The Case of the Lonely Heiress

Chapter 4

Perry Mason and Della Street entered the big terminal depot, Mason carrying an empty suitcase and a small traveling bag, Della Street equipped with an overnight bag and carrying a coat over her arm. The hour was five minutes to six.

“How are we doing?” Mason asked.

“Fine,” she said. “There are two seats over there to the left.”

Mason followed Della Street over to the two vacant seats, placed his bags in front of his feet and ostentatiously displayed a timetable which he studied with frowning concentration.

Della Street, with an attitude of assumed travel weariness, kept Mason posted on developments.

“If Paul Drake has men scattered around here,” she said, “I’m so dumb I can’t spot them.”

“Of course not,” Mason said over his timetable. “A detective who could be spotted as a detective wouldn’t be worth a hoot to Paul Drake.”

“Aren’t people who are intelligent supposed to be able to pick out a detective?” Della Street asked.

“They’re supposed to,” Mason said, “but they can’t.”

“Well, here comes the bait,” Della said. “Gosh, he’s a good-looking boy.”

Mason glanced up over his timetable.

A tall, awkward lad, about twenty-four or twenty-five, wearing an expression of open-eyed credulity, attired in a suit which somehow seemed just a little too small for him, walked diffidently up to the information desk. There was a white carnation in his right lapel, and his face was darkened with what appeared to be a deep tan.

“Gosh,” Della Street whispered, “he’s perfect.”

“We’ll see if he gets the heiress,” Mason said. “Have you spotted her?”

“Gosh, no, and I’m looking all around, too.”

“Don’t overdo it,” Mason said.

“I’m not, I’m just a weary housewife who has had to go through all of the strain of packing and hurrying to get away to go to San Francisco and visit Aunt Matilda. I’m pretty tired, but I’m still interested in the people around me and keyed up with anticipation for the trip.”

“That’s the idea,” Mason said, “only don’t take too much interest in the people around you.”

Mason folded the timetable, got up and took one of his bags over to the parcel-checking locker, placed the bag in the locker, took out the key after depositing his dime, then returned to his seat beside Della Street. He unfolded an evening newspaper. “All right,” he said, “keep me posted,” and forthwith apparently became engrossed in the news of the horse races.

The activity of the terminal depot flowed past them in an unceasing stream. People walked aimlessly toward the train gates, only to turn and walk aimlessly back, waiting for arrivals and departures. Other people plodded wearily to seats, apparently waiting in between trains. There were others who seemed anxiously awaiting trains where they were to meet friends or relatives. Here and there businessmen and seasoned travelers bustled about, sending telegrams, placing last-minute calls in the telephone booths, putting hand baggage into the custody of red caps before boarding trains. In contrast to these crisply energetic travelers were the tired ones who waited, slumped down on the hard benches, wrapped in weary lethargy.

“Oh, oh!” Della Street suddenly whispered. “Wait a minute! I think I have her spotted. The brunette in the plaid skirt. Take a look at her, Chief.”

“Just a minute,” Mason said. “Get your eyes off her, Della, so that I can look up casually over the top of the newspaper. She may be suspicious.”

Della Street said, “She’s directly in line with the parcel-checking window. Look a little over your left shoulder, Chief.”

Mason slightly lowered the newspaper, opened his mouth in a prodigious yawn, threw his head back, and, as he was yawning, studied the girl Della Street had indicated.

As Mason was watching her, she reached a decision, suddenly walked up to the man at the information desk, touched him on the arm and smiled sweetly at him.

Paul Drake’s operative raised a big, awkward hand to his hat, pulled it off and grinned with pleased embarrassment.

The pair talked for a moment, then the girl glanced swiftly around, said something to the man, and they left the terminal, turning toward the big doors through which people were streaming in and out.

Della Street, watching them in dismay, said, “Chief, they’re leaving!”

“Uh, huh.”

“But no one’s following them.”

“How do you know?”

“No one’s paying the slightest attention to them. Drake’s men must have fallen down on the job.”

“Don’t worry,” Mason said, “they’ll be on the job, all right.”

“Shouldn’t we try to see where they...”

“Definitely not,” Mason said, and stretched out once more to yawn wearily. Then he devoted himself to his newspaper.

“You’re the most exasperating person in the world at times!” Della Street said. “I’m burning with curiosity.”

“So I gathered.”

“And we don’t know anything more about who she is than we did before.”

“We’ve had a look at her,” Mason said. “That’s mainly what I wanted.”

“Just a glance,” she said. “You couldn’t possibly tell anything about her.”

“I can jump at conclusions,” Mason grinned. “They may be wide of the mark, but in any event they’re conclusions.”

“Such as what?”

“In the first place,” Mason said, “I don’t think she’s an adventuress. I have an idea she’s on the up-and-up. In the second place, she’s frightened about something. This meeting meant a lot more to her than might have been supposed. There was a look of relief on her face when she realized that this man was just the type she was looking for.”

Della Street thought that over, then said, “Yes, I guess there was, come to think of it... I can tell you something about her clothes. They’re simple clothes that really cost money. I wonder what sort of a car she’s driving.”

“Nine chances out of ten it’s a taxicab,” Mason said. “She wouldn’t take a chance on letting anyone get the license number of her car until after she’d had an opportunity to talk and size him up. Well, Della, I guess the show’s over. How about eating?”

“Now you’re really talking.”

A travel-weary woman, who had elicited Della Street’s sympathy, patiently pushed back the four-year-old boy who had been clinging to her knees. The man who was with her said, “I guess the train’s late. I’ll get Junior his ice cream cone.” He plodded away dispiritedly and returned in a moment with the ice cream cone. Then suddenly he veered over toward Perry Mason and Della Street.

“I’m supposed to make my report direct to Paul Drake,” he said, “but they’ve gone away in a taxicab. Since the contacting operative is with her, we followed instructions and didn’t make any attempt to tag along. I guess that’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

Mason smiled at Della Street.

“That is what Miss Street particularly wanted to know,” he said.