The Case of the Fabulous Fake

1

Perry Mason looked up from his desk as Della Street, his confidential secretary, stood in the door of the office which communicated with the reception room.

“Yes, Della?”

“We have a young woman in the outer office who won’t give her name.”

“Then I won’t see her,” Mason declared.

“I understand how you feel about these things,” Della replied, “but I think there’s some interesting reason why this young woman won’t give us the information.”

“What sort of reason?” Mason asked.

Della Street smiled. “I think it might be interesting to find out.”

“Blonde or brunette?”

“Blonde. She’s holding on to a flat black bag in addition to a purse.”

“How old?” Mason asked.

“Not over twenty-two or twenty-three.”

Mason frowned. “Are you sure she’s over twenty-one?”

Della shook her head. “You can’t tell by looking at her teeth,” she said, smiling.

“How about her hands?” Mason asked.

“And you can’t tell too much by a woman’s hands until after she passes thirty,” Della explained.

“All right,” Mason said, “bring her in, we’ll take a look.”

Della Street turned, went into the outer office and shortly returned with a young woman who was trembling with excitement as she approached the desk and said, “Mr. Mason?”

Mason smiled. “There is no need to be nervous,” he said. “After all, I’m an attorney and if you are in trouble perhaps I can help you.”

She seated herself across the desk from the lawyer and said, “Mr. Mason... I... I... I’m going to have to disappear and I don’t want my parents ever to be able to find me.”

Mason regarded her thoughtfully. “Why are you going to have to disappear?” he asked. “The usual reason?”

“What’s the usual reason?” she asked.

Mason smiled and shook his head. “Don’t cross-examine me,” he said. “Let me do the questioning. Why do you want to disappear?”

“I have my reasons,” she said. “I don’t think I need to go into all the details at the present time, but I do want to disappear.”

“And you want me to help you?”

“I want you to be in such a position that you can, if necessary, furnish the missing link which will connect me with my past life. But I don’t want you to do it unless I give you permission and tell you to, or unless certain circumstances develop which will make it imperative that you do communicate with my parents.”

The telephone on Della Street’s secretarial desk rang and she said, “Hello... yes, Gertie... Right away?... Is it that important?... Very well, I’ll be right out.”

She glanced meaningly at Perry Mason, said, “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” and hurried through the door to the outer office.

Mason regarded his visitor quizzically. “You’re asking me to take you on trust.”

“Don’t you have to take all your clients on trust?”

“Not entirely. I usually know with whom I am dealing and what the score is.”

“And you are usually retained to defend some person who is accused of crime?”

“Quite frequently.”

“And how do you verify the fact that your client is telling you the truth?”

Mason smiled. “You have a point there,” he admitted.

“You take them on trust,” she said.

“Not entirely,” Mason replied. “Any person accused of crime, whether guilty or innocent, is entitled to a defense. He’s entitled to his day in court. I try to give him legal representation.”

“But you try to make that representation effective so that you prove his innocence.”

Mason thought for a moment, then, choosing his words carefully, said, “I try to make my representation effective. I’ll go that far.”

Della Street appeared from the outer office, motioned to Perry Mason, and walked through the door into the law library.

Mason said, “You’ll have to excuse me just a moment. We seem to have some rather important matter demanding immediate consideration.”

“Certainly,” she said.

Mason swung around in his swivel chair, got up, walked around the desk, gave his visitor a reassuring smile, said, “I’m satisfied it will only be a moment,” then opened the door to the law library.

“What’s the excitement?” he asked Della Street when he had closed the door.

“Gertie, at the switchboard,” Della said.

“What about her?”

“I hardly know,” she said. “You know Gertie, she’s an incurable romantic. Give her a button and she’ll sew a vest on it every time, and sometimes I think she even uses an imaginary button.”

Mason nodded.

“She observed something about our visitor in there, or thinks she did, and perhaps you’d better talk with her.”

“Can’t you tell me what it is?”

“Of course I can,” Della said, “but I can’t evaluate what Gertie’s saying the way you can — it makes quite a story.”

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s go see what it is.”

He took Della’s arm, escorted her through the door which opened from the law library into the entrance room.

Gertie, at the switchboard, was sitting on the edge of her chair, her eyes wide with excitement, her jaws chewing gum in a frantic tempo, indicative of her inner nervousness.

Gertie had an insatiable curiosity. She always wanted to know the background of Mason’s clients and, quite frequently, vested them with an imaginary environment which, at times, was surprisingly accurate.

Considerably overweight, Gertie was always going on a diet “next week” or “after the holidays” or “as soon as I return from my vacation.”

Despite the fact there was no one in the office, Gertie beckoned Mr. Mason over to her desk and lowered her voice so that it was barely audible.

“That young woman who went in your office,” she said.

“Yes, yes,” Mason said, “what about it, Gertie? Did you notice something about her?”

“Did I notice something about her!” Gertie said, quite obviously savoring the fact that she had for the moment become the center of attention. “I’ll say I did!”

“Well,” Della said impatiently, “tell it to Mr. Mason, Gertie. After all, she’s waiting in there.”

Gertie said, “you noticed that black bag she’s carrying with her, that she hangs on to so tightly?”

“I didn’t notice her hanging on to it so tightly,” Mason said, “but she has both a black bag and a hand purse with her.”

“It’s a kind of cosmetics and overnight bag,” Della said. “In a bag of that type there’s a mirror on the inside of the lid when you open it.”

“And cosmetics, creams, and hairbrushes on the inside?” Mason asked.

“Not in this bag,” Gertie asserted vehemently. “It’s packed, jammed solid with hundred-dollar bills, all neatly packaged.”

“What!” Mason exclaimed.

Gertie nodded solemnly, obviously enjoying Mason’s surprise.

“How do you know, Gertie?” Della Street asked. “Tell him that.”

“Well,” Gertie said, “she wanted to get something out of the bag or put something in it. Anyway, she opened it, but it was the way she opened it that attracted my attention.”

“In what way?” Mason asked.

“She turned around in her chair, her back toward me, so that I couldn’t see what she was doing.”

Mason smiled and said, “And the minute she did that you craned your neck, trying to see what it was she was concealing.”

“Well,” Gertie said, “I guess everyone has a natural curiosity, and after all, Mr. Mason, you want me to find out about the clients that come to see you.”

“I was just making a comment,” Mason said. “Don’t let it worry you, Gertie. What did you see?”

“Well, what she didn’t realize,” Gertie said, “was that just as soon as she turned her back and opened the lid of the bag, the mirror at a certain angle reflected the contents of that bag so that I could look right into the mirror and see what was inside.”

Mason said, “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

“The whole inside of that black bag,” Gertie said impressively, “was just one mass of hundred-dollar bills, all neatly stacked in piles just as they came from the bank.”

“And you saw that in the mirror?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you?”

“I was here at my desk by the telephone switchboard.”

“And where was the young woman?”

“Sitting over there.”

“All the way across the office,” Mason commented.

“That’s right. But I saw what I saw.”

“You say she turned her back to you?”

“Yes, very ostentatiously.”

“And then opened the bag?”

“Yes.”

“And when the lid reached an angle of approximately forty-five degrees you could see the contents of the bag?”

“That’s right.”

“Now, did she very carefully hold the lid in that position so you could continue to look at the contents, or did she open it the rest of the way so the lid was straight up?”

Gertie thought for a moment and said, “When I stop to think of it, I guess she opened it the rest of the way, but I was so startled at what I saw that I didn’t realize she had opened it the rest of the way until you asked me just now.”

“Then she held the lid which contained the mirror for some appreciable interval at the angle of forty-five degrees so you were able to see the contents?”

“I guess she must have, Mr. Mason,” Gertie conceded. “I didn’t think this all out until— My heavens, you cross-examine a person so!”

“I don’t want to cross-examine you,” Mason said, “but I do want to find out what happened. You must admit that if she opened the lid of that bag and then held the mirror at an angle so that you could see the contents, she must have been rather anxious for you to see what was in the bag rather than trying to conceal it from you.”

“I never thought of that,” Gertie admitted.

“I’m thinking of it,” Mason said thoughtfully.

After a second or two, he went on. “How did you know they were hundred-dollar bills, Gertie? You couldn’t see the denomination at that distance.”

“Well, they... they looked like hundred-dollar bills, all flat and—”

“But they could have been fifty-dollar bills?” Mason asked as Gertie hesitated. “Or perhaps twenty-dollar bills?”

“Well, I distinctly had the impression they were hundred-dollar bills, Mr. Mason.”

“And, by the same sign,” Mason said, “looking at those bills in the mirror across the length of the office, they could have been one-dollar bills?”

“Oh, I’m certain they weren’t one-dollar bills.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“Just the way they looked.”

“Thanks a lot, Gertie,” Mason said. “I’m glad you tipped us off on this. You did quite right.”

Gertie’s face lit up. “Oh, I thought I had botched it up, the way you were asking those questions.”

“I’m just trying to get it straight,” Mason said. “Forget all about it, Gertie.”

“Forget about something like that!” Gertie exclaimed. “Mr. Mason, that woman is... well, she’s going to lead you into something. She just isn’t any ordinary client.”

“That’s quite right,” Mason said. “She isn’t an ordinary client, which is perhaps why the case intrigues me.”

The lawyer patted Gertie on the shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Gertie,” he said. “You just keep an eye on these clients that come in, and if you see anything unusual always let me know.”

Mason nodded to Della Street and they went through the door into the library.

“What do you think, Chief?” Della asked.

“I think Gertie saw the contents of that bag, all right, and I think it was packed full of currency. But whether it was filled with hundred-dollar bills or whether it was filled with one-dollar bills is anybody’s guess. I don’t think Gertie could have seen the hundred-dollar denomination at that distance while looking in the mirror.”

“Gertie has a wonderful imagination,” Della said.

Mason nodded thoughtfully. “But,” he said, “the important thing is how long that mirror was held at a forty-five degree angle; whether our mysterious client wanted Gertie to see what was in the black bag and report it to us, or whether she was taking something out and Gertie’s quick eye managed to get a glimpse of the contents... You have to hand it to Gertie for that; she can see more in a tenth of a second than most people can see after staring for five minutes.”

Della laughed. “And then her mind has a computer system all of its own by which she multiplies what she has seen by two.”

“Squares it,” Mason said, laughing. “Well, let’s go back and see our client.”

Mason and Della returned to the lawyer’s private office.

“I’m sorry we kept you waiting,” Mason said. “Now, let’s see, where were we? You wanted to have a lawyer who would represent you in case you needed an attorney?”

“That’s right.”

“But you didn’t want anyone to know your identity.”

“I have my reasons, Mr. Mason.”

“I presume you have,” Mason agreed, “but that makes it rather unsatisfactory as far as I’m concerned. Suppose you want to communicate with me so I can do something for you. How am I to know that I’m talking with the same person who retained me?”

“We’ll agree on a code,” she said.

“All right,” Mason said, “what do you suggest?”

“My measurements.”

“Yes?” Mason asked.

“Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six,” she said.

A smile flitted across the lawyer’s face, then he was serious once more. “That’s not much of a code,” he said.

“But if I gave you the measurements in my own voice over the telephone — you’d recognize my voice, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not certain,” Mason said. “I might. Sometimes voices are rather hard to place over the telephone. What would you want me to do? That is, what do you think you’d like to have me do if I should decide to represent you and you should call me over the phone?”

“Defend me,” she said.

“For what?”

“Heavens, I don’t know,” she said, “but the people who are trying to find me are very, very ingenious. They wouldn’t go to the expense of hiring private detectives when they could accuse me of having committed some crime and put the police on my trail. That’s what I’m afraid of.

“You see, Mr. Mason,” she went on hurriedly, “I’m not at liberty to tell you all of the facts, but there are certain people — that is, a certain person who wants to find me or who might want to find me. That person is devilishly ingenious. He would stop at nothing.”

“It’s not easy to find a person who deliberately disappears,” Mason said.

“I know,” she said, “and this other party knows that, too. He isn’t going to waste his time and money hiring private detectives at fifty dollars a day. He’ll accuse me of some crime and get the police to find me.”

“And then?” Mason asked.

“Then,” she said, “I’d have to defend myself.”

“You mean he’d actually try to press these trumped-up charges?”

“He might. He might try anything.”

“He would be putting himself in a very vulnerable position,” Mason said. “That is, unless you have committed some crime.”

“But I haven’t.”

“What do you think he would accuse you of?”

“Heavens, I don’t know. Murder perhaps. He’s absolutely ruthless.”

Mason eyed her steadily. “Or perhaps embezzlement?” he asked.

A sudden flush of color flooded her face.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“He might even do that,” she said, “but I hadn’t thought of that.”

“That would seem to be a logical thing to do,” Mason commented, making his voice elaborately casual. “If he accused you of murder he would have to have a corpse. Whereas, if he accused you of embezzlement he would only have to swear that a large sum of money was missing.”

“Yes,” she said, and then added slowly, “I see your point.”

“And just what did you have in mind?” Mason asked.

“I wanted to give you a retainer and have it so that you’d be willing to act as my attorney, to come to my rescue in case I should telephone... No matter what it was I wanted.”

“How much of a retainer did you have in mind?” Mason asked.

“Would three hundred dollars do?”

“I would say that that would be a reasonable retainer,” Mason said. “Of course, after you consulted me and in case the situation became complicated, I’d have to ask for more money.”

She opened her hand purse, held it carefully so that Mason could not see the contents, and took out six fifty-dollar bills.

“Do I give them to you or give them to your bookkeeper?” she asked.

“My secretary will make a receipt,” Mason said. “...Those fifty-dollar bills look uniformly crisp.”

Her laugh was nervous. “Well, I prepared myself. I don’t ordinarily carry large sums of money like this. I got these for you — at my bank.”

“Here in the city?” Mason asked quite casually with a quick glance at Della Street.

“No, no, not here in the city. Heavens, no.”

“I see,” Mason said, picking up the fifty-dollar bills and fingering them casually.

“Just what did you expect me to do for you?” he asked.

“Probably nothing. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Mason. You are just an anchor out to windward. If all goes well you’ll never hear from me again. I’ll walk out of this office and out of your life.”

“And if all doesn’t go well?” Mason asked.

“Then you’ll hear from me.”

“And what will I hear?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be calling on you for help.”

“What sort of help?”

“I don’t know, perhaps advice in a tight situation.”

“I can’t establish a relationship with a client on that kind of a basis,” Mason said.

“You mean financially?”

“In part.”

“At the time I call on you for help we’ll discuss additional fees. I know that you’ll be fair with me and I certainly won’t ask you to do anything which is unfair, inequitable or unjust.”

“Or illegal?” Mason asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

She started to say “or illegal” but suddenly caught herself, hesitated a moment, then said, “You wouldn’t do anything that was illegal, so why waste time talking about it?”

“Then you’ll get in touch with me if you need me?”

“Very definitely.”

Mason said, “You can reach me at this office during office hours. During the evening you can reach me through the Drake Detective Agency, which has an office on the same floor here in this building.”

“I saw the sign on the door as I walked down from the elevator,” she said.

“They have a twenty-four-hour switchboard,” Mason said, “and in the event of any emergency — that is, if it’s a real emergency — they can usually get in touch with me.”

Della Street handed her a card. “Here are the numbers,” she said, “day and night.”

“Thank you, Miss Street.”

Mason said to Della, “Make out a receipt, Della, for a three-hundred-dollar retainer in the form of cash. Now, do you want this made simply to the Code Number thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want any receipt.” She slipped the loop of her purse over her wrist, picked up the black cosmetics bag, smiled at Della Street, said, “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Mason,” and walked out.

Mason sat watching the automatic doorstop as it closed the door.

When the latch had clicked, Mason said to Della, “You know she put on a good act.”

“In what way?”

“That we’d never see her again.”

“You think it was an act?”

“I’ll give you ten to one,” Mason said, “that within a matter of five days that girl calls us up and is in serious difficulties — difficulties which she had already anticipated.”

“No takers,” Della said. “It’s bad luck to take the other side of a bet with you. I’ll tell you one thing, however, those weren’t her measurements. She’s nearer thirty-two, twenty-four, thirty six.”

Mason thought that over. “Padding?” he asked.

“Not that much,” Della said. “She’s using quite a bit, but not that much.”

“Now that you mention it, Della,” Mason said, “I see what you mean. So we have a client who is lying to us right at the start.”

“Sailing under false colors,” Della Street said, smiling.

Mason said meditatively, “ ‘The Case of the Falsified Tape.’ ”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be ‘The Case of the Costly Client,’ ” Della said. I’m suspicious of padded stories, padded expense accounts, and padded clients.”

“She sneaked up on my blind side,” Mason said. “I should have given her more of a third degree and broken down her story. However, it’s too late now. We’ll ride along with her false measurements.”