The Case of the Lonely Heiress

Chapter 11

Mason and Della Street sat in the rear seat of the big police sedan. The chunky, uniformed cop who occupied the front seat had enormous shoulders, a thick neck, heavy forehead, small, deep-set eyes, a huge chin and a battered nose that had apparently been flattened and left largely to its own devices, so far as healing was concerned.

Mason leaned over to Della Street, said in a low voice, “Della, there’s one thing...”

“No whispering!” the officer growled.

“I was merely giving some instructions to my secretary.”

“Keep your voice up when you do! I’m supposed to listen in.”

“I don’t think anyone has any right to tell me what tone of voice I should talk in, or what instructions I should give to my secretary.”

The officer merely held open the door on the left side of the car, got out, opened the door at the back, climbed in and pushed Mason over to one side of the car and said, “Get over, Buddy. I’ll sit between you. The ‘Loot’ said you weren’t to do any whispering, and when Tragg says you’re not to do any whispering, as far as I’m concerned, you’re not to whisper!”

Mason said, “Tragg has no right to order anything of that sort.”

“Okay. Have it your way. I don’t aim to stop you from doing anything that’s legal, so go right ahead and whisper. You can whisper across me. Whisper all you want.”

They sat in silence for several seconds. Then Mason said, “The verbal IQ of our esteemed contemporary of the governmental enforcement staff seems to be limited to the vernacular.”

“And so?” Della Street asked.

Mason, watching the officer’s expressionless countenance, said, “We might try polysyllabic circumlocution. The elimination of one of the subscribers to a clause of formal attestation enhances the importance of the remaining member of the trio who were present at the time of testamentary execution.”

“Now, what the hell!” the officer protested.

“Necessitating any remedial measures on our part?” Della Street inquired.

“Not necessarily remedial,” Mason said, “but precautionary.”

“In what way?”

“In view of the chirography transmitted yesterday, it might be well to ascertain specific details from the survivor of those present at the ceremonies incident to legalizing the cause of the testamentary controversy; and in the event I should be unavoidably detained, you might be able to expedite matters in that direction prior to interrogations by...”

“Say, bust it up. Bust it up!” the officer said. “What the hell’s the idea? Want me to get tough?”

“You certainly can’t put gags in our mouths, simply because Tragg wants us held for a while as material witnesses.”

“How the hell do I know what he wants you held as?” the officer asked. “I can sure as hell clap the bracelets on you, Mr. Mason, and handcuff you right around the pillar on that porch. And if you’re thinking of getting away from here any time soon, it’s going to make it a lot easier if I told the ‘Loot’ you weren’t trying to slip anything over. If I tell him you tried to foul me up with dictionary chatter, you’ll be here a long time.”

“Yes,” Della Street said, “I suppose that has its points, and, anyhow, on that one matter I see no need for additional clarification.”

“Who are you talking to? Me?” the officer asked.

Della Street nodded.

“Well, when you want to sing to me, make it a straight solo. Don’t warble, just sing.”

Della Street laughed. “Pardon me, I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“Nothing.”

Della Street turned to Mason. “Possibly a matter of emergency might result in a portion of the clerical force incident to the transaction of your business being liberated for the purpose of...”

“Oh, nuts!” the officer said. “You folks keep asking for it! Now, shut up. Another word out of either one of you and I’ll separate you so you won’t have a chance to talk.”

He climbed back into the front of the car, pressed the button which brought in the car police radio and said, “Car ninety-one car ninety-one. Ring Lieutenant Tragg. Tell him the two birds I’m holding at his orders insist on singing funny tunes. What does he want to do about it?”

“Car ninety-one,” a voice asked, “relaying a message to Lieutenant Tragg?”

“That’s right. You know where he is. There’s a phone there. Get him.”

Mason said, “After all, our conversation was merely a...”

“Shut up!”

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, of course, if that’s the way you...”

“I said shut up, and meant it!”

Mason winked at Della Street, lapsed into silence.

The officer swung around in the seat, his beady, deep-set eyes regarding them in sullen appraisal.

A few moments later the door of the flat where Rose Keeling had been murdered opened and Lieutenant Tragg hurried across the porch and down to the car. “What’s the trouble?” he asked.

The officer gestured with his thumb. “These two birds keep on singing,” he said. “I broke up the whispering, and then they started a lot of dictionary stuff, back and forth, stuff that was over my head.”

“All right, Mason,” Tragg said. “I thought you could take a hint. I see you can’t. Get out!”

“But, Lieutenant, I was merely...”

“Get out!”

The officer opened the door, reached in and grabbed the lapels of Mason’s coat and said, “When the ‘Loot’ says out, he means out. You coming?”

“I’m coming,” Mason said.

“Come with me,” Tragg ordered.

Mason followed him up to the porch. Tragg turned abruptly, said, “Wait a minute, I have some instructions to give the officer.”

Mason sat on the rail of the porch while Tragg moved part way down the cement walk which led to the sidewalk.

Tragg and the officer conversed in low tones for a moment or two, then the officer started back toward the car. Tragg returned to Mason. “What were you two trying to put over, Mason?”

Mason said, “I feel I’ve been inconvenienced about enough. After all, Lieutenant, I’ve told you all I know, and I have work to do.”

Tragg nodded.

“Moreover,” Mason said, “there’s a lot of stuff at the office that Miss Street has to take care of.”

Tragg pursed his lips, started to say something, checked himself.

“One of us has to get back,” Mason insisted.

Tragg apparently changed his mind. He called out suddenly to the officer in the police car, “Take Miss Street up to Mr. Mason’s office, leave her there and then follow instructions.”

“Okay,” the big officer said, and almost immediately little puffs of smoke began to come from the exhaust of the big police car.

“You can come back upstairs with me,” Tragg said to Mason. “I want to talk with you a little further.”

“Only too glad to oblige,” Mason said.

The big police car rocketed into motion.

“I’d like to get her there in one piece,” Mason said.

“Oh, sure, sure,” Tragg assured him casually. “That officer will handle her as though she were a crate of eggs. He’s one of the best drivers in the business.”

“He seemed unduly suspicious.”

“That depends on what you mean by ‘unduly,’ ” Tragg said. “He said you were trying to whisper.”

“I wanted to give Della Street some instructions about a business matter.”

“You can trust our discretion.”

Mason said, “I don’t have to trust anyone’s discretion. I have a right to run my business, and I certainly don’t have to broadcast instructions to my secretary over a police network...”

“Okay, okay,” Tragg interrupted, “no hard feelings, Mason. I merely wanted to make sure I had a straight story out of you. Now, let’s take a few minutes here, and then I see no reason why you can’t be on your way. Show me just how this door was standing partially open when you came here.”

Mason said, “Now, I’m not certain about that, Tragg. I thought I heard a buzzer somewhere, and — you know how these electric buzzers release a door catch.”

Tragg, watching Mason narrowly, nodded his head. “Go on,” he said curtly.

“Well,” Mason said. “I rang the bell and then I thought I heard a buzzer. I can’t be absolutely certain of it. I pressed against the door, and the door opened, so I naturally assumed my ring had been answered.”

“You don’t know whether the door was ajar or not?”

“I acted rather mechanically. I heard what I thought was a buzzer, and pushed the door.”

“You don’t think it was a buzzer now?”

Mason said, “A dead woman can hardly push a buzzer button.”

“That’s right,” Tragg said, and then added after a moment, “You had Della Street with you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, Mason, you wouldn’t want to suppress any evidence.”

“What do you mean — evidence?”

“Just what I said.”

“I take it,” Mason said, “that you are referring to evidence concerning the murder. As far as any other evidence is concerned, I not only have a right to suppress it, but it becomes my duty to do so.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I’m supposed to protect the interests of my clients. I’m supposed to keep their confidences.”

“Their confidences, yes, but that doesn’t mean you can suppress any evidence.”

“I can suppress evidence of anything I damn please,” Mason said, “just so it isn’t evidence that points to a crime.”

“There might be a difference of opinion,” Tragg said, “as to what evidence points to a crime and what doesn’t.”

“Perhaps.”

“I wouldn’t want you to think you had the final decision in that matter.”

“You think I’m holding something back?”

Tragg said, “I’m interested in how you got in, that’s all.”

“I told you.”

“Obviously, you must have been mistaken when you say you thought you heard the buzzer.”

“That, of course, is a logical conclusion.”

“Do you know of any motive for the murder?” Tragg asked.

“I had never even met the woman.”

“Nurse, wasn’t she?”

“So I understand.”

Tragg said, “Well, sit down here, Mason. I’ll be finished with you in a few minutes. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve checked up on some stuff in here.”

Mason sat down in a chair in the living room and Tragg went back to the bedroom. Mason, from time to time, saw brief white flashes of light in the hall as the photographer in the bedroom shot off flash bulbs. The lawyer impatiently looked at his watch, nervously pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket, snapped it open, struck a match and started smoking.

The officer who was standing in the doorway on guard said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Mason, you can put that burnt match in your pocket. It might be confusing if you dropped it in an ashtray.”

Mason nodded, and pushed the burnt match down into his pocket.

The door from the south bedroom opened, and Tragg said, “All right, Mason, I don’t think there’s any need to detain you any longer. You have your car here?”

“Yes,” Mason said.

“We’ve got nothing more to ask you right at the present time. You can’t remember anything else?”

“I think I’ve told you all I can,” Mason said.

“Okay,” Tragg said breezily, “on your way,” and to the officer at the door, “Let Mr. Mason out.”

Mason said good afternoon to Tragg, walked past the officer, down the stairs, walked a half block to where he had parked his car, got in and drove until he saw a sign announcing a telephone pay station.

Mason dropped a coin, dialed his office, and in a matter of seconds had Gertie on the line.

“Quick, Gertie,” Mason said, “I want to get the address of Ethel Furlong, the other witness to that will, and...”

Gertie’s voice was sharp with excitement. “Della Street’s already got it. She went tearing out there in a taxi. It’s way out on South Montet Avenue — number 6920.”

“Thanks,” Mason said. “Don’t let anyone know where I am. In case the police should telephone, simply tell them I haven’t showed up at the office yet but that you’re expecting me. You say Della went out in a taxi?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago did she leave?”

“About three or four minutes ago. The police brought her to the office. She said they certainly gave her one wild ride. That big cop goes like mad, and, of course, with the siren...”

“I understand,” Mason said, “I presume I can get there about as soon as she does.”

“Mr. Mason, can you tell me what’s happened? Della Street was in too much of a hurry...”

“I am, too,” Mason said. “It’ll keep. Just close up the office at five, Gertie, and go on home.”

“Aw gee, Mr. Mason, I’d like to stay if there’s anything I can do.”

“I don’t think there is. I’ll phone you if I need you. Good-by.”

Mason jumped in his car and made time out to the cross-town boulevard. It was a twenty-minute drive to where South Montet Avenue crossed the boulevard in the fifty-two-hundred block.

Mason turned right, and had only gone two blocks when he overtook the taxicab in which Della Street was riding.

Mason drew alongside and pressed the button of his horn.

Della looked up, first with apprehension, then with glad surprise. She tapped on the glass, signaling the driver to stop.

When the driver had brought his cab to a stop, Della Street paid him off and climbed in with Mason.

“How did you do?” Mason asked her.

“Swell, but my gosh, I had a wild ride up to the office!”

“The cop try to pump you?”

“No.”

“Not a word?”

“No.”

“Try to date you?”

“No.”

Mason said, “There’s something funny about that chap, but I don’t know what it is. Now let’s go to see what Ethel Furlong has to say.”

They found the number to be an apartment house on the west side of the street. Della Street ran her hand down the list of cards and said, “Here she is — apartment 926.”

She pressed the bell repeatedly.

There was no answer.

Mason frowned. “Just our luck not to have her home, Della. Press one of the other buttons. We’ll see if we can’t get someone to let us in.”

Della Street pressed two or three buttons at random, and, after a moment, someone buzzed the catch on the outer door.

Della Street and Mason entered the building and took the elevator to the ninth floor.

As they approached the door of 926, Della Street said, “There’s an envelope pinned to the door.”

“Probably a note saying when she’ll be back,” Mason said.

They walked rapidly down the corridor. Della Street, in the lead, said, “It’s an envelope addressed to you, Chief.”

Mason said incredulously, “It has my name on it?”

“That’s right.”

Della Street handed him the envelope, which had on the outside the words, “Mr. Perry Mason,” written in the even, regular strokes of a literate hand.

Mason pulled back the flap on the envelope. “Still damp,” he said. “It was sealed only a minute or two ago.”

He unfolded the note, read the message and then suddenly broke into laughter.

“What is it?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “I’ll read it to you:

Della Street said indignantly, “Why, the dirty...!”

Mason, grinning broadly, said, “It shows the danger of judging people by the way they look. He sat there and played dumb and let us tell him all of our plans.”

“Just where does that leave us?” Della Street asked.

“Temporarily,” Mason said, “it leaves us behind the eightball.”

“And what do we do now?”

“Return to the office,” Mason said, “and start Paul Drake doing a lot of leg work. And the next time we meet a ‘dumb’ cop, Della, we’ll forget the broken nose and cauliflower ear, and look him over to see if he has a Phi Beta Kappa key hanging from his watch chain. Let’s go.”