The Case of the Glamorous Ghost

Chapter number 7

Mason glanced at his watch as he left Paul Drake’s office. It was eighteen minutes past ten.

Mason drove to a service station, had his car filled with gasoline, and while the attendant was washing the windshield, called the Belinda Apartments.

“I know it’s late,” he told the girl at the switchboard, “but I’d like to talk with Suzanne in 358 — that is Miss Granger. I told her earlier in the day that I’d call her.”

“Just a moment, I’ll connect you.”

A few moments later Mason heard a calm, feminine voice saying, “Yes... hello.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour,” Mason said, “but this is about Douglas Hepner.”

“Hepner,” she said. “Hepner... Oh yes. And who are you, please?”

“I wanted to ask you some questions.”

“And who are you?”

“The name,” he said, “is Mason, Perry Mason, an attorney. I left a note in your box.”

“Oh yes.”

“Did you get it?”

“Certainly.”

Mason said, “I thought you should have an opportunity for rehearsal.”

“To rehearse what, Mr. Mason?”

“Your story.”

“What story?”

“The story you’re going to have to tell police and newspaper reporters later on. You can try it out on me and I can question you and point out any contradictions.”

“Mr. Mason, are you trying to threaten me?”

“Not at all.”

“Why should I be telling a story to the police?”

“You’re going to be questioned.”

“About Douglas Hepner?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you now?”

“Not too far from your apartment house.”

She hesitated a moment, then laughed. “You know, Mr. Mason, you interest me. I’ve read a lot about you and your technique of cross-examination. On second thought, I think it would be rather fun to have you fasten your penetrating eyes on me and try to get me rattled. By all means come out.”

“I’ll be out right away,” Mason told her and hung up the phone.

At the Belinda Apartments Mason smiled reassuringly at the clerk at the desk, a different one from the person he and Della Street had encountered earlier in the day.

“Miss Granger,” Mason said, “in 358. She’s expecting me.”

“Yes, she phoned,” the clerk said. “Go right up, Mr. Mason.”

Mason went to 358, pressed the buzzer. The door was opened almost instantly by an attractive young woman, who regarded the lawyer with challenging gray eyes.

“I want to congratulate you, Mr. Mason,” she said. “Won’t you come in?”

Mason entered the apartment.

“Congratulate me on what?”

She indicated a chair.

“On the line you used.”

“What?”

“That one about asking if I didn’t want to rehearse my story before I was questioned by others.”

“Oh,” Mason said, noncommittally.

“It’s rather effective. Do you use it often?”

“It’s one of my favorites,” Mason conceded. “It usually gets results.”

“It’s provocative. It’s just a little alarming and yet one can’t say that it constitutes a definite threat.”

“I’m glad you appreciate it,” Mason said.

She offered him a cigarette.

“I’ll have one of my own, if you don’t mind,” Mason said, taking out his cigarette case and lighter.

She took a cigarette, leaned forward for Mason’s light, took a deep drag, settled back and blew out a cloud of smoke.

“Well, Mr. Mason, do you prefer to engage in a little preliminary sparring while we size each other up, or will you try for a quick knockout?”

“It depends on the adversary.”

“You’d better spar then.”

“Perhaps we’d better be frank. Suppose you tell your story and then I’ll question you on it.”

“I don’t like that procedure. Suppose you ask questions.”

“Very well. You knew Douglas Hepner?”

“Yes.”

“How long had you known him?”

“I met him three or four months ago on a ship coming from Europe.”

“You were friendly with him?”

“On shipboard?”

“Both on shipboard and afterward.”

“Let’s put it this way. I was friendly with him on shipboard and I was friendly with him afterward, but there was an interval during which I didn’t even see the man. Then I happened to run into him one day in an art store, and of course, we renewed our association. He bought me a drink as I remember it and asked for a dinner date. I was engaged that night but I believe I went to dinner with him the following night. Now would you mind telling me why you’re asking these questions, Mr. Mason, and why you intimate that the police will be interested.”

“I’m representing a young woman who is suffering from temporary amnesia.”

“So I understand. A woman who claims to be Mrs. Douglas Hepner. How interesting! Did you think that perhaps I could help her prove her point, make an honest woman out of her, so to speak? You had quite a write-up in the evening papers, Mr. Mason.”

“So I’ve been told,” Mason said dryly. “Now I’d like to find out something about your dates. You saw Douglas Hepner recently?”

“Oh yes.”

“How recently?”

“Why, I believe... I believe the evening of the fifteenth was the last time I saw him.”

“Did he tell you he was married?”

“He certainly did not.”

“Did he tell you that he was not married?”

“Not in so many words, but he... I gathered that he... well, I don’t think I care to discuss that matter, Mr. Mason. You’d better ask those questions of Mr. Hepner. I presume that he’ll be somewhat surprised when he reads the papers and finds he’s supposed to be married to this young woman who has lost her memory.”

“You saw quite a good deal of Hepner after that first dinner date?”

“I saw something of him, yes.”

“He was here at the apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Could you,” Mason asked, “tell me just how that happened?”

Her eyes were mocking. “Why, certainly, Mr. Mason. I invited him in. I pay rent on this apartment, you know.”

“How many times was he here?”

“I didn’t keep a record.”

“Have you any recollection?”

“Only generally. It would take some time for me to go back and check that recollection.”

“Would you care to do that?”

“Not now, Mr. Mason.”

“Did you know his family?”

“His family? Why, no.”

“Is that so,” Mason said, his voice showing surprise. “I talked with his mother over the telephone and she told me that she had talked with someone in Barstow who claimed to be... However, perhaps there was a misunderstanding.”

“So that’s your knockout punch,” she said, her eyes levelly regarding his. “I was wondering when you’d quit sparring and try for a knockout. All right, I went to Las Vegas with Douglas Hepner. So what? I’m over the age of consent and under the age of indifference. I felt like doing a little gambling and Doug was going to Las Vegas. He invited me to go and I went. So what?”

“So nothing,” Mason said.

“And,” she went on, “Doug stopped at what should have been the most romantic moment to call his mother in Salt Lake City. It was a new revelation of the Hepner character as far as I was concerned. Frankly, it wasn’t anything that I cared for in particular. Parental devotion is always commendable but there are times and circumstances. I had made no promises going to Las Vegas. We were simply going for the trip, but a man in Hepner’s position should have been at least speculating as to the possibilities of developments. He should have been making guarded approaches — not definitely burning his bridges behind him, but nevertheless making approaches.

“Instead he stopped at Barstow for gasoline, telephoned his mother in Salt Lake City and told her he was with a very interesting young woman, that he couldn’t definitely say that his intentions were serious because he didn’t know what my intentions were, but that he wanted her to meet me over the telephone, and then without any previous warning he put me on the line.”

“And what did you say?” Mason asked.

“I was completely flabbergasted. I wasn’t expecting to be called to the telephone, I wasn’t expecting to hear Doug Hepner discuss his matrimonial intentions with his mother and then call me to carry on a polite conversation.”

“He told her who you were?”

“Told her who I was, gave her my name, my address, a description of my build — rather a flattering description, by the way. He certainly noticed things about height, size, weight, measurements. I felt as though I were being discussed for a beauty contest.”

“And you say he gave her your address?” Mason prompted.

“Just about every darned thing about me. And then he put me on the line.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said, ‘Hello, Mrs. Hepner. I’m very glad to meet you,’ and so forth, and she said, ‘My son tells me you’re on the way to Las Vegas with him,’ and I felt angry and embarrassed. I made up my mind right then and there that as far as Doug Hepner was concerned he could take me to Las Vegas and buy me dinner and I’d do a little gambling and he could pay the rent on two motel units, count them, Mr. Mason, two!” She held up two fingers.

“In other words, the approach,” Mason said, “was unexpected and ineffective.”

“Call it that if you want. I had a very good time.”

“Can you remember the date?”

“I have very definite occasion to remember the date.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“While I was gone,” she said, “my apartment was broken into and acts of vandalism were committed, but I... well, I didn’t complain to the police. I know who did it and why it was done.”

“Vandalism?” Mason asked.

She nodded, her eyes angry at the recollection.

“What happened?” Mason asked.

“I’m an artist. I’m not a creative artist. My hobby is studying certain phases of European art. I’m something of a bungling amateur. I probably never will make any great contributions to the artistic world. But nevertheless I like to study early pigmentation, the use of color and lighting effects. I think that a great deal more can be learned about schools of painting through lighting effects than is generally realized.

“Now you want to talk about romance and evidence and amnesia and if I get started talking about European painting you’re going to be bored.”

“You mentioned certain acts of vandalism.”

“I travel quite a bit. I go to Europe sometimes two or three times a year. I’m writing a book which may never amount to much and yet, on the other hand, it may achieve some recognition in art circles. I have great hopes for it. In any event, I’m trying to get my research work handled in such a manner that the book will at least be recognized as being authoritative.

“I have made a great number of copies of various masterpieces, not the entire paintings but the particular parts that I consider significant in connection with my theories. For instance, it may be just a trick of lighting, the manner in which the shadow is depicted on the interior of a hand which is painted so the palm is away from the painter and in shadow.

“On the original painting this hand may be quite small, but I enlarge it so it will cover the entire page in a book. I flatter myself that I am able to make very good copies. At least I use infinite pains.”

“And the vandalism?” Mason asked, interested.

“Someone got in my apartment and deliberately ruined several hundred dollars’ worth of painting materials.”

“May I ask how?”

“Someone cut the bottoms off the tubes of my paints with a pair of scissors, then squeezed all of the paint out. Some of it was put on a palette. Some of it on my washbowl. Some of it was smeared over my bathtub — the bathtub looked like a rainbow having St. Vitus’s dance.”

“You didn’t call the police?”

“Not as yet,” she said, “but I know who did it.”

“May I ask who?”

“You may well ask who,” she said angrily. “Your client did it! While I don’t care for publicity and don’t want to drag her into court I feel like wringing her damn neck!”

“Eleanor Hepner did that?” Mason asked incredulously.

“Eleanor Corbin!”

“How do you know that...?”

The phone rang.

She said, “Pardon me a moment,” picked up the telephone, said, “Yes... hello... oh yes...”

She was silent for several seconds listening to the voice “Are you sure?... Have they made... you think it is?”

Again she was silent for several moments, then said, “I have a guest now... thanks... good-by,” and hung up the telephone.

She didn’t return immediately, but sat there at the telephone, looking down at the instrument. Then she sighed, walked back to Mason and said, “Well, Mr. Mason, I guess that’s all. You’ve had your field day and you’ve learned about the Las Vegas trip.”

Abruptly she blinked back tears.

“I’d like to know just what caused you to suspect...”

“I dare say you would, Mr. Mason, but I’m finished. I have no further comment.”

She got up, walked across to the hall door and held it open.

“Really,” Mason said, “I have tried to be considerate, Miss Granger. You’re going to have to tell this story at least to the police and...”

“You used that approach, Mr. Mason,” she said. “It got you the interview. It’s been used once and I no longer find it amusing or challenging. Good night.”

Mason arose from his chair, but didn’t at once leave the apartment.

“Is it,” he asked, “in order for me to inquire if I have said something that offended you?”

She said suddenly, “Will you get the hell out of here, Mr. Mason? I want to b-b-b-bawl, and I don’t want to have you sitting there looking at me while I do it.”

“In other words,” Mason said, not unkindly, “the telephone call was to advise you that they have found and identified Douglas Hepner’s body.”

She drew herself up, said, “So you knew that he was dead when you came here to interview me! You knew... Mr. Mason! I think I can hate you for that!”

Mason took a good long look at her face and then walked through the open door, out into the corridor.

The door slammed behind him.