offices.

Mason watched her approvingly as she walked through the door, then got to his feet as Della ushered in a somewhat chubby man who looked as though he were somewhere in his forties.

“Mr. Mason,” he said, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Edward Carter,” Della Street introduced.

There could be no question that this man was the man who had posed for the eight-by-ten photograph Muriell Gilman had given Perry Mason earlier in the day.

“Sometimes it’s rather difficult to estimate traffic problems,” Mason said. “I usually try to get to my appointments about five or ten minutes early and that leaves me a cushion in case of a traffic jam.”

“Is that a subtle rebuke?” the man asked.

Mason smiled and shook his head. “Just a comment concerning my own personal habits. I seldom have time to be subtle. You wanted to consult me professionally, Mr. Carter?”

“Yes.”

“Of course,” Mason said, “I’m not certain I’m at liberty to accept you as a client. An attorney always has to be careful to screen his potential clients so as to make certain he doesn’t get conflicting interests. So perhaps before you tell me the particulars you had better tell me generally what it’s all about. Now, my secretary has your address as 6231 Vauxman Avenue— Is that right?”

“That’s right. That’s where I’m staying at the moment.”

“Your business address?”

The man hesitated a moment, then shook his head and said, “I don’t have any. I’ve sort of — sort of retired.”

“All right,” Mason said, “what is it generally that you want to see me about?”

“I am acting on behalf of a friend,” the man said.

“Go on.”

“This is a very dear friend, a woman who happens to be married to a man who is also a friend of mine.”

“Her name?”

“Gilman. Nancy Gilman. I am visiting her and her husband at the moment. They are the ones who reside at 6231 Vauxman Avenue.”

“I see,” Mason said, his face expressionless. “Go on. What about Mrs. Gilman?”

“Mrs. Gilman is being blackmailed.”

“You’re certain?”

“Quite certain.”

“And, as a friend, you want me to do something about it?”

“Let’s take it one step at a time, Mr. Mason. One can’t do very much with blackmail until he knows exactly what it is the person is being blackmailed about.”

“And you have an idea?” Mason asked.

“Frankly, no. That’s one of the things I want to find out.”

“What else?”

“That’s all for the present. After we find out what’s in her past we’ll probably know the hold that the blackmailer has over her.”

“Do you, by any chance, know the blackmailer?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it?” Mason asked, his voice showing his keen interest.

The man hesitated a moment, then said, “After all, I guess I have to be fair with you, Mr. Mason, and put my cards on the table. The blackmailer is a private detective named Vera Martel. Her middle initial is M. Her business cards and stationery simply state the name as ‘V.M. Martel, Investigator.’ There is nothing on her stationery or on her business cards to indicate that she’s a woman. She has offices both here and in Las Vegas, Nevada. She seems to specialize in divorce business.

“That is to say, most of the clients who consult her are interested in divorce cases, one way or another.”

“Just what do you want me to do?” Mason asked.

The man took an envelope from his coat pocket, said, “I prefer to handle things of this nature on a strictly cash basis, Mr. Mason. I have here seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

He reached a well-manicured hand into the envelope, took out a five-hundred-dollar bill, two one-hundred-dollar bills and a fifty-dollar bill. “You’ll want some money for expenses. You’ll need a private detective agency and also a retainer,” the man said.

Mason didn’t move to pick up the money. “You’ll be staying here in the city for some time?”

“Long enough for this matter to terminate, I hope.”

“And if I want to reach you I can simply call the Gilman residence?”

“Heavens! Don’t call me there!”

“How can I get in touch with you, then?”

“I... I’d better call you. I certainly wouldn’t like to have the folks I’m visiting think that I... well, even as an intimate friend of the family... I don’t want to seem to be interfering in their affairs.”

“I see. You expect to be visiting there for some time?”

“Yes. However, don’t try to get in touch with me there. I’ll call you.”

Mason studied the man, looked at the slightly chunky figure, the bushy eyebrows, the patient, thoughtful brown eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses, the long wisp of hair which was coiled around the bald spot on the top of the man’s head.

“You’re there during the day?” Mason asked.

The man became impatient. “I tell you, Mr. Mason, I’ll get in touch with you. Please don’t try to get in touch with me.”

“I’m just trying to find out something about the arrangement there,” Mason said, “before I can tell whether or not I’m going to take the case.”

“I see. Well, I can explain it very simply, Mr. Mason. I’m an old friend, a very old friend, of Mr. Gilman. Mr. Gilman was married rather happily. He has one daughter, Muriell. She is twenty years of age. She’s living there in the house.

“Mr. Gilman’s first wife was killed in an automobile accident and he married again. Nancy, his present wife, had a daughter by a prior marriage. Her name is Glamis — Glamis Barlow. She’s the same age as Gilman’s daughter — twenty. They’re a delightful family.

“I am very fond of the entire family. The two daughters are exemplary. They are as different in tastes and background as can be, but in loyalty and affection they are as alike as two yolks in an egg.

“One is rather demure but smart as chain lightning; that’s Muriell Gilman. The other is verbally daring, quick at repartee, but intensely devoted to her friends and exceedingly loyal. That’s Glamis Barlow.

“I certainly wouldn’t want anything to happen that would blight their lives. They are, to use a trite expression, on the threshold of happiness.”

“You’re very fond of these girls?”

“I love them. They are devoted daughters, estimable young women. Despite differences of complexion and mannerisms they are duplicate and intensely devoted daughters.”

“But it is Mrs. Gilman who is being blackmailed?”

“I believe so, but it could very well have something to do with either one or the other daughter.”

“What does Mr. Gilman do?” Mason asked.

“Investments. He buys property, develops it, sells it — has rather a shrewd eye for real estate. He also manages investment pools.”

“You’ve known him for a long time?”

“A very long time.”

“And what about his present wife?”

“She’s an artist — that is, she has artistic tendencies. She likes to paint and she’s very much interested in photography. Right at the moment she’s experimenting with portrait work. She takes photographic portraits and prints them very lightly on enlarging paper. Then she colors the portrait. The photograph is little more than an outline and by the time she gets done she has a very interesting oil painting.”

“She does this commercially?”

“Heavens no. It’s just a fad. She’s... well, I think she’s rather well fixed.”

“They set a good table?” Mason asked casually.

“Very good — although I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

“They sound like a family that appreciates the good things of life.”

“They do.”

“I like to eat, myself,” Mason said, “but I’ve reached a point where I have to watch my calories — not enough outdoor exercise.”

“I know,” his visitor said. “People are supposed to keep from putting on too much weight. I’m supposed to watch mine, too.”

“I like a good breakfast,” Mason said.

“So do I.”

“Quite frequently I pass up lunch.”

“I do, too.”

“But you do have trouble with your weight?” Mason asked.

“Oh, yes. I have to watch myself.”

“What’s a typical breakfast?” Mason asked.

“Oh, toast and soft-boiled eggs, perhaps, sometimes a fried egg. What’s the reason for this, Mr. Mason?”

“Just trying to get the picture,” Mason said breezily. “What’s Gilman’s first name, by the way?”

“Carter.”

“Oh,” Mason said, “the same as your last name. You’re not any relation, are you?”

“No.”

“Can you describe Mr. Gilman?”

“Why, he’s... he’s about my age. He’s... well, when you come right down to it, it’s rather hard to give a physical description of a person — a friend... let’s see... but you mustn’t ever try to reach him.”

Mason’s visitor leaned back and closed his eyes. “I’m trying to visualize him,” he said.

“Oh, well, never mind,” Mason said. “I think I have the picture pretty well. I was just trying to make sure that you weren’t being officious and butting into something that would cause hard feelings. But I guess it’s all right. By the way, does Mr. Gilman know that you’re calling on me?”

“No. He has no idea. I’m doing this on my own.”

“And you want me to check into Mrs. Gilman’s past and find out what it is that would lay her open to black mail?”

The man nodded.

“That’s rather a difficult and an expensive way of going at it,” Mason said. “Wouldn’t it be a little better to try and check on this Martel woman and see if we couldn’t find out what she’s working on?”

Carter’s shake of the head was emphatic. “I want you to start working on Nancy Gilman,” he said. “Go back to the Year One. Find out everything you can about her.”

“Well, what do we have to start on?” Mason asked. “Where was she born, how old is she?”

“She’s thirty-nine. She was born in Los Angeles. I don’t know too much about her marriage to Steve Barlow. I gathered that it was just an average marriage. She was young at the time and—”

“He died?” Mason asked.

“No, they were divorced.”

“Where were they married?”

“In San Francisco. Barlow worked in San Francisco. He was in the insurance business, I believe.”

“Has he remarried, do you know?”

“I don’t know. I rather think he has.”

“Where does he live? Do you know?”

“Las Vegas, Nevada.”

“Do you have the address?”

“No. As a friend of the family, I’d hardly have that.”

“Does this daughter ever visit him, or does he ever visit her?”

“I believe Glamis does see something of him. I think she visits him in Las Vegas. However, Mr. Mason, I can tell you very positively all this has nothing to do with what I want to find out. I want to know about Nancy’s past, what there is in it which could possibly cause her to pay blackmail.”

“There might be many things,” Mason said drily.

The man shook his head. “You don’t know Nancy. If someone raked up a purple chapter out of her past, Nancy would simply laugh it off. She’d admit it and even furnish more details — and she’d get away with it. She’s that type: vital, magnetic, unconventional.

“But this thing, whatever it is, has her worried sick. I can’t imagine what it could be unless it’s a — well, a murder.”

“You think it might be that?” Mason asked.

“I can’t think of anything else that would cause her such concern as this has.”

Mason said, “Well, I’ll see what I can find out. I will, of course, have to use a detective agency — you suggested that.”

His visitor nodded. “You have a good private detective, Mr. Mason, one you use and can trust?”

“I do. The Drake Detective Agency here in the building, with offices on the same floor. I’ll call in Paul Drake and start him working.”

The man looked at his watch. “I’ve taken up more than the time you allotted, Mr. Mason. I am sorry. I’ll be on my way.”

He got to his feet.

“You wouldn’t care to meet Paul Drake?” Mason asked. “He might have some questions.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Mason. Some other time, perhaps, but all Mr. Drake needs to do is to check into the past of Nancy Gilman, find out everything he can about her and, if possible, find out why she should be afraid of a blackmailer.”

“You’re satisfied she’s being blackmailed?”

“I’m virtually positive.”

“Does her husband know?”

“Heavens, no.”

“Can you tell me something about the house they live in?”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that important?”

“Just a general description of the place,” Mason said.

“Well, it’s a big, rather old-fashioned, three-story house. It has a large attic, I understand, although I haven’t been up there.”

“A basement?”

“Oh, yes. One that’s used for a furnace and air-conditioning unit. Mr. Gilman has a workshop at the back of the house where he does woodwork for a hobby. He has some lathes and saws and likes to make little jewel cases for his friends, and then there’s a darkroom adjoining this workshop where Nancy does her developing and enlarging.”

“Rather a large building in back?”

“Yes. It was made for a three-car garage and living quarters for a chauffeur.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Mason said. “We’ll get at it. You don’t want me to try to get in touch with you no matter what happens, is that right?”

“It might prove embarrassing. I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. Mason.”

“So far, Mr. Carter,” Mason said, “you haven’t presented any problem that calls for the services of an attorney. You have only asked for information which could be gathered by a private detective. I think it would be much better for you to go to Mr. Paul Drake and retain him as a detective. There’s no use retaining an attorney simply to get information which, in the long run, will have to be supplied by a private detective anyway.”

“No, no,” the man said hastily, “you don’t understand me. I want you as an attorney.”

“Just what do you want me to do as an attorney?”

“I want you to represent... well, I want you to represent the family.”

“The family?”

“Yes. All of the family.”

“Who, in particular?”

“Nancy Gilman, Carter Gilman, Muriell Gilman and Glamis Barlow.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose they should have conflicting interests?”

“They won’t have.”

“But suppose they should have?”

“Then you are at liberty to withdraw from the case and keep the retainer I have given you.”

“Suppose some member of the family should have interests that conflict with yours?”

“They won’t.”

Mason said abruptly, “Mr. Gilman has this workshop back of the house adjoining the darkroom, a shop where he does woodworking?”

“That’s right. He also does clay modeling.”

“And you’re visiting there?”

“Yes.”

“Do you own any part of the material in that workshop?”

“No, of course not. I own nothing there. I am simply a visitor, a friend of the family.”

“And as a friend you want to retain me to represent the family?”

“In case anyone in the family needs representation, but primarily I want you to find out what it is in Nancy Gilman’s past that would lay her open to blackmail.”

Mason said, “That’s a very unusual request and I’ll give you a very unusual answer, Mr. Carter.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to pay me the retainer of seven hundred and fifty dollars. In addition to that, I want you to assign to me all your right, title and interest, whatever it may be, to any of the contents of the workshop in the garage building as those contents exist at the present time or existed any time during the day.”

“But that’s absurd, Mr. Mason. I’ve told you I don’t own anything in that workshop.”

“Nevertheless,” Mason said, “that is the only condition on which I can undertake to represent you in the matter.”

“Will you kindly tell me why in the name of reason you have put such a price on your services?”

“If you don’t own anything there,” Mason said, “it isn’t a price. I am simply asking you to sign over all of your right, title and interest to anything that is in there. If you don’t have any right, any title or any interest, you aren’t signing over anything.”

“Are you trying to trap me or trick me, Mr. Mason?”

“Certainly not,” Mason said. “I am trying to protect myself.”

“Can you tell me one good reason why I should do that?”

“Can you tell me one good reason why you shouldn’t?” Mason asked.

“Look here, Mr. Mason, I simply must have your services. I want to have the assurance that, no matter what happens, you will protect that family, each and every member of that family. If you find their interests come in conflict you may withdraw... but I want you to be certain that there is a real conflict, not just an apparent conflict. I want you to do everything you can for every member of that family because I think perhaps they are going to go through some critical times.”

Mason said, “I understand. I want a seven-hundred-and-fifty-dollar retainer and I want you to assign to me all of your right, title and interest in and to all of the contents of the workshop.”

“Very well,” the man said angrily, “prepare your assignment. I’ll sign it. You leave me no choice in the matter.”

Mason nodded to Della Street, said, “Take a bill of sale, Della, and make it out for Mr. Carter to sign.”

Della Street took one of the forms, vanished from the office, returned in a few moments and handed the form to Mason’s visitor.

The man signed “Edward Carter” in a bold vertical handwriting.

“Sign as a witness, Della,” Mason said.

Della Street signed as a witness.

“Now, I’m not to get in touch with you,” Mason said. “You’re going to get in touch with me?”

“That’s right.”

“And, by the same sign, if anything happens that requires me to represent any of the family, shall I get in touch with them?”

“Wait for them to get in touch with you,” the man said. “They will if the situation requires.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Carter,” Mason said, shaking hands. “Della Street will give you a receipt for the seven hundred and fifty dollars, which, plus the assignment, will act as a retainer.”

“I still don’t see the reason for that bill of sale,” the man protested.

Mason’s smile was enigmatic. “I still don’t see the reason for your visit.”

“All right,” the man said. “I’ll ride along with you. I know your reputation, Mr. Mason; in fact, I’ve looked it up rather carefully.”

“Thank you,” Mason said.

The man left the office after accepting the receipt Della Street handed him.

“Well?” Mason asked as the door closed.

Della Street shook her head. “How I’d like to know what he’s holding back!”

“He’s evidently holding back quite a lot,” Mason said. “He’s hardly the type who should have three eggs and three pieces of homemade venison sausage for breakfast.”

“To say nothing of cereal, toast and several cups of coffee,” Della Street pointed out. “Do you want Paul Drake?” she asked.

Mason nodded.

Della Street rang Drake’s phone and relayed the request from Mason.

“May I ask why the bill of sale to the contents of the workshop?” Della Street asked.

Mason grinned. “If that ten thousand dollars lying on the floor of the workshop was money he’d collected to pay blackmail, I now have a legitimate excuse to hold it and can’t be held for suppressing evidence.”

While Della Street was digesting this information, Paul Drake gave his code knock at the side door of the office.

Della Street let him in.

“Another job for you,” Mason said.

“Good,” Drake said. “I had a bad day at the races. I need a job.”

“Don’t get too hungry on this one,” Mason warned.

“What is it?”

“Nancy Gilman, 6231 Vauxman Avenue. You are to check into her past. She was born in Los Angeles, married a Steve Barlow in San Francisco, has a child named Glamis, rather a young woman by this time — twenty years old. Nancy divorced Steve Barlow, or he divorced her, and she’s now married to Carter Gilman, who is, I believe, a free-lance speculator and makes his living out of investments. Steve Barlow lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. Glamis may visit him from time to time. There’s another daughter, Muriell Gilman.

“Nancy is being blackmailed by a private detective named Vera M. Martel, who describes herself on her cards as V. M. Martel and—”

“Vera, eh?” Drake interrupted.

“You know her?” Mason asked.

“Like a book,” Drake said.

“What about her?”

“She’s around fifty, weighs about one hundred pounds soaking wet, has a long, thin mouth that seems to stretch from ear to ear, a prominent nose and narrow, close-set gimlet eyes. She talks like a house afire, she’s smart as they come, and she’s hell on wheels.”

“Would she stoop to blackmail?”

“She’d blackmail,” Drake said. “It wouldn’t be stooping, it would be on her normal level. You might even say it would be reaching up.”

“How does she keep her license?”

“Blackmail,” Drake said.

“You didn’t understand me. I asked how she kept her license.”

“You didn’t understand me,” Drake said. “She keeps it by blackmail.”

“How come?”

“No one prefers charges against her. Whenever she fleeces anyone she does it so cleverly, so shrewdly and so thoroughly that they wouldn’t think of preferring charges. She looks around carefully before she gets ready to sink her fangs into a victim. She’s like a spider sitting back patiently waiting in a corner of his web. He’s,capable of going for long periods of time without food, then when something gets tangled in his web he comes down, strikes swiftly and drains the victim dry. Vera is the same way.”

“You’re getting positively poetic, Paul,” Mason said. “Nancy Gilman may be a victim and I’ve been retained to see that she gets out of the spider’s web.”

Drake gave a low whistle. “That’s going to be a job,” he said. “When you deal with Vera Martel you’re dealing with dynamite. She’s diabolic-ally clever. She won’t walk into any of your regular traps and if she’s got something on Nancy Gilman you can gamble that she’s got Nancy all tied up so that Nancy wouldn’t dare to give us the slightest co-operation. How did it happen Nancy got nerve enough to come to you?”

“She didn’t,” Mason said. “It’s a long story.”

“Well?” Drake asked, lighting a cigarette. “Are you going to tell it?”

“No,” Mason said. “Get out, and get busy on Nancy Gilman. Find out everything you can about her past and don’t stick me for too big a bill because the traffic may not stand it.”

Drake heaved himself out of the big chair. “On my way,” he said, “but keep your eyes out for Vera, Perry, and let’s hope she doesn’t get her hooks in you. If she finds out you’re on her back trail she’ll dig into your past.”

“I haven’t got any,” Mason said.

Paul Drake winked at Della Street and slipped out into the corridor.

Mason said to Della, “Ring up Muriell Gilman and tell her our investigation so far indicates that her father is physically safe. Tell her we can’t give her any further details and that she is not to let her father know anything about the call.”