The Case of the Duplicate Daughter

Chapter Six

Mason entered the offices of the Gilman Associates Investment Pool at precisely twenty-six minutes after five o’clock.

An exceptionally beautiful red-haired receptionist looked up from the switchboard and smiled as though she meant it.

“I’m Mr. Mason,” the lawyer said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Calhoun.”

“Oh, yes. Just a moment, Mr. Mason. He’s waiting for you. In fact, we were all asked to wait.”

She depressed a key, said, “Mr. Mason is here,” then said, “You may go right on in, Mr. Mason, right down the passageway, and it’s the second door on the right.”

Mason glanced around the reception room, noting its deep carpet, comfortable chairs, and copies of some of the leading financial magazines on the table. As he walked past the door of an adjoining room he had a quick glimpse of batteries of filing cases and saw several secretarial desks equipped with typewriters and transcribing machines.

Down the corridor Mason walked past a door marked CARTER GILMAN and then beyond to a door marked ROGER C. CALHOUN.

Mason opened the door and entered another office in which an attractive brunette who could well have posed for a calendar ad said, “Mr. Mason?”

The lawyer nodded.

“If you’ll go right on to Mr. Calhoun’s private office,” she said, “he’s expecting you.”

Mason went through the door she indicated and entered an office where a small-boned, wiry man in the early thirties sat in a big chair behind a massive desk.

The man got up, walked around the desk and said, “Mr. Mason, I’m pleased to meet you.”

Long, bony fingers gripped the lawyer’s hand.

“Please be seated, Mr. Mason.”

Calhoun indicated a comfortable chair, then walked around to the other side of the desk, seated himself in the armchair, propped his elbows on the arm of the chair, extended long, tapering fingers, touched the tips of the fingers of each hand together and assumed his most impressive manner.

Mason said, “I am an attorney at law, Mr. Calhoun, and—”

“Yes, yes, I know all about you, Mr. Mason.”

Mason bowed his head. “And I am here,” he said, “on rather a peculiar matter. I have been asked to deliver to you some contracts which I believe Mr. Gilman has been working on. I think it is only fair to state that I am somewhat in the nature of a common carrier in the matter. I am delivering contracts which I haven’t read and about which I know nothing except I was instructed to deliver them and to instruct you that they were to be executed.”

Calhoun sat forward in the chair, parted his hands and said eagerly, “Yes, yes, Mr. Mason, I’ve been waiting for those contracts all day. A very important business deal is pending and... can you tell me where Mr. Gilman is?”

“I’m afraid I can’t at the moment,” Mason said, with his voice indicating courteous surprise. “He hasn’t been in touch with you?”

“He has not,” Calhoun said, snapping the words out. “It is most unusual. May I see the contracts, please?”

Mason opened the brief case, pulled out the green Bristol-board jacket on which had been scribbled the notation to call Perry Mason in the event of an emergency and giving Mason’s telephone number.

The lawyer carefully extracted the blue-backed contracts.

“It’s all right,” Calhoun said impatiently, his eyes on the inked notation. “Just give me the entire folder, Mr. Mason.”

The lawyer said evenly, “My instructions were to deliver the contracts.”

He handed four contracts over to Calhoun.

Calhoun looked through the contracts to make sure they were all copies of the same instrument, then he turned the pages of the instrument with a quick motion of his long forefinger and thumb. He did this in a practiced manner as though he had long been accustomed to turning pages or perhaps counting money.

When he had finished he looked up with grave dignity and said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Mason.”

There was something about the man’s slender, youthful appearance that made his attempt to impress visitors with the massive furniture of his office, the grave dignity of his manner, seem slightly incongruous.

Mason said, “Since I am acting in an unusual capacity here and in connection with a situation which is somewhat unusual, I would like to have a receipt showing that I have delivered the contracts and showing the time, if you please.”

Calhoun hesitated a moment, then pressed a button.

A moment later his secretary stood in the doorway.

“Will you bring your notebook, Miss Colfax?” he asked.

The secretary smiled. “I have it here, Mr. Calhoun.”

She moved easily into the room, pulled up a small secretarial chair, crossed her knees, giving a generous display of remarkably well-proportioned legs, and poised her notebook on the crossed knee.

“You will write the date, which is the thirteenth,” Roger Calhoun said in the meticulous voice of a schoolteacher giving instructions to pupils. “You will mark the exact time, which at the moment of this delivery was five thirty-two. You will make the receipt to Perry Mason, an attorney at law, and you will note in the receipt that Mr. Mason has delivered to me the original and three copies of a contract covering the proposed purchase by the corporation of all rights in the Barclay Mining Syndicate. You will note that these contracts are delivered for signature by Mr. Mason as attorney for Carter Gilman, who has approved the deal in its present form.”

“Just a minute,” Mason interrupted. “I think we had better leave off that about approving the deal. My instructions were only to deliver the contracts and state they were to be executed.”

“But that’s the sole idea in having the contracts executed,” Calhoun said. “If Gilman doesn’t approve the entire deal he wouldn’t have said to execute the contract.”

“I am interested in your statement to that effect,” Mason said, “but the fact remains that I know nothing whatever about whether Mr. Gilman approves the entire deal.”

Calhoun hesitated a moment, then said, “I think, in order to protect myself, Miss Colfax, I will ask you to type the receipt as I dictated it.”

“All right,” Mason said. “In order to protect myself, I’ll strike out the phrase about Gilman’s approval of the entire deal at the time the receipt is handed to me.”

“I fail to see that the point is of such devastating importance, Mr. Mason,” Calhoun said coldly.

“The matter is of importance as far as I’m concerned,” Mason said. “There’s nothing devastating about it. That’s your adjective. I don’t know what’s important to you. I know what’s important to me.”

Calhoun took a deep breath, said, “Very well, Miss Colfax, you may strike out the phrase about Gilman’s approval and type the receipt, please. Make it in triplicate.”

“Yes, Mr. Calhoun,” she said.

She got to her feet and left the room.

Calhoun looked at his watch and said, “While we are waiting, I would like to discuss some matters which pertain to your client.”

“I haven’t authority to discuss anything,” Mason said. “My sole authorization was to deliver papers.”

“There is no reason why you can’t listen.”

Mason said, “I’ll listen to anything.”

Calhoun once more assumed what apparently was his favorite pose of putting his fingertips together, said, “This is a business dealing with investments. In order to carry on the business it needs a great deal of skill in appraising the market trends and it, of course, requires that our clients have the utmost confidence in the integrity of the executive personnel.”

Calhoun paused as though expecting some sign of agreement, but Mason didn’t so much as nod his head.

Calhoun said, “I don’t know how much you know about the history of your client, Mr. Mason, or about his background. I take it that you must know something.”

As Mason remained silent, Calhoun went on, evidently somewhat nettled. “There are certain things in the background of Mr. Gilman which I hadn’t discovered until recently. Mr. Gilman was married and has one child by that marriage, a very charming young woman, Muriell, who is now, I believe, about twenty years of age.

“His wife died and about five years ago Gilman married his second wife, Nancy. She had been married to Steven A. Barlow, who is at present living in Las Vegas, Nevada and was divorced from him. There is one child, presumably a child of that marriage, named Glamis, who is also a young woman of about twenty years of age.

“I had always supposed that Glamis was the child of the marriage between Nancy and Steven A. Barlow, but recently it has been called to my attention that Glamis is twenty years of age, yet the Barlow marriage was solemnized nineteen years ago. There are some other rather peculiar factors in the background of Glamis. I understand a detective has recently been looking up all these facts.

“Nancy Gilman is an unconventional, Bohemian type. If there should be any scandal involving the daughter it could have serious repercussions as far as this business is concerned.”

Calhoun stopped speaking and looked accusingly at Mason, as though in some way Mason were responsible for the taint of illegitimacy.

Mason said, “If it’s a fair question, how did you get your information about Glamis and about her illegitimacy?”

“The information came to me from a source which I consider authentic,” Calhoun said.

“All right,” Mason told him, “you’ve made a statement. I’ve listened.”

Calhoun moved to the office intercom, depressed a key and said, “Miss Colfax, are the receipts ready?”

The musical voice of the secretary said, “They are ready, Mr. Calhoun. I was waiting to see if you wished them brought in.”

“Bring them in,” Calhoun said.

The door opened and Miss Colfax entered the office and handed the three receipts to Calhoun.

Calhoun read the receipts, signed all three of them, handed one to Mason and said, “That’s all, Miss Colfax.”

She turned and left the office. There was something in the way in which she walked which indicated she was conscious of the fact both men were watching her back as she left the room and that she was not at all displeased.

Mason said, “Well, I guess that covers everything I have to do here.”

“I am very anxious to see Mr. Gilman,” Calhoun said.

“How much longer will you be here?” Mason asked.

“At least for another hour.”

“How about Mr. Gilman’s secretary?” Mason asked casually. “Is she in the office? I would like to speak to her.”

Calhoun depressed a key, said, “Miss Colfax, will you find out if Miss Matilda Norman is in Mr. Gilman’s office?”

He sat waiting by the interoffice communication unit until the voice of the secretary said, “Miss Norman has left for the night, Mr. Calhoun.”

Calhoun said very formally, “Thank you, Miss Colfax,” and switched off the intercom. “It is long past closing time. I had some of the employees work overtime.”

Mason said, “Thank you, and good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Mason,” Calhoun said.

Mason left the private office, walked across the outer office, paused in the doorway and looked back at the gorgeous brunette. “Good night, Miss Colfax.”

Her eyes softened into an amused smile. “Good night, Mr. Mason,” she said, and her right eye closed in a deliberate wink.

The lawyer walked down the street to his own office building and stopped in Paul Drake’s office.

“Any news from Paul?” he asked the girl at the switchboard.

She shook her head. “He went out on a job for you, Mr. Mason, right after you phoned and he hasn’t been back. He couldn’t get an operative who was available.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Tell him I want to see him when he comes in.”

The lawyer walked down to his private office, latch-keyed the door and said to Della Street, “Well, here’s Carter Gilman’s brief case. Let’s look through it and see what’s in it. I delivered some contracts and here’s the cardboard jacket they were in, a jacket that has the notation on it Muriell told me about. Let’s see what else is in the brief case.”

They looked through it together and found only half a dozen timetables of the various airlines leaving Los Angeles, plus a notation giving the address: Steven A. Barlow, 5981 Virginia City Avenue, Las Vegas, Nevada.

“Well?” Della Street asked.

“For your information,” Mason said, “I have recently been associating with some very, very beautiful women.”

“Does the adventure bear repetition or verbal description?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “In the first place, I have had a delightful visit with our Miss Muriell Gilman, a young woman who has considerable ability as an actress and is somewhat proud of the manner in which she can use an air of childish innocence to cover up a background of thought which she feels is quite sophisticated.

“Then there is a curvaceous character by the name of Glamis Barlow who is blond, blue-eyed, very seductive and feels that gentlemen who assist her into automobiles should be given a generous glimpse of what she herself describes as a very good-looking leg.”

“You fascinate me,” Della Street said. “You mean I have been neglecting my feminine prerogatives by jumping casually into cars instead of waiting for men to assist me?”

Mason said, “I always felt that women liked to know the latest approach so that they could be in style.”

“Your hint is appreciated. There have been others?”

“Oh, many others,” Mason said. “There is a red-headed receptionist in the office of the Gilman company that has probably provoked as many whistles as any railroad crossing in the country. Then there is a young woman named Colfax who somehow manages to take dictation in a manner as suggestive as the motions of a striptease artist in taking off a pair of long-sleeved gloves — in other words, she has the ability to invest a thoroughly conventional action with an unconventional atmosphere, if you get what I mean.”

“I get what you mean,” Della Street said. “In the meantime, I am interested in knowing more about the personality of Mr. Gilman’s private secretary, because there is no doubt on earth that she is the woman who telephoned and stated that she was Vera Martel, delivered the mysterious message about the fingerprints and gave us the number where Mr. Gilman could be reached. For your further information, Mr. Mason, that number was the number of a public pay-station telephone. It is in a booth about four blocks from the building where Mr. Gilman has his office.”

Mason said, “Miss Matilda Norman, the secretary in question, had left for the night. She is reported to be somewhere in the fifties and is built along the lines of a string bean.”

“These other women, I take it,” Della Street said, “were not built along the lines of string beans.”

“Definitely not,” Mason said. “They were built like a mountain highway in Mexico. In other words, they were full of curves.”

“And hard-surfaced?” Della Street asked.

“Well,” Mason said, “they had an appearance which would indicate that all operations would be close to the maximum speed.”

“You didn’t exceed the limit, I take it.”

“Oh, definitely not,” Mason said. “I met a very pompous young man who takes himself very, very seriously indeed; a man who is saturated with college economics, with the analsyis of financial trends, who would exude stock-market quotations as a wrestler would exude perspiration.”

“My, but we’re getting flowery,” Della Street said.

“That,” Mason told her, “is due entirely to the atmosphere of the office I have just visited. If you have any surplus funds that you wish to invest I would recommend the Gilman company. It is painfully conscious of the fact that its stability depends upon keeping the reputations of the executive personnel free from the slightest taint.

“And, for your further information, Mr. Calhoun has recently made the startling discovery that Glamis Barlow, the long-legged blonde with the seductive habits, was born a year too soon to be the legitimate offspring of the Barlow marriage.”

“Dear, dear,” Della Street said. “I’m surprised your Mr. Calhoun could bear up under such a horrible example of moral depravity.

“Good Lord, Chief, I’m catching the pompous mood myself. Suppose I should start exuding stock-market quotations?”

“No,” Mason said. “Your way of fitting into the picture would be to practice walking from the office the way Miss Colfax does.”

“And how’s that?”

“I can’t describe the means, only the general effect. It is like a snake walking on its tail while holding its head rigidly motionless.”

Suddenly the lawyer lost his bantering manner and said, “To hell with it, Della, what do you say we go out and get dinner? We’ll leave word for Paul where we are. I gave him a tailing job, thinking he was going to tail Muriell, because I wanted to find out whether she went directly to her father after I dropped her at her car. However, Glamis took over the parking ticket from Muriell and now Paul Drake is shadowing Glamis on an expedition which may be rather unprofitable — at least as far as advancing the case is concerned.”

Mason and Della Street walked down the hall and stopped in at Paul Drake’s office, which was by the elevators.

Mason said to the girl at the switchboard, “There is no use our sitting around the office waiting for Paul to report. Della and I are going down to the Green Mill. We’re going to have a couple of cocktails and some of their corn fritos, then we’re going next door to the Steak Mart and we’re going to have filet mignon with baked potato, garlic toast, French fried onions, apple pie a la mode and—”

“Don’t, Mr. Mason, please,” the receptionist begged. “I’m trying to take off two pounds and my stomach thinks all lines of communication have been severed.”

“Well, we’ll be back after a while,” Mason said. “When Paul telephones in a report, tell him where we are and he can either call us there or come on down and join us.”

Mason and Della Street went down to the Green Mill, sat in a booth in the dim light, relaxed in air-conditioned comfort and had two leisurely cocktails interspersed with fritos and potato chips.

“I think,” Mason told Della Street, “you’d better call the Gilman residence and ask for Muriell. I think a woman’s voice would attract less attention than a man’s voice. When you get Muriell on the phone, ask her if she can talk and... well, I’ll talk with her myself.”

Mason signed the check for the cocktails, they moved over to the phone booth and Della Street called Gilman’s residence and asked for Muriell. After a moment she said, “Just a minute, Miss Gilman. Mr. Mason wants to talk.”

Mason said, “Hello, Muriell. How’s everything coming? Is your dad home?”

“Oh, hello,” Muriell said, without mentioning Mason’s name. “It’s nice to hear from you. Do you know anything new?”

“I carried out instructions,” Mason said. “The contracts were delivered. I got a receipt from Roger Calhoun.”

“Oh, that’s fine!”

“Has your father come home yet?”

“No. He telephoned Nancy that he was going to be away, he wouldn’t be back tonight. He said, however, that he’d be in the office tomorrow. He’s getting in about nine o’clock in the morning, I believe.”

“Where is he?” Mason asked.

“He had to go to Las Vegas, Nevada, on business.”

“I see. Is Glamis there?”

“No, she isn’t. She telephoned she wouldn’t be in until quite late. With Glamis that means quite early.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Mason said. “I just wanted you to know that the contracts had all been delivered. I guess we’ll hear from your father tomorrow. Good night, Muriell.”

Mason hung up the phone and grinned at Della Street. “Now this,” he said, “is good. We gave Paul Drake an assignment to follow Glamis and evidently Glamis is out on quite a party. She phoned she wouldn’t be home — probably until the small hours. That gives us a good guess as to why we haven’t heard from Paul Drake.”

“How utterly charming,” Della Street said. “And it turned out Glamis was the wrong girl — you wanted him to shadow Muriell?”

“I did want him to shadow Muriell,” Mason said, “but as events are turning out now I think it’s a good thing he’s shadowing Glamis. We have duplicate daughters, each of whom seems to be steeped in mystery.

“Now, let us go get some food and intersperse the eating with a few dances and some leisurely discussion of clients, of duplicate daughters and second marriages, of mysterious showers of hundred-dollar bills and the unmistakable charm of the unexpected.”

Hours later, back in Drake’s office, the receptionist looked at them and smiled. “You fairly reek of being well fed,” she said. “To a girl that’s on a diet of cottage cheese, preserved pears and buttermilk, that’s almost a crime. I haven’t heard—” She broke off as a light flashed on the switchboard. She put in a plug, said, “Drake Detective Agency... yes... yes, he’s right here, Mr. Drake. I’ll put him on.

“Paul Drake calling from Las Vegas, Nevada,” she said.

Mason grinned. “Where’s a phone?”

“Go right down to Mr. Drake’s private office. I’ll put him on there.”

Mason and Della Street hurried down the narrow passageway to Drake’s private office. Mason picked up the phone, winked at Della Street and said, “Perry Mason, Paul. What the heck are you doing in Las Vegas?”

“Well, you told me to follow this party,” Drake said, “and this is where I wound up.”

“Why didn’t you telephone me for a clearance to see if—?”

“There wasn’t time,” Drake said. “She drove directly to the airport and parked the car. I followed her into the plane office. There was a plane leaving for Las Vegas within ten minutes. She got a ticket and I managed to get a ticket. I tried to keep away from her, but as it turned out the only other vacant seat was right across the aisle from her.”

“Did she look you over?”

“She did indeed,” Drake said. “I think she may have become a little suspicious. I’ll tell you what happened.”

“What?”

“When she got to Las Vegas she took a taxicab into town. I naturally got another cab to follow the one she was in. She went to one of the big casinos, started playing the slot machines like mad, then she gave me the slip.”

“How come?”

“After twenty or thirty minutes,” Drake said, “a taxi-cab pulled up in front of the place and the fare got out. The time was nine eleven. This girl suddenly made a bolt for the door, shot into the cab, said something to the driver and the cab sped out into the street, leaving me standing there with the memory of a good look at a beautiful pair of gams and the nearest cab half a block away.

“By the time I’d sprinted up to that cab and got it started we were blocked by a traffic signal and after that we were licked. I never got a smell of the other cab. I went back to the casino to try and locate the cab she used, but it hasn’t shown up yet. So I thought I’d phone in a report. I lost her trail at nine twelve.”

Mason said, “Here’s a tip for you, Paul. There’s a Steve Barlow in Las Vegas. I don’t know what he does. He lives at 5981 Virginia City Avenue. Go out and case his place. You may find your blonde there, talking with him. If you do, just catch the next plane back to Los Angeles.”

“And if I don’t find her?”

“Give the place a general once-over,” Mason said, “but it’s not important enough to stay overnight. See if you can pick up her trail. If she’s there, your job is finished. If she isn’t, don’t bother too much. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “I’ll be seeing you.

Mason hung up the telephone, said to Della Street, “Well, I guess that about winds it up for the day, Della.”