The Case of the Lonely Heiress

Chapter 6

At five o’clock, Gertie the receptionist and the two typists went home. At five-ten, Jackson, the law clerk, thrust an apologetic head into Mason’s private office. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Mason, I think I’ll leave early tonight.”

Mason smiled, glanced at his watch and said, “It’s ten minutes late now.”

“Early for me,” Jackson said. “I just can’t seem to get caught up with things.”

He was so deadly serious that Mason merely smiled and nodded.

At five-twenty, Mason pushed the law books and the brief back on his desk, said to Della Street, “Let’s call it a day, Della, and get a cocktail. I’ll drive you to your apartment, or, if you haven’t a date, I’ll buy you a cocktail and also a dinner.”

“You’ve sold a dinner,” Della Street told him. “Let’s have a cocktail down at that little place in the Spanish Quarter and then go over to the restaurant that’s run by your Chinese friend for dinner. I feel like spareribs sweet and sour, fried prawns and some pork noodles.”

“Simply ravenous, in other words,” Mason said, smiling.

“I have to keep my strength up to hold my nose on the grindstone — particularly with all these heiresses bobbing in and out of our lives.”

“Out is right,” Mason said.

They closed up the office, drove in Mason’s car down to the Spanish Quarter and sipped a Bacardi while they toyed with thin sheets of fried corn-flavored delicacies.

Della Street said, “You have your car here, and the depot’s only a couple of blocks away. Let’s drive around and pick up that bag you left in the parcel-checking locker last night. We were so worked up over the heiress, we drove away and left it.”

“Good idea,” Mason said. “I guess we’re all finished with those stage props. Hang it, I hate to be double-crossed by a client.”

“Of course you aren’t certain it was Caddo.”

“There was only one person,” Mason said, “who knew that Barstow was a detective and who also knew Marilyn Marlow’s address. That person was our esteemed contemporary, Robert Caddo. You can see what he did. He got Marilyn Marlow’s name and address. He left my office, took an hour or two to get details, then hatched a plan, called her up and told her that a detective was on her trail.”

“But the detective had indirectly been employed by him!"

“Naturally,” Mason said, “he didn’t tell her that. He posed as an unselfish friend who had taken a fatherly interest in her because the ad had appeared in his magazine.”

“I suppose it must have been Caddo,” Della said.

“Caddo,” Mason went on, “is just one of those things. His whole magazine business is a racket. I’m kicking myself I didn’t realize that right at the start. However, he enlisted my sympathy with his hard-luck story. I’m always a pushover for a client’s tale of woe... What time is it, Della?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Well, it’s a little early to eat, but — let’s go over and pick up the bag. Then we’ll have a Chinese dinner and by that time we can probably find a show we haven’t seen.”

Mason left two silver dollars on the table, escorted Della Street out of the restaurant and into his car. They drove to the terminal, and Mason parked the car.

“I like to watch people around a depot,” he said. “It’s fascinating. You can see so much of human nature that way. People aren’t on their guard when they’re dead-weary or when they’re completely removed from their usual environment. A person who lives here in the city feels he’s on his own home ground, no matter what part of the city he’s in, unless it’s the depot. But the minute he walks into the depot he’s started, so to speak, on a complete change of environment and he lets his guard down. He... Della, do you see what I see?"

“What?”

“Over there at the information desk,” Mason said.

“I don’t see anything. I... Oh!.. He has a white carnation.”

“In his right lapel,” Mason pointed out.

“Do you suppose he’s another candidate?”

“Evidently so,” Mason said. “She must make a habit of it — and, after all, why not? Having picked the best place for her to size up her prospective boy friends, there’s no particular reason why she should change it from night to night. If this is the best place for her purpose, any other place would be inferior, and... Let’s get that bag and then move over here and sit down where we can watch proceedings, Della.”

They found a couple of seats three rows back, but in such a position that they had a good view of what was going on at the information booth.

Della Street regarded the young man who was standing somewhat self-consciously in front of the information-booth barrier, and said, “He’s nowhere near as attractive as Kenneth Barstow.”

“Seems to be an upstanding young chap,” Mason said.

“But not attractive in the way that Barstow is. Tell me, Chief, have you known Barstow before?”

Mason shook his head. “Just one of Drake’s operatives. They come and go. That young fellow probably was in the war and hasn’t been back with Drake more than six months or so. I just haven’t had occasion to meet him, so I can’t answer your question.”

“What question?” Della Street asked, frowning.

“As to whether he’s married.”

She smiled. “I hadn’t asked it.”

“I merely told you I couldn’t answer it.”

They waited for a moment in silence, then Mason said, “I wonder if she’ll pass this one up. She’s probably sizing him up from some other part of the station, but I don’t want to try rubbering around. It’ll make us too conspicuous. Wait a minute, here she is, coming out from that telephone booth. That’s a good place for her. She can sit in there and size up the one she lines up.”

“She’s certainly going to a lot of trouble to get the perfect mate,” Della Street said.

“I’m afraid she’s not looking for a mate,” Mason observed thoughtfully.

“For what, then?”

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, “For someone to commit a murder, for all I know.”

Marilyn Marlow glanced quickly around the depot, then walked up toward the information desk.

“Certainly has a snaky figure,” Mason said.

“And how well she knows it,” Della Street said acidly. “She certainly dresses for it, and... well, here we go again.”

Marilyn Marlow walked up to the young man at the information desk. By this time that individual was rather absorbed in his own thoughts and it was necessary for her to touch his arm before, with a sudden quick jump, he whirled, to smile down at her, removing his hat in a single quick gesture of easy grace.

“That’s no boy from the country,” Della Street said. “That chap knows his way around. I’d like to know what he told her in his letter."

“Something that got a response,” Mason said, “and from what we know, that isn’t an easy thing to do. A hundred candidates a day! That’s quite a handicap — one chance in a hundred!”

The couple chatted for a moment, the man smiling affably and easily.

For a moment the girl seemed somewhat dubious. Her large dark eyes sized him up from head to foot in critical appraisal, then, apparently reaching a decision, she smiled an invitation to accompany her, and the two left the depot.

“Well, that’s that,” Della Street said. “I suppose it’s another taxicab and...”

Mason was crisply businesslike as he said, “We’ll make certain of that, Della.”

He arose and started for the exit.

“Want me with you?” Della Street asked.

“Uh huh, it’ll make it seem less conspicuous. When we get to the door, you pull back and argue with me to put through a telephone call to Aunt Myrtle. I won’t want to do it. That’ll give us an excuse to stand there without seeming to be gawking.”

She nodded and at Mason’s side walked out to the cement apron in front of the depot.

Marilyn Marlow and the young man were standing there, not saying anything at the moment.

“Come on,” Della Street pleaded in a loud voice, “you simply have to call Aunt Myrtle. She’ll never forgive us if she knows we went through town without calling her.”

“Oh, forget it,” Mason said. “Then we’d have to go out and spend all our time between trains sitting in a stuffy parlor and talking a lot of family stuff. Let’s look the city over and see what it’s like. It’s the first time we’ve ever been here.”

“No, we must call Aunt Myrtle. Perhaps we can go out after that.”

They were still arguing when a car pulled over to one side.

“Shucks,” Della Street said under her breath, “they can’t get a taxicab here. What are they waiting for? The taxicabs are around at the other end and...”

Abruptly Mason said, “All right, let’s go telephone Aunt Myrtle,” and putting his arm around Della Street swept her back toward the depot.

“What is it?” Della asked quickly.

“You might try looking back over your shoulder,” Mason said.

Della Street looked back. A car had driven up and stopped at the curb. Marilyn Marlow swept imperiously toward it and the young man, quickly reaching past her, opened the door and assisted her in, then climbed in beside her. The door slammed and the car moved away.

“Get a look at the chauffeur?” Mason asked.

“Good heavens, yes!” Della Street exclaimed. “It was Robert Caddo! And he was all dolled up in a chauffeur’s cap and a suit of livery!”