The Case of the Half-Wakened Wife

Chapter 16

When Della Street returned to the office, four hours’ sleep and a short session at the beauty parlor had done wonders for her. She fitted her key in the exit door of Mason’s private office, clicked back the lock and was two steps in the room before she suddenly recoiled in surprise at the sight of the figure slumped over in the swivel chair at the desk.

“Chief! What’s the matter?”

He shook his head.

“You haven’t... My gosh! You haven’t shaved, you haven’t slept... What happened?”

“I stuck my neck out and got it stepped on. I’m trying to think, and I can’t make the grade. I can’t get a starting point.”

“You mean that Scott Shelby wasn’t there. Gosh, I’ve been so worried about it I’d’ve called up but I felt certain you’d be at a Turkish bath and asleep.”

Mason shook his head, said, “It’s the damnedest thing you ever ran into, Della.”

“What is?”

Mason said, “All my life I’ve been claiming that circumstantial evidence didn’t lie, that people simply put it together wrong, and then I went off half cocked and swallowed a whole mess of circumstantial evidence, and it’s given me legal indigestion.”

“But what about the man in the bedroom, and...”

“It wasn’t the bedroom. It was the kitchen. Her mother was in the bedroom. She met her boy friend at the door, took him into the kitchen. He was going to cook breakfast for them. They were getting married and he wanted to get in solid with the old lady, I guess.”

“You mean she went to the kitchen window in her robe?”

“That’s right. It was the kitchen window all right. Tragg stuck his head out of the bedroom window later, and Drake’s operative figured that was the kitchen window. He’d got ’em mixed because Ellen Cushing went to the kitchen window in her robe. I guess she was wrapping it around her as she put down the window. The only thing I found out from the whole business is that probably Marjorie Stanhope’s boy friend, the crippled soldier, went to Shelby’s office and bawled him out.”

“When?”

“Apparently yesterday morning, shortly before the invitations to the yachting trip were issued. But I can’t make anything out of that. They were having a row.”

“How do you know that?”

“Arthur Lacey, Ellen Cushing’s boy friend saw the crippled soldier — but I’m even afraid to trust the circumstantial evidence on that. It was just some cripple who was bawling Shelby out because he’d lost a chance to buy into a grocery business.”

Della said, “That must have been Frank Bomar, all right.”

“I suppose so. Can’t see that it makes such a lot of difference. I’ll have Paul Drake check on it.”

Della perched herself on the corner of the desk. “Tell me everything that happened.”

Mason said, “I made myself ridiculous. I ran into a whole flock of coincidences. I certainly led with my chin. If Dorset hears about it, and he will, he’ll probably talk the girl into doing something that’ll make headlines.”

“Why?”

“So it’ll hurt my case. You know, make it look as though I had been trying to draw a red herring across the trail.”

“What about Tragg?”

“He’s sore.”

“Do you mean to tell me there’s an explanation for those wet shoes of Scott Shelby’s being found.”

“They aren’t his shoes. They’re Lacey’s.”

Della Street sighed. “Begin at the beginning and tell me the whole business. Will you, please?”

Mason told her. When he had finished her face was bleak with disappointment. “Gosh, Chief, and I thought you had it solved.”

Mason nodded gloomily. “I thought so myself — and here she turns up with alibis and witnesses. The whole thing is just one of those traps circumstantial evidence will set for you once in a while. So far it’s been the district attorney’s office that has walked into ’em. Now I know how they must have felt when I’ve showed ’em up. I feel like hell myself, now that the shoe is on the other foot.”

“Look, Chief, you can’t do any good for anyone sitting here and thinking around in circles. Go get shaved, and then get that Turkish bath. Tomorrow you’ll be able to see a way out.”

“I’m not certain that I will, Della. This is one of those nightmare cases... Gosh what a day! Everything I touch goes sour... Friday, the thirteenth! I’ll say it’s unlucky.”

Della said, “Okay, if it’s unlucky, let’s just sit it out. The big rush is over now. Anything that’s left will wait until tomorrow.”

“I’m not so certain.”

“Perhaps,” Della said, “you had the right idea, but the wrong woman. Remember, the man is a gay Lothario. If he’s trying to get out from matrimony and skip away with a siren he doesn’t necessarily have to go with the Cushing woman.”

“But she has the oil lease.”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you see? He’ll need someone who can act as his stooge to salvage what cash can be squeezed out of the things he couldn’t peddle before he made his plunge. That means his accomplice will have to be able to cash in. Hang it, it all points to the Cushing woman, but I sure ran into an avalanche when I tried to nail it down.”

“Any chance any of that could have been framed?” Della asked.

“Not a chance. The mother looks like her. There are witnesses. I’m having Drake check on them, but it’s just one of those things — that kitchen window! And Drake’s man jumped at the wrong conclusion, thought it was the bedroom. I tell you, Della, the thing is hoodooed. It’s jinxed, the whole case.”

She laughed. “That’s the way it looks now, but...”

The telephone rang.

Mason said, “See who it is, will you Della? I don’t want to see anyone unless it’s terribly important.”

“I’ll tell the world you don’t want to see anyone,” she said, looking at him critically. “You’d frighten all your business away from the office. They’d think you’d been on a drunk for a week.”

She picked up the telephone, said, “What is it, Gertie? I just came in. The Chief doesn’t want to be disturbed... What?... Oh, just a minute, I’ll ask him.”

She turned from the telephone and said to Mason, “There’s a deputy sheriff out there. Says that he has to see you on a matter that’s very important, that it will only take a minute but that it may make quite a difference to you.”

Mason said, “Show him in. It may be a break.”

“Shoot him on in,” Della said and hung up the telephone. She walked over to open the door to the outer office.

The deputy sheriff, a short stubby man with keen gray eyes and a yellowish gray mustache, came marching into the office. He held papers in his hand. And, something in the manner in which he walked towards Mason’s desk, tipped the lawyer off to the nature of his errand.

“Oh, oh,” Mason said. “Here it comes, Della.”

The deputy sheriff said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason but I have to serve papers on you. It’s all in a day’s work. You’re a lawyer, you know how it is.”

“What’s the case?” Mason asked.

“Ellen Cushing versus Perry Mason and Paul Drake. Suit for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars defamation of character.”

Mason looked bored. “Tell me some more about it,” he invited.

“Well, she claims that you attempted to make a frameup and use her as a red herring in order to get Marion Shelby out of a murder charge and she doesn’t intend to stand for it. One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in actual damages and a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for exemplary or punitive damages. Claims that she’s about to be married and almost lost her husband on account of it. That you pried into her private affairs, insisted on searching her apartment without a warrant, conspired to get officers to falsely accuse her of crime, claimed she’d spent the night with a man in her bedroom. It’s quite a smear. Guess you know the lawyers on the other side. Attica, Hoxie and Meade. A firm of smooth shysters.”

“Served Paul Drake yet?” Mason asked the deputy.

“Not yet, he wasn’t in his office. I’ll get him.”

Mason said, “Drake’s going to hit the ceiling. I suppose the newspapers know about it.”

“I’ll say they do! They’re giving the gal a great play. Taking pictures with a lot of cheesecake and romantic stuff. Her and her future husband getting a marriage license and all that sort of stuff.”

“Where is she now?”

“Last I heard she was in Sergeant Dorset’s office. He’s sort of master of ceremonies. That was one o’clock, I guess.”

“I gathered he might be,” Mason said.

The deputy sheriff, having disposed of his official duty said, “If you ask me, I think it’s a crummy trick. From all I could gather, you tried to give the officers a little help and they turned it into a boomerang and then did everything they could — to get publicity so it would put you in the doghouse. Attica sure rushed this case.”

“Oh, well,” Mason said shrugging, “when you start fighting a man, you have to expect to be hit. I’ve dished it out a lot in my time and I guess I should be able to take it.”

The officer shook hands, said, “Well, you know where I stand, Mr. Mason.”

“Thanks,” Mason said.

“No hard feelings over the papers?”

Mason laughed, “Heavens no!”

“Okay, just wanted to be sure you felt that way about it. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Mason said.

The man went out. Della Street looked at Perry Mason with dismayed eyes. “My gosh, Chief, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”

“Sure,” Mason said bitterly, “it doesn’t cost anything to put lots of ciphers after figures and that makes it look better for the newspaper notoriety.”

“What will this do?”

“It depends on whom you’re thinking about.”

“Marion Shelby.”

“It won’t do her any good,” Mason admitted. “And if you want to think in terms of Paul Drake... There’s something for you. Imagine Drake when this bird serves the summons on him.”

Mason picked up the papers, glanced through the complaint. Once or twice muttered under his breath, “The damned shysters... Oh-oh.”

“What is it now?” Della asked.

“Just found something.”

“What?”

“Listen to this,” Mason said, and read from the complaint, “Plaintiff is informed and believes and upon such information alleges the fact to be that the said defendants and each of them willfully, unlawfully and feloniously, and without proper authorization, by means of skeleton keys or otherwise, surreptitiously entered the plaintiff’s garage, and while in said garage, and by means of such unlawful entry, uncovered certain articles, and that the basis of the said accusation made as aforesaid to the said Lieutenant Tragg was entirely founded upon this so-called evidence, produced and inspected at the time of such unlawful and illegal entry. All of which, plaintiff alleges, constitutes circumstances of oppression sufficient to warrant the imposition of punitive or exemplary damages.”

Della said, “Well you’re going to get out of here and go get some sleep before Paul Drake comes in to cry on your shoulder.”

Mason shoved the papers in his pocket. “On the contrary, Della, we’re going on a picnic. Sleep can wait.”

“A picnic?”

Mason nodded. “We’re going to the same place where Ellen Cushing went yesterday. It’s a country estate that she has listed for sale.”

“Well?”

Mason said, “The property has a lake on it.”

“And you want to go there?”

Mason said, “I want to go there very very much. I’m going down and get a shave. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. You try to get the information. She is probably advertising the place in the papers. If you can get a description that looks good, find out how to get there.”

“What’s the idea?” she asked.

Mason said, “People who go on picnics leave paper plates and empty cans and papers and all sorts of things. I’m going out and look over that picnic place. I want to see if they were telling the truth.”

“Suppose you don’t find anything? Then what?”

“Then,” Mason said, “I’m going to slap a subpoena on her for a deposition, and when I take her deposition, I’m really going to ask questions.”

“And suppose you find they actually were out there on a picnic?”

“Things can’t be any worse than they are now.”

Della Street smiled, “Okay. You go get your shave. I’ll start digging out information.”

Twenty minutes later Mason returned to find Della Street studying a map.

“Get it?” he asked.

“I think I have it. It’s a place out about fifteen miles back of Pleasantville, four hundred acres in it and they want twenty thousand dollars.”

“A lake?”

“A lake, some woods, and a spring. I don’t think it’s too much of a lake. The spring feeds it but it’s described as something that can be fitted up into a nice swimming pool.”

Mason said, “Let’s go.”

“It will be dark before we get back.”

“What do we care? I’ve got some flashlights in the car.”

“Chief, you should have some sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when this is over,” Mason said. “Let’s get going.”

She recognized both his restlessness and the seriousness of the situation so made no further objection.

Mason crowded the speed limit all the way to Pleasantville, then followed Della Street’s directions and after a mile and a half of a dirt road, they came to a rustic gateway and a sign FOR SALE — Inquire of E. B. CUSHING, LICENSED REAL ESTATE BROKER and below that was her office address.

As they turned in through the rustic gate, Della Street said, “There’s been a car in here recently.”

Mason nodded. “I noticed the tracks. Doesn’t look so good, Della.”

“No?”

“No,” Mason said. “Ellen Cushing’s car had one brand new tire on the right front and the left front was worn almost smooth. Apparently her car made those tracks.”

The sun had reached that point in the western heavens where it seemed to pause before taking its final dip below the horizon. The valleys were filled with purple shadows, while the tops of the rolling hills were tinged with reddish gold illumination. The light also was at just the right angle to bring out most effectively the characteristics of tire tracks. Mason studied them briefly.

Mason stopped the car and helped Della Street out. “Where,” he asked, “do we go for our picnic, Della?”

She said, “I think the lake is off here to the right. It is supposed to be up a trail through a patch of woodland.”

They followed a trail which wound up a slope beneath huge live oaks. The trail curved to the right and then doubled back sharply to the left.

Della Street exclaimed at the sheer beauty of the scene before them.

The lake, some hundred and fifty feet long by a hundred wide, reflected the reddish glow of massed clouds in the western heavens. Back of the lake on the east was a hill and from this hill a spring fed a small stream which trickled down over granite rocks under oak trees. There was no wind and the lake was a vivid mirror of growing color.

Della Street stood drinking in the beauty of the scene. Mason, at her side, slipped his arm around her shoulders, held her close to his side as they stood watching the sunset.

“What a perfect place for a proposal!” Della Street exclaimed, then laughed nervously. “I’m beginning to think she was telling the truth, Chief.”

Mason said, “The cold feeling in the pit of my stomach still persists. Let’s take a look around, Della, before it gets dark.”

They walked around the shore of the lake, found no difficulty whatever in locating the spot where the picnic had taken place.

The picnickers had been careless, not unusually so, but paper plates were still in evidence, an empty tin which had contained olives caught the reflection of the clouds and glowed with reddish brilliance. An attempt had been made to dispose of surplus garbage by digging a hole, but the hole had been left uncovered and Mason, using a little chip of wood as a scoop, carefully brought out the remnants of a meal, bread crusts, olive pits, and a quantity of what had evidently been creamed tuna, below which was macaroni and cheese of the type dispensed by delicatessen stores; there were also some bags which had contained potato chips and the peeled shells from hard boiled eggs.

After a few moments of studying the results of his scavenging, Mason tossed the chip away, got to his feet, said, “Well, Della, this Friday the thirteenth certainly has been my unlucky clay.”

Della Street slipped her hand into his. “I hate to add to it Chief... But the board’s over here, the one he used for a raft.”

Mason saw a rough slab of board floating in the lake, a board which had originally been cut to generous proportions, eighteen inches wide, two inches thick, and perhaps some five feet long. Some round limbs from a dead oak had been crudely lashed to the bottom in order to form a raft which looked capable of supporting one’s weight.

Mason turned abruptly away.

Silently they walked around to the far edge of the lake, then paused to look at the after colors of sunset. Della Street glanced questioningly at Mason.

The lawyer wearily settled down on the grassy slope, looked up at the clouds which had now turned crimson.

They sat there in silence, close together, each preoccupied with his own thoughts. Mason turning over and over in his mind the murder case, Della Street from time to time glancing up at Mason’s granite-hard profile, his level-lidded concentration.

At length Mason lay back, put his hands under his head, looked up at the heavens and said wearily, “Let’s wait for the first star, Della. Then we’ll go.”

She moved around, raised his head, put it on her lap, smoothed back the thick wavy hair from his tired forehead.

Mason closed his eyes. “That feels swell,” he muttered.

She placed the tips of her fingers over his eyelids, softly drew them around the edges, then gave a gentle pressure against the sides of his head just back of the eyes.

Mason drew in a deep breath, exhaled it in a sigh, relaxed until the furrows left his forehead, said almost dreamily, “Call me when you see the first star, Della.”

Ten seconds later he was asleep.

Della let him sleep until the stars were blazing brilliantly, until the evening air began to have a suggestion of chill, then she wakened him.

“The first star, Chief,” she said.

“Della... Good Lord, what time is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s not too late.”

“You should have wakened me.”

“I was asleep myself,” she lied.

“Honest?”

“Uh huh.”

“Gosh, Della... Where are the flashlights?”

“Over here.”

“It’s going to be dark.”

“That’s all right. We can find our way down the trail.”

“Well,” Mason said, “let’s go back and call it a day, Della.”

Della said, “You know, Chief, I’ve been thinking.”

“What?”

“The fact that this Cushing woman was telling the truth, the fact that they did come out here and did have their picnic doesn’t necessarily affect anything that Scott Shelby did or didn’t do. After all, he’d made a perfect setup to duck out and leave his wife framed with a murder.”

“But why?” Mason asked.

“That’s something we’ll have to find out. I can’t help but think your reasoning is correct. We just tied it up with the wrong party, that’s all. He must have had some other woman.”

“Perhaps, yet, somehow I doubt if he did. I’m beginning to feel now that there’s something I’ve overlooked... And yet the case against Marion Shelby is just too bulletproof. I can’t help but think Shelby is alive.”

Della Street said, “You could be wrong?”

“Of course. Why do you ask in just that tone of voice?”

“Because, somehow, I feel he was murdered. I have a hunch he... well, you know... The murder was committed on the yacht. It must have been.”

Mason said, “If he’s really dead, I’m licked, Della — and licked good and plenty. Oh well, let’s go. We’ll see what turns up tomorrow.”

Mason played his flashlight along the ground in front, said, “You walk ahead, Della, and I’ll hold the flashlight slightly to one side and... What’s that in your hand?”

She said, “A hollow tube of lead. It’s a sinker. Someone evidently was fishing. I picked it up for luck.” She handed it to him. “Keep it and see if it doesn’t give us a break.”

“Luck on Friday the thirteenth?”

“Why not? After all, Chief, Scott Shelby was a man of parts. He didn’t confine his attentions to one woman. His whole record shows that. Ellen Cushing thought that she was the whole show, but the probabilities are that he was making passes at her just to keep his hand in. Let’s see if some other woman wasn’t the one who waited out there in a rowboat and picked him up.”

Mason said, “You might have something there. The thing that makes the Cushing woman so plausible is that oil lease.”

They walked silently down the pathway. Mason held the door open for Della, fumbled for his ignition keys.

“Okay?” she asked.

“I think I forgot something,” he said.

“What?”

He grasped her shoulders, pulled her towards him, kissed her, then held her close to him.

She sighed when he released her. “It should have gone with the sunset,” she laughed, but her voice was wistful.

“Better late than never,” he told her. “I’m going to quit taking my cases so seriously if they make me unable to concentrate on the things that are worthwhile in life.”

“Don’t go to extremes,” she laughed. “Just dismiss it from your mind until tomorrow.”