The Case of the Long-Legged Models

Chapter Eight

Mason drove his car into the used car lot operated by Homer Garvin, Jr. He noticed that several salesmen were busy pointing out the good features of cars to prospective customers and was able to open the door of his car and get halfway to Garvin’s office before a salesman buttonholed him. “Want to make a deal on that car?” the salesman asked.

Mason shook his head. “I want to see Garvin.”

Mason opened the door of the office with the salesman at his heels. “That car of yours looks clean. We could make you a good deal on it, particularly if it’s a one-owner car,” the salesman said.

Mason paid no attention either to the salesman or to Garvin’s secretary, but crossed the office and jerked open the door marked, “Private.”

Homer Garvin looked up from his desk in surprise.

“Pardon the informality,” Mason said, “but this is important. I want to talk with you where we can be undisturbed. How the hell do I get rid of this salesman who is yapping at my heels?”

“There’s only one way that I know of,” Garvin said. “Buy one of our cars.”

Mason turned to the salesman. “This is a private conference. I’m not here trading automobiles.”

“Did you come in a cab or in your own car?” Garvin asked Mason.

“My own car.”

Garvin nodded to the salesman. “Take his car out for a little spin, Jim. See what sort of shape it’s in. Then check with our appraiser and see the best offer we can make. Mason is entitled to a top offer on his car and a discount on anything we have on the lot.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said, “if that will take the heat off. But we’re going places, Homer. If you have a man take my car out, you’ll have to furnish the transportation.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping,” Garvin said. He turned to the salesman. “Take one of the appraisers with you and put the car through its paces.

“All right, Mr. Mason, what can I do for you?”

Mason waited until the door had closed. “You got a gun?” he asked the young man.

“What’s the idea?” Garvin asked.

“I want to know if you have a gun,” Mason said. “I assume that you have. I know that you keep large quantities of cash on the lot here, and...”

“I’ve got a gun,” Garvin said.

“Got a permit?”

“Sure, I’ve got a permit. Good Lord! Mr. Mason, you don’t think I’m going to sit out here running a joint like this and be a pushover for any stick-up man that comes in, do you? I...”

“Let me see the gun you have in your desk,” Mason said.

Garvin regarded him curiously for a moment, then pulled open the upper right-hand desk drawer, took out a gun and slid it across the desk to Mason.

Mason picked up the gun, threw it down a couple of times in order to get the balance of the weapon, said, “This is a mighty good gun, Homer. It’s a duplicate of one your dad carries.”

“I wouldn’t have anything except the best, Mr. Mason. Dad gave me that. It’s just like...”

Mason pulled the trigger.

The roar of an explosion filled the little office. The bullet plowed a furrow across the polished mahogany of Garvin’s desk, glanced off the desk and imbedded itself in the wall.

“Hey! You damned fool!” Garvin shouted. “Put it down!”

Mason looked at the weapon in stupefied surprise.

The door of the private office burst open. A frightened secretary stood on the threshold. A broad-shouldered salesman advanced belligerently on Mason.

“Drop it!” he shouted. “Drop it before I break your jaw!”

Mason, still holding the gun, backed away. “Lord!” he said, “I didn’t know it was loaded.”

Garvin motioned the others back. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s Perry Mason, the lawyer.”

“It isn’t a stick-up?” the man asked.

Garvin shook his head.

Mason glanced ruefully at the desk. “My gosh!” he said, “I was just giving the trigger a little try and... That’s certainly a smooth mechanism.”

“Of course, it’s a smooth mechanism,” Garvin said. “That’s the reason I keep it here. It’s well oiled. It’s a beautiful gun. It’s built like a watch. It has the smoothest action I can find on the market. And because I keep it for protection, I keep it loaded. There’s very little percentage in clicking an empty gun at a bandit who is trying to hold you up.”

Mason slid the gun back to Garvin. “I guess I’ve got no business handling these things,” he said.

Garvin said drily, “You seem to know a lot more about them in court than you do when you’re visiting clients.”

Mason turned to the secretary and the salesman. “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve made a commotion. I owe your boss a new desk.”

“And close the door,” Garvin said, “when you go out.”

The secretary held the door open. The broad-shouldered salesman backed out rather reluctantly. The good-looking secretary closed the door.

“All right,” Garvin said. “Now what? If you were anybody but Perry Mason, that act would have been convincing.”

Mason grinned. “Put the gun in your pocket and come along.”

“With the gun?”

“With the gun. You may need it.”

“All right, I’ll put another shell in before—”

“No, no. Just the way it is,” Mason told him.

“All right, where do we go?”

“We take a little ride.”

Garvin picked up a phone, said, “Get Ralph for me... Ralph, I’m going out on a personal demonstration. Get me that x-60 job we took in yesterday. Have it out in front right away... That’s right! When I say ‘right away’ I mean right away!”

Garvin surveyed the damaged desk. “Makes quite a groove,” he said. “That was a swell-looking desk, but I didn’t know the veneer on it was so thin. May I ask what’s the idea, Mr. Mason?”

“The general idea,” Mason said, “is that I want you to demonstrate this x-60 job you’re talking about.”

“You’re going to love it,” Garvin said. “It’s a sports job and it has more horses under the hood than you can use under ordinary conditions. But when you’re out on the highway, and you want to pass somebody, you pass him. You pass him right now, without any long, drawn-out agony while you’re driving along the road two abreast. You get back in your lane of traffic before anybody has a chance to come around a curve and smack you head-on, and—”

“I don’t pass people on an approach to curves,” Mason said.

“You may think you don’t,” Garvin said, “and you may try not to. But when you’re driving over a strange road, unless you’re fully familiar with the grades you’ll find that sooner or later you’ll be going on what you think is a level road, but actually it’s a pretty good grade. The topography of the country is such that you’ll be fooled. You’ll try to pass someone on what looks like a sufficiently adequate space of open road, and—”

“Save it!” Mason told him. “Let’s take a look at this x-60 job of yours.”

“Right this way,” Garvin said.

He led the way out through the outer office. The secretary standing by the water cooler, a glass of water in her hand, her face still pale, looked at Mason as one regards a creature from another planet.

Garvin held the door open, said, “Get right in. Get in behind the wheel of that car, Mr. Mason.”

Mason hesitated at the sight of the sports automobile which was drawn up in front of the place.

“Ever driven one of them?” Garvin asked.

“No.”

“Get in, try it and overcome both your prejudices and your ignorance at the same time. Greatest little job on earth! Compact! Efficient! Snappy! Distinctive! That’s the kind of job you should be driving, Mr. Mason.”

“Hang it!” Mason said, “in a car like that I’d stand out like a sore thumb. I’d go to call on a client and a hundred motorists driving by would see the car parked in front of the place and would say, ‘Why, that’s Mr. Mason’s car. He must be in there calling on a client.’ ”

Young Garvin grinned. “Would that be bad?” he asked.

“That,” Mason said, “would be fatal.”

“Not the way we understand publicity in the used car business,” Garvin said. “The canons of professional ethics prevent you from advertising but there’s nothing that says people can’t talk about you. Slide in behind the wheel, Mr. Mason. Go ahead... I did what you wanted and it’s cost me a desk. This isn’t going to cost you a cent — unless you buy it.”

Mason slid in behind the wheel.

“Turn the key all the way to the right,” Garvin instructed, walking around the car and climbing in beside Mason.

Mason turned the key to the right. The motor gave one quick throb, then subsided into subdued pulsations which seemed as smooth as the ticking of a watch.

“Slide it into gear,” Garvin said, “and push down the throttle. Easy!”

Mason put the car into gear, pressed the throttle slightly and the car shot ahead as though it had been launched from a catapult.

“I said, ‘Easy!’ ” Garvin warned.

Mason spun the wheel just in time to catch a break in traffic and glide out onto the highway.

“You’re riding a polo pony now,” Garvin warned. “The slightest touch on that wheel, the slightest touch on the throttle brings action.”

“I’ll say it brings action,” Mason said.

“You’ll get to like it,” Garvin told him.

“If I live long enough,” Mason said dubiously.

“May I ask where we’re going?” Garvin inquired.

“For a ride,” Mason told him. “I am testing out your x-60 job.”

“Suits me,” Garvin said. “Take a couple of corners where there isn’t any traffic. Get accustomed to the feel of that steering wheel and, for heaven’s sake, go easy on the throttle.”

“Hang it, Garvin!” Mason said, “this car is ten years too young for me.”

“On the contrary,” Garvin said, “a car of this sort should never be sold to anyone younger than you are. This car should only be operated by someone who has the judgment and wisdom which comes from mature experience.”

Mason looked at him in surprise. “Are those your real sentiments about sports cars?” he asked.

“Hell, no!” Garvin said. “That’s good salesmanship. Where are we going?”

“Places,” Mason said.

“Well, get this baby out on the freeway where we can roll it along a little bit. I want you to see what acceleration is.”

“No,” Mason said, “I’m getting along all right. I’m studying.”

“The car?”

“Hell, no!” Mason said. “I’m studying salesmanship.”

Homer Garvin laughed.

Mason drove for several minutes then swung the car into a side street.

Garvin said suddenly, “Hey! Wait a minute! What’s happening here?”

Mason braked the car to a stop in front of the Lodestar Apartments. “We have a job to do.”

“Now just a— Wa-i-i-i-i-i-t a minute!” Garvin said. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but the answer is no.”

“Come on,” Mason told him.

“I’m a married man,” Garvin told him.

“How does it feel?” Mason asked him.

“I don’t know yet. It’s a thoroughly enjoyable experience so far, but... I can see where it has advantages and disadvantages. However, I do have the most wonderful girl in the world, and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize her happiness or mine.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Mason said. “Come on along.”

“What do you have in mind? Are you going to ask me to make some sort of a statement or...”

Mason said, “I want you to keep your mouth shut. I want you to listen. If you feel like it you can nod your head.”

“And if I don’t feel like it?”

“Just stand there and take it.”

Garvin said, “Mason, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I hope I do, too,” Mason told him, “and we haven’t much time to do it. Now let’s get started.”

Mason led the way into the apartment house, up to Stephanie Falkner’s apartment. The lawyer tapped on the door of the apartment. There was the rustle of motion from the other side of the door, then the door opened a crack.

“Who is it?” Stephanie Falkner asked.

She saw Mason and said, “Oh, Mr. Mason!” She threw the door open, then her eyes widened as she saw Homer Garvin, Jr. standing just behind Mason.

“Now get this straight, Stephanie,” Homer Garvin said. “Whatever this is all about, it’s Mr. Mason’s idea. None of it is mine.”

“Shut up,” Mason told him. “Come in. Keep quiet!”

Stephanie Falkner fell back. Mason escorted Garvin into the apartment, kicked the door shut behind him.

“Congratulations, Homer!” Stephanie said.

“Shut up, both of you,” Mason snapped. “We don’t have much time. Stephanie, Homer Garvin has been concerned about your safety. Despite his recent marriage, you remain a very dear friend. In view of what happened to your father and because he has learned through me that negotiations are again pending with what is probably the same syndicate, he feels that you should have something for your protection.”

“For her protection?” Garvin asked.

“Shut up,” Mason said. “Give her the gun.”

Garvin hesitated a moment, then reached in his pocket and pulled out the gun.

“Take it, Stephanie,” Mason said.

“What do I do with it?”

“You might try putting it under the pillow,” Mason told her.

Garvin said, “One shot has been fired. Mr. Mason—”

“Quiet!” Mason said. “You told me you didn’t intend to say anything and now you want to do all the talking.”

“Stephanie, Homer Garvin is very much concerned about your safety. He wants you to have a weapon so that you can protect yourself. There is no secret about this. There’s no reason for any deception. If anyone asks you where you got the gun, you can tell them that it is a gun you received from Homer Garvin, and conversely if anyone asks you where the gun is you got from Homer Garvin there is no reason why you shouldn’t hand over this gun.

“You will note that one shot has been discharged from this weapon. That was the condition of the weapon when it was given to you. You have no idea as to who discharged the cartridge, where or when. If anyone wants to know the answer to those questions, it will be necessary for them to check with Homer Garvin.

“Thank you very much for your courteous attention and I think it was a splendid gesture on the part of Mr. Garvin to see that you were protected.

“That’s all. Come on, Homer.”

Mason opened the door of the apartment. Stephanie Falkner regarded them with puzzled eyes. The gun lay on the table in the middle of the room.

Homer Garvin said, “I’d have told you about it before you read it in the papers, Stephanie, only I—”

“You don’t have to explain, Homer,” she said. “I understand perhaps a lot more than you think. I understand your restless nature, your ceaseless attempt to make over your environment. After all, there’s no reason why we can’t be friends.”

Homer pushed past Mason, stepped forward and extended his hand. The two shook hands.

Mason, holding the door of the apartment open, said, “Homer Garvin, if you don’t get out of here, I’ll call a taxi and ride back in that.”

“That does it, honey,” Homer Garvin said. “I’m selling the sucker a car.”

“More power to you,” Stephanie Falkner said, and then added, “You may need it.”

Garvin stepped into the hall, and Mason shut the door of the apartment.

They took the elevator to the ground floor and were starting across the lobby when Mason suddenly grabbed Garvin’s arm and said, “This way, please.”

Mason led Garvin over to the seats by a table covered with reading matter. He grabbed a magazine, pushed Garvin down on the seat, shoved the magazine in his hands, picked up a newspaper and sat down beside him.

The door of the apartment house opened.

Lt. Tragg of the Homicide Squad, accompanied by Sgt. Holcomb and the taxi driver who had driven Mason earlier in the morning approached the desk. They talked briefly with the attendant, then entered the elevator.

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s go, and let’s hope they didn’t notice that sports car in front.”

“What the hell do you mean, didn’t notice it?” Garvin said. “That’s like suggesting a banker doesn’t notice the steam Calliope in a circus parade as it goes by during a directors’ meeting.”

“That,” Mason said, “is what I’m afraid of. If you’re going to do business with me on an automobile, you’ll have to get something dark, quiet, and conservative.”

“I have just the thing for you,” Garvin said.

“What is it?”

“A secondhand hearse. It’s only had one owner.”