The Case of the Long-Legged Models

Chapter Nine

At two-fifteen the telephone in Mason’s private office rang and Della Street said, “Marie Barlow is on the phone, says it’s rather urgent.”

Mason nodded, took the telephone, said, “Hello, Marie. This is Perry Mason.”

“Oh, Mr. Mason, I’m so glad I caught you. Two officers of the Homicide Squad are here, Lt. Tragg and Sgt. Holcomb. They have a search warrant authorizing them to search Mr. Garvin’s office for bloodstains, blood-stained garments, or other evidentiary matters in connection with the perpetration of a homicide in connection with the death of one George Casselman. What do I do?”

“Dust off the chairs,” Mason said. “Invite them to make themselves at home. Tell them to search all they damn please. Have them give you an inventory of anything they take from the office. Give Sgt. Holcomb my compliments, and ask him to try to refrain from leaving burning cigarettes on the office tables and desks so they leave burnt smudges.”

“That should do it,” she said.

“That will do it,” Mason told her. “Telephone me when they leave.”

Mason hung up the phone, said to Della Street, “Well, here’s where trouble starts. I’m going down the hall to see Paul Drake. Call me there if anything breaks.”

Mason walked down the corridor, pushed open the door of the entrance office on which a sign read “DRAKE DETECTIVE AGENCY.” He said to the receptionist, “Paul in?”

She nodded.

“Busy?”

“No. Mr. Mason. Go right on down. Want me to announce you?”

“No need unless there’s someone with him.”

“He’s alone.”

Mason pushed open the gate which led to a corridor flanked by small, cubbyhole offices each just big enough to interview a witness in privacy or where an operative could prepare a typewritten report.

Drake’s office was down at the end of the corridor and was slightly larger, having room for a desk and a couple of extra chairs. Four telephones were arranged in a row on the desk.

Drake was checking a report as Mason pushed open the door.

“Hi, Paul.”

“Hi, Perry.”

“Want a job?”

“Sure.”

“George Casselman.”

“He was murdered last night,” Drake said.

“You keep up on your murders, don’t you?”

“So do you, if I may say so.”

Mason grinned. “I’m particularly interested in the time of death, any suspects the police may have, any information they may uncover, anything you can get on the background of Casselman.

“I’d suggest you grub around in Las Vegas, because I think he has a Las Vegas background. I don’t know how long he’s been living in the apartment where the body was found. I want to get everything. The works.”

“I can give you some information right now,” Drake said. “Casselman was a penny ante racketeer.”

“Gambler?” Mason asked.

“Not so much gambler as petty rackets.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “See what you can find out. I can give you one tip.”

“What?”

“You remember a man who was killed here a few months ago, fellow by the name of Falkner — Glenn Falkner?”

“Oh yes, gangster killing, wasn’t it?”

“It was not,” Mason said. “That is, I don’t think it was, although the police have listed it as a gangster killing, and as a result not too much was ever done on it.

“Because Casselman had some connections in gambling circles and Glenn Falkner did too, police have made a check on Stephanie Falkner, the daughter of the man who was murdered a few months ago.”

“You representing her?” Drake asked.

“I’m looking out for her interests, Paul.”

“Okay, I’ll get busy. What is this? Big, medium-sized, or small job?”

“Whatever is necessary to get the information. Start out easy and finish up hard.”

Drake reached for a telephone. “Okay, Perry, I’ll start some men on it right now. I have a man down in the press room at headquarters who gets stuff as fast as it’s available for the papers.”

“Have him keep an ear cocked,” Mason said, “and shoot the information down to the office as soon as you get it.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “I’m started.”

Mason walked back to his own office, heard steps in the corridor behind him, turned and saw Stephanie Falkner hurrying down the corridor.

“Well,” Mason said, “what brings you here?”

“Oh, Mr. Mason, I’m so glad I found you. May I see you a moment?”

“Come on in this way,” Mason said, fitting a latchkey to the door of his private office.

He opened the door, and said, “We have company, Della,” and ushered Stephanie Falkner into the office.

“What’s new?” he asked.

“The police came to my apartment within a few minutes after you left. The gun was still on the table. I forgot about it for the moment and then tried to hide it by throwing a scarf over it when they came in. I’m afraid I was a little clumsy.”

“What happened?” Mason asked.

“They grabbed the gun. They smelled it, broke it open, wanted to know where I got it.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“I told them Homer Garvin had given it to me for protection, that he thought perhaps my life was in danger.”

“You didn’t tell them whether it was Senior or Junior?” Mason asked.

“Was I supposed to?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mason said.

“Well, from the manner in which the whole situation developed, I... well, I just told them so much and then didn’t tell them any more. They asked me about when I had last seen Mr. Garvin.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Told them that I had seen him that morning. That seemed to excite them a lot and they put through a couple of phone calls then left in a hurry.”

“No further questioning?”

“No further questioning.”

“All right,” Mason said, “they’ll question you again. When they do, I want you to do something.”

“What?”

“Tell them that you won’t answer any more questions unless I am present.”

“But Mr. Mason, isn’t that equivalent to...? Well, doesn’t that... I mean, isn’t that virtually an admission of guilt?”

“They may think it is,” Mason said, “but we’re playing for big stakes in a no-limit game. Don’t answer any more questions. Don’t even give them the time of day. Don’t tell them what the weather is, or where you were born. Think you can do that?”

“I can, if you want me to.”

“I do. Garvin asked me to protect your interests.”

“Mr. Mason, I... There’s one thing I thought I should tell you. Homer Garvin came back last night...”

“Now do you mean Senior or Junior?”

“The father.”

“All right,” Mason said, “he came back. What happened?”

“He said he couldn’t sleep. He wanted to talk to me. We had a nice long talk.”

“What time did he leave?”

“That’s the thing that... well, it was around midnight when he left.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Don’t answer any questions. Just don’t be too available.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Mason nodded to Della Street, said, “Do you like this dress on her, Della?”

“Very much indeed,” Della Street said.

“I don’t,” Mason said. “I don’t think it’s photogenic. I don’t think she’ll take good pictures in that dress... How long would it take to pick out a dress which would have good striking black and white lines that would photograph well? Something with a deep V in front and white lines that emphasize the figure?”

“It might not take long,” Della Street said, then at the expression on Mason’s face, hastily said, “Again it might take quite a while to get exactly what you have in mind.”

“You see,” Mason said to Stephanie Falkner, “you’re going shopping.”

“When?”

“Now. Got any money?”

“Yes.”

“Then shop. Make yourself conspicuous when you shop. Try on a lot of dresses. Be difficult. Have it so the salesgirls will be sure to remember you.”

“Then what?”

“Then,” Mason said, “keep in touch with me by telephone. If you want to reach me at any time and the office is closed, telephone the Drake Detective Agency, tell them who you are, and leave a message. I want to know where I can get in touch with you at all times.”

“The Drake Detective Agency?”

“That’s right. That’s the one down the hall. Give her one of Paul Drake’s cards, Della.”

“And I’m not to talk with the police?”

“Not with the police. Not with the newspaper reporters. Not with anyone unless I am present. Don’t absolutely refuse to talk, simply refuse to talk with anyone unless I am present. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the other gun?”

“It’s in a place where no one will ever find it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m absolutely positive.”

“All right,” Mason told her, “get started on your shopping tour. That will probably keep you pretty well occupied until the stores have all closed.”

Stephanie Falkner went out. Della Street eyed Perry Mason quizzically. “It’s a crime to conceal evidence?” she asked.

“Oh, definitely,” Mason said. “But it’s no crime to advise a client not to talk. And it’s a breach of ethics for a lawyer to fail to protect the best interests of his client.”

Della Street studied the expression on his face for a moment, then burst out laughing.