The Case of the Half-Wakened Wife

Chapter 17

Perry Mason entered the elevator with a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. His shoulders were back, his head up. The worry of the day before had completely vanished and his step was light, his eyes twinkling.

He stopped on his way to his own office to look in at Paul Drake’s office.

“The boss wants to see you just as soon as he possibly can,” the girl at the switchboard told him. “He’s in there, waiting.”

Mason grinned. “In other words, I suppose the papers have been served on him. Okay, I’ll go on in.”

Paul Drake looked up as Mason entered, “Hello, Perry. Seen the papers?”

“What about ’em?”

“We’re being sued for two hundred and fifty thousand smackers.”

Mason stretched, yawned, “Lawsuits are cheap.”

Drake said bitterly, “I’m going to throw away those skeleton keys and never carry them again as long as I live.”

“You’ve said that before, Paul,” Mason replied, “but you know you can’t throw them away. It’s too complete a collection.”

“Don’t kid yourself. I’m going to go down to the longest wharf on the waterfront and throw ’em as far as I can hurl. Tell me, Perry. What is this case? How serious is it?”

Mason said, “Probably publicity on the part of the police.”

“See the pictures of the picnic, Perry?”

“No. Where?”

“The Times has an exclusive on ’em. The gal had a camera along.”

“The deuce she did!”

“Uh huh. The gal must be a good photographer. She got some swell pictures. One of ’em even shows the ice on the blanket. A nice jolt for us, eh? The pictures were taken with a delayed action release, shows them both. A jury will like ’em — nice picture.”

Mason said, “Cheer up, Paul. It’s all a part of yesterday’s tough luck. Yesterday was Friday the thirteenth. It’s gone now. We’ve got a new day, Saturday the fourteenth. Get your fingerprint outfit, will you? I want you to come into the office and do a job.”

“On what?”

“On the telephone I took from my stateroom on Parker Benton’s yacht.”

“Did you use the telephone?”

“Yes. But I think somebody else used it after I did.”

“Who?”

“Shelby. Apparently mine was the only vacant stateroom.”

Drake said, “For the love of Mike, Perry, wake up. Forget that telephone business. That woman never did get any telephone call. She knew that her husband was on deck. My guess is that he was on deck with that Marjorie Stanhope. The wife was doing a little eavesdropping and probably heard plenty. I guess Shelby was quite a rounder. He may have been using the oil lease as a little leverage to help him make a noise like a wolf. Marion Shelby simply parked around there until after the party broke up and then bumped her husband off.”

“Come on,” Mason said, “we’ll conduct our post-mortems after we know more. Let’s see if we can develop some latents on the telephone.”

“How the heck are we going to get Shelby’s fingerprints for comparison when they haven’t got the body?”

“The police will have developed a set of fingerprints from his apartment.”

“Maybe. But they won’t turn them over to anybody. After the body is discovered, we can get the fingerprints from the coroner’s office.”

“Well,” Mason said, “come on, let’s go down and take a look at that telephone instrument anyway.”

Drake picked up a small satchel, said, “I suppose you’ll want a fingerprint camera too. Anyhow I’ll take one.” He picked up a long, oblong black covered box.

Mason held the door open for him and they went down the corridor. Mason unlocked the door of his private office, smiled at Della and said, “How are you feeling this morning, Della?”

“Like a million dollars. Seen the picnic pictures, Chief?”

“Not yet. Where’s that bag with the telephone, Della?”

Della Street opened the safe, took out the bag. Mason opened the bag and took out the telephone, being careful not to leave his fingerprints on the instrument.

Drake dusted the instrument with a white powder while Mason looked at the picnic pictures in the newspaper.

At length Drake said, “Well, we’ve got some nice latents here — whoever made ’em. They’re sharp as a tack, and...”

He broke off as the telephone rang and Della answered it.

“For you, Paul,” Della Street said, pushing the telephone at Paul Drake.

Drake picked up the receiver, said, “Hello... Hub?... The hell they did... When?”

He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the transmitter, looked up at Perry Mason. His face held stupefied surprise. “They’ve recovered Scott Shelby’s body, Perry! Dragged it out of the river.”

“The devil they did!” Mason said incredulously.

“A thirty-eight bullet in the base of his skull,” Drake went on.

“What time?” Mason asked.

“What time?” Drake asked into the telephone.

He turned to Perry Mason. “Eleven-fifty-nine last night, Perry.”

Mason said whimsically, “Friday the thirteenth had to take one last wallop. This looks like the pay-off, Paul.”