The Case of the Lucky Legs

Chapter 9

Perry Mason dialed the number of Paul Drake's office, and heard the voice of the detective saying cautiously, "Hello."

"Don't mention any names in case you're not alone. The coast is clear up here."

"I'll be in to see you in about ten minutes," Paul Drake said. "Can you wait?"

"Yes," Mason told him.

The lawyer dropped the receiver back into place, tilted back in his swivel chair and lit a cigarette. Then he took the end from his mouth and held the cigarette so that he could watch the smoke as it curled slowly upward. He sat entirely without motion, watching the curling smoke with eyes that seemed half dreamy. Not until the cigarette was more than half consumed did he nod his head slowly as though he had reached some decision; and then he returned the cigarette to his mouth. He smoked steadily until he had finished the cigarette, then pinched it out, dropped it in the ashtray, and looked at his watch.

It was at that moment that he heard a rattle on the knob of the door which opened into the corridor.

Perry Mason walked to the door, stood with his hand on the knob.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Open up, Perry," said Paul Drake's voice, and Perry Mason opened the door to let the detective walk in.

"You covered the situation?" asked Perry Mason.

"Sure," Paul Drake told him. "I figured that was what you'd want me to do."

"How did you get wise to what had happened?"

"In the first place," Paul Drake said, "I was delayed a little with starting trouble. The starter went haywire. The whole thing seemed locked. I couldn't figure out what was the matter. I kept trying it both with the crank and with the starter; then some pedestrian came along who knew his onions. He said one of the gears had dropped out of position. That if I'd put the car in high gear and rock it back and forth, it would work all right. I tried it and it did."

Perry Mason watched Paul Drake narrowly.

"Go on," he said.

"I'm just telling you," Paul Drake said, "why I was a little late."

"How much late?"

"I don't know."

"I got out there just as you were headed away in a taxi. I got a glimpse of you going down the street. You looked as though you were going places in a hurry. I figured something was wrong; that there'd either be a message for me at Patton's apartment, or that you were up against an emergency. I went up, plenty cautious. A uniformed cop was just getting the door open as I came down the corridor."

"You didn't tip your hand?" asked Perry Mason.

"No. I didn't know whether you'd want me for an alibi or not. There were a few curious roomers forming a circle of spectators, and I joined them."

"You didn't get in?"

"You mean to Patton's apartment?"

"Yes."

"No. I couldn't get in. They got the homicide squad right away. But I was friendly with a couple of the boys, and then there were the newspaper photographers. I got all the dope."

"Let's have it," Perry Mason said.

"In the first place," Paul Drake told him, "and before I go ahead with it, have you got anything to tell me?"

"Only that I was a little bit delayed myself," Mason told him, "and when I got there, I found the door locked. I looked through the keyhole; saw a hat and stick and gloves. I knocked on the door, and —"

"I know all about the story you told the officers," Paul Drake said.

"Well," Mason told him, "what else would there be?"

Drake shrugged his shoulders.

"How should I know?" he asked.

"Well," the lawyer said, "if you know my story, that's all there is to it."

"It's a good story," Paul Drake said, and then added after a moment, "except for one thing."

"What's the one thing?" Mason wanted to know.

"I'll tell you the facts," Drake told him, "and then you can put two and two together."

"Go ahead," said the lawyer curtly.

Paul Drake squirmed about in the big leather chair so that his long legs were swung over the arm of the chair. The opposite chair arm braced the small of his back.

"Hat, gloves and cane on the table in the livingroom. Those were Patton's. A woman—the one you met, by the way—whose name happens to be Sarah Fieldman, occupying the opposite apartment, heard a girl having hysterics; figured the sounds must have come from the bathroom; thinks the girl was locked in the bathroom and perhaps some man was trying to get in. The body was lying in the bedroom, clad in underclothes, a bathrobe thrown over one shoulder, one arm through the sleeve, the other arm not in the sleeve; death almost instantaneous; a single stabbing puncture with a large bread knife. The knife was new. The wound was directly over the heart. It was a messy murder, a lot of blood spurting around; the doors both locked, the door from the bedroom bolted on the inside. An open window leading to a fire escape; marks on the bed indicating a man might have gone across the bed and out on the fire escape, or might have climbed in through the fire escape.

"In the bathroom, the police find a girl's handkerchief, all wet as though it had been used as a wash rag, or had been dropped in blood and then an attempt made to wash it out. There was bloody water spattered around the sides of the wash bowl. It had been a hasty job. Looks as though some woman had tried to clean the blood on her clothes, or herself, without much success. In the outer room, the police found a blackjack."

"Wait a minute," Mason interrupted. "You say the knife was a new knife. How could the police tell that?"

"Evidences of a chalk price mark on the blade. Also, the knife was brought to the apartment wrapped in paper. Apparently the wrapping paper is the same paper that was wrapped around the knife when it was purchased. The police have some fingerprints on the paper. They're not so good—mostly smudged. Knobs of the doors on the inside contain no fingerprints. Looks as though some one had wiped them off. The outer knob has too many prints to be of any value—the police, Mrs. Fieldman, perhaps yours, and lots of others."

"Any suspects?" asked Perry Mason.

"How do you mean?"

"Any one seen leaving the apartment?" asked the lawyer.

Paul Drake looked at him with that expression of droll humor on his face, his eyes glassy and utterly without expression.

"What makes you ask that?" he inquired.

"Just a routine question," Perry Mason told him.

"The officer on the beat," said Paul Drake, "reported a woman who acted suspiciously. There were a couple of telephone messages from women on the table. The police would have attached more importance to those, if it hadn't been for one thing."

"What was the one thing?" the lawyer inquired.

"Your friend, Dr. Doray," the detective said. "His car was parked out in front of the place at the time of the murder. That is, it was parked within half a block of the place."

"How do the police know?"

"It was parked in front of a fire plug. The traffic officer tagged the car. He noticed that it came from Cloverdale. When the report of the murder went in to the homicide squad, they got in touch with the district attorney's office, and some bright boy in the district attorney's office remembered that Carl Manchester had been working on a case involving a man named Patton. They got hold of Manchester, found out it was the same chap, found out that you were interested in it, that Bradbury was interested in it, and that a Dr. Doray was interested in it."

"Why didn't they go after Bradbury?" Mason asked.

"Because they got such a live lead on Doray. They happened to check up with the officer who had tagged Doray's car."

Perry Mason squinted his eyes thoughtfully.

"Anything else?" he asked.

"Now," said Paul Drake, "I'm coming to the thing that makes your story look a little funny."

"What is it?"

"The Holliday Apartments," the detective said, "tries to encourage its tenants to turn their keys in at the desk when they go out. For that reason, they have a great big tag that's chained to the key. It has a lot of stuff printed on it about dropping the whole thing into the mail box, with a stamp on it, when it is inadvertently carried away."

"Yes, I know the type," Mason said.

"The police found the key to Frank Patton's apartment in the side pocket of his coat," Drake went on. "Patton had evidently opened the door, then dropped the key into the side pocket of his coat. Perhaps he'd locked the door from the inside; perhaps he hadn't. The theory of the police is that he hadn't. They reason that if he'd locked the door from the inside, he'd have left the key in the lock. They think that he had an appointment with some woman. Perhaps with two women. That he left the door open because he wanted the women to walk in."

"Then," Mason said, "who do the police figure locked the door?"

Paul Drake's glassy eyes regarded Mason without expression; his face remained twisted into that frozen expression of droll humor which was so characteristic of the man.

"The police figure," he said, "that the murderer locked the door when he went out."

"The murderer," said Perry Mason, "might have climbed in by the fire escape and gone out the same way."

"Then who locked the door?" asked Drake.

"Frank Patton," Mason said.

"Then, why didn't he leave the key hanging in the door from the inside?"

"Because he mechanically put it in his pocket."

Paul Drake shrugged his shoulders.

"Sure, that's reasonable," Perry Mason said. "A man frequently locks the door from the inside and drops the key in his pocket."

"You don't need to argue with me," the detective told him. "You can save the argument for a jury. I'm just telling you, that's all."

"How long after the sound of the body falling on the floor before the officer arrived?" Mason asked.

"Perhaps ten minutes," the detective told him. "The woman got up, put on some clothes, went down in the elevator, found the officer, told him her story, convinced him it was something he should look into, and brought him back to the apartment. Then there was the little while that they were talking with you, and then the officer got a key. Make it perhaps fifteen minutes in all; say ten minutes up to the time you first saw the officer in the corridor."

"A person can do a lot in ten minutes," Mason said.

"Not much in the line of cleaning up blood stains. It would mean a pretty hurried job," Paul Drake commented.

"Do the police," asked Perry Mason, "know Bradbury's address?"

"I don't think the police are going to figure Bradbury very heavy one way or another," Drake said. "They don't know where he's staying, but of course they can find out easily enough by making a check of the hotels. Carl Manchester simply knows that he can be reached through you."

"And," Perry Mason said, "I managed to hold him in the background until Doray's name had come in first. I want the newspapers to get the young love angle rather than the sugar daddy viewpoint."

The detective nodded.

The telephone on Perry Mason's desk rang steadily Mason frowned at it.

"Any one know you're here?" he asked, looking at Paul Drake.

The detective shook his head.

Perry Mason reached for the receiver, paused for a moment with his hand held an inch or two from it; then suddenly scooped his hand down, pulled the receiver up to his ear, and said, "Yes, hello. Perry Mason speaking."

A woman's voice said, "I have a telegram for Mr. Perry Mason. Do you wish me to read it over the telephone?"

"Yes," said Perry Mason.

"The telegram," she said, "is filed from this city. It says: CHECK HER ALIBI BEFORE YOU LET HER DO ANY THING. The message," went on the purring voice of the operator, "is signed with a single initial 'M', as in mush."

"Thanks," said Perry Mason.

"Do you want me to send a copy over to your office?"

"In the morning," he told the operator, and continued to hold the receiver in his hand. He severed the connection by pressing the hook with his forefinger.

"That," he said slowly, "is one hell of a funny thing. Why should she send me a telegram, and why should it be that kind of a telegram?"

He moved his hand which held the receiver and dialed rapidly the number of the Bostwick Hotel, Exeter 93821.

The detective watched him with a speculation which seemed almost indolent in its careless scrutiny.

Perry Mason heard a voice saying, "Bostwick Hotel."

"Will you please," he said, "ring room 408."

The voice of the operator said instantly. "The occupant of room 408 checked out just a few minutes ago."

"You're certain?" asked Perry Mason.

"Absolutely certain."

"She was," said Perry Mason, "expecting a call from me. Would you mind ringing the room?"

"I'll ring it," said the operator, "but there's no one there. I tell you she checked out."

Perry Mason waited for a few moments, then heard the voice over the wire confirming the previous statement that no one answered.

He once more pushed down the catch which cut off the contact and stood staring at the telephone. He was still staring at it when the bell exploded into life.

"Looks like your busy night on the telephone," Paul Drake commented.

Perry Mason released the pressure of his fingers, and said, "Hello." He spoke with quick, nervous harshness.

The voice of Della Street came to his ears.

"Thank God I caught you, chief. Are you there alone?"

"Except for Paul Drake, yes. What's on your mind?"

"Get this," she said, "because you're going to figure in it. Two detectives just left me. They tried to give me a shakedown. They got pretty rough."

"What for, Della?"

"They claim that I rang up Dr. Doray and tipped him off that the police were looking for him, and told him to get out."

"What gives them that idea?" inquired Perry Mason.

"Listen," she said, "and get this straight, because I think they're on their way to give you a going over. They say that somebody rang up Dr. Doray at the Midwick Hotel sometime between nine fifteen and nine thirty this evening, and told him that Patton had been murdered; that Doray was going to be picked up as a suspect, and that there were some things in the evidence that looked bad for him and Marjorie Clune; that Marjorie was getting under cover and was going to keep under cover. In other words, that she was skipping out, and that it would be the worst thing on earth for her if Bob Doray should be picked up by the police. He was instructed to get out of town and keep from being questioned by the police."

Perry Mason frowned into the telephone.

"What made them connect that with us?" he said.

"Because," Della Street told him, "the voice was that of a woman. The operator at the Midwick Hotel happened to listen in, and the one who was doing the talking said that she was Della Street, the secretary to Perry Mason."

Perry Mason's eyes became hard as bits of frosted glass.

"The hell she did!" he said.

"You said it," Della Street told him. "And there are two dicks on the way to your office. Get ready to receive them."

"Thanks, Della," said Perry Mason, "did they get rough with you?"

"They tried to."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes," she told him, "I made a flat and indignant denial, and that was all they got out of me, but I'm afraid of what they may do to you, chief."

"Why?"

"Because," she said, "… you know what I mean."

"All right," Perry Mason told her, "you go to sleep, Della, and let me handle it."

"Do you think it's all right?" she asked.

He laughed in a low, reassuring tone.

"Of course it's all right," he said, "night night."

He slipped the receiver back on the hook and turned to face Paul Drake.

"Well," he said, "here's something for you to figure on. Some woman telephoned Dr. Doray at his hotel and told him that she was Della Street, secretary to Perry Mason; that Frank Patton had been murdered in his room at the hotel; that Marjorie Clune was implicated and that the police were looking for Marjorie; that Doray had better get out of town while the getting was good; that if the detectives located him and questioned him, it might look bad for Marjorie; that Perry Mason was going to represent Marjorie and that he wanted Dr. Doray out of town."

Paul Drake whistled.

"And," Perry Mason said, "with two detectives on their way up here to shake me down, you can figure the sweet angles this case is going to have."

"What time did the telephone call come in?" Drake inquired.

"Somewhere around nine o'clock—between that and nine fifteen. Doray had just reached the hotel when the call came through."

Paul Drake stared steadily at Perry Mason.

"How the devil could your office have known that Patton was murdered at that time? The police were just finding it out."

Perry Mason met his eyes steadily.

"That, Paul," he said, "is one of the questions the detectives are going to ask me."

Paul Drake looked nervously at his watch.

"Don't worry," Perry Mason said. "I'm not going to let the detectives find you here."

"Are you," asked Drake, "going to let them find you here?"

The lawyer's rugged face remained expressionless, seeming somehow to be firm and weatherbeaten. His patient eyes stared steadily at Paul Drake.

"Paul," he said, "I'm going to be frank with you. That's one of the things I can't afford to be questioned about right now."

He clicked back his swivel chair and pulled his hat down on his head.

Wordlessly, the men walked through the door which led to the outer corridor. Perry Mason pushed out the lights and the door clicked shut behind them.

"Where can we go?" asked Perry Mason. "In your office?"

Paul Drake fidgeted uncomfortably.

"What's the matter," asked Perry Mason, "are you getting gun shy? You and I have pulled some fast ones together. Now, you act as though I had the smallpox. Just because a couple of detectives want to ask me a question I haven't any intention of answering, is no sign I can't go to your office for an informal chat. If they found you in my office, it might not be so hot, but it certainly wouldn't bother you if they found me in your office."

"It isn't that," Paul Drake said. "I've got a confession to make. I was going to tell you when that telephone rang."

"A confession?" asked Perry Mason.

Paul Drake nodded and averted his eyes.

Perry Mason heaved a sigh.

"All right," he said, "let's go get a taxicab and ride around."