The Case of the Lucky Legs

Chapter 10

Perry Mason let the detective precede him into the taxicab.

"Drive straight down the street a couple of blocks, and then circle around the block," Perry Mason said.

The cab driver looked at them curiously for a moment, then snapped the car into gear. Perry Mason turned to Paul Drake.

"Well?" he said.

"It's a peculiar situation," said the detective. "I want you to understand one thing, Perry. I wouldn't doublecross you. I wouldn't doublecross any client, you least of all. I tried to get in touch with you and couldn't. I got in touch with Bradbury, who is my real client, and he said it was okay. There was a couple of hundred bucks in it for me, and I needed the money. Things have been rather quiet, and —"

"Never mind the hard luck story," Mason said. "Go ahead and tell me what happened, and make it snappy because I've got places to go."

"It's this way," Paul Drake said, speaking rapidly. "I came back to my office to wait for you right after I'd found out the facts on the murder case. While I was waiting a young woman walked in. She's a welldressed attractive young woman, with a peculiar look about her eyes. I can't tell just what it is. It's an expression that I don't like particularly. She said that she knew Patton had been murdered, and —"

"Wait a minute," said Perry Mason. "How the devil could she have known Patton had been murdered at that time?"

"I don't know," Drake said. "I'm telling you what she told me."

"Did you ask her?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

"She laughed in my face and told me I was to get information, not to ask for it."

"What's her name?" asked Perry Mason.

"The name she gives is that of Vera Cutter. She won't tell me where she lives. She says she'll get in touch with me when she wants to hear from me; that I'm not to try and get in touch with her. She says that she knows Marjorie Clune is mixed up in a murder and that she is friendly with Marjorie, and —"

"Wait a minute," said Perry Mason, "let's get this straight. Is she about twentyfour or twentyfive, with warm brown eyes, mahogany hair, a suntan complexion and —"

"No," said Paul Drake, "it isn't Thelma Bell, if that's what you're getting at. I know Thelma Bell's description. Remember, I had a man waiting for her at her apartment in order to get Patton's address. No, this woman is around twentyfour, but she's a decided brunette. She's got snapping, black eyes, long thin hands that seem very restless, a dead white skin, and —"

"How about her legs?" asked Perry Mason suddenly.

Paul Drake stared at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Has she got pretty legs, and does she like to show them?" Perry Mason asked.

Drake's eyes seemed to regard the lawyer with a contemplative scrutiny. There was a smoldering fire back of the glassy film.

"Wait a minute," Perry Mason said, "I'm serious."

"Why?" asked the detective.

"All of our contact with Patton runs to women who have been selected because of beautiful legs. They've been used for publicity purposes," Mason said. "Now, I'm wondering if this woman might not be connected with Patton instead of with Marjorie Clune."

"I see," Drake said. "Well, she's got pretty legs. She crosses them and let's you see lots of stocking."

"Go on," Mason said.

"This woman," said Paul Drake, "wanted me to accept employment to protect Marjorie Clune's interests. She seemed to know a lot of inside stuff. She won't tell me how she knows it. She says that Dr. Doray has got a devil of a temper; that Dr. Doray was jealous of Patton all the time Patton was in Cloverdale, and that Doray came to this city, not to rescue Marjorie, but to kill Patton."

Perry Mason stared steadily at Paul Drake.

"And you telephoned Bradbury?" he asked.

"Yes, I got Bradbury at his hotel. I explained the situation to him and asked him if I could take the employment. At first he said no, he wanted me to work for him exclusively, and he certainly didn't want me working with some woman and making reports to her. She heard the conversation and said that I could make all my reports to Bradbury; that she only wanted to see justice done; that she would be willing to forego any reports."

"You relayed that on to Bradbury?" asked Mason.

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"That changed the situation so far as he was concerned. He said if I wanted to it was all right to go ahead."

"You outlined her theory of the case to him?"

"Yes."

Perry Mason made drumming motions with the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the glass window of the taxicab. Abruptly, he turned to Paul Drake.

"That explains it," he said.

"Explains what?"

"The tipoff on that Doray car."

The detective gave a sudden start of surprise, then caught himself and sat rigidly motionless.

"How did you know it was a tipoff?" he asked.

"This business about the homicide squad getting in touch with the deputy district attorney, and all that sort of stuff, sounds a little bit too fast and a little bit too efficient for the police," Perry Mason said. "You know as well as I do that most of the police efficiency, outside of regular routine stuff, is founded on tips and squeals. Now, who tipped you off that Doray's car was parked somewhere in the vicinity?"

"To tell you the truth," Paul Drake said, " — and, incidentally, Perry, this is the only thing I've held out on you—it was this woman who told me that Dr. Doray's car was near the scene of the murder at the time of the murder, that it had been parked in front of a fire plug, and that it had been tagged."

Perry Mason's eyes were glinting with excitement.

"Tell me," he said, "was this car a distinctive car?"

"Yes, I understand it was. It's a light roadster, but it has all kinds of attachments on it—a lot of trick horns and headlights. Dr. Doray thought it was good advertisement to drive a distinctive car. Cloverdale, you know, is a small city, and —"

Perry Mason tapped on the glass to catch the driver's attention.

"I'll get out here," he said.

He turned to Paul Drake.

"You're going back to your office, Paul?"

"Yes."

"And," said Perry Mason, "this woman is there in your office now?"

"Yes, she was with me when you called. I had to wait a few minutes to get away. She was going to wait until I came back."

The cab driver swung the cab into the curb and opened the door. Perry Mason stepped to the sidewalk.

"Listen, Perry," Paul Drake said, "I'm frightfully sorry about this thing. If it's going to make any difference, I'll give her back the two hundred bucks and put her out of the office. I need the money, but —"

Perry Mason grinned at him.

"Paul," he said, "if you really feel remorseful you can pay off the taxicab when it gets back to the office."

He slammed the door and watched the cab turn the corner to the left. Then he sprinted for the all night restaurant he had spotted, where there was a small enameled sign indicating the presence of a public telephone. He rushed to the telephone and dialed a number.

A woman's voice answered, "Cooperative Investigating Bureau."

"Who's in charge of the office tonight?" asked Perry Mason.

"Mr. Samuels."

"Put him on,", said Perry Mason. "This is Mason, the lawyer, speaking—Perry Mason—he'll know me."

A moment later there was the click of connection, and Samuel's oily voice said, "Good evening, Counselor, is there something we can do for you tonight? We have been anxious to get some of your business for —"

"All right," Perry Mason snapped, "you've got some of it. The best way you can show that you can get more is by giving me fast service on this. There's a woman in the Drake Detective Bureau. She's talking with Paul Drake right now. She's about twentyfour or twentyfive, a slender type of beauty, with a figure that's easy to look at. She's brunette, with jetblack eyes and black hair. She's going to leave the office, probably some time soon. I want to know where she goes and what she does; I don't want her out of your sight night or day. Put as many men on the job as you need. Never mind the expense. Don't mail any reports. I'll call you up when I want to know anything. Keep it confidential and get started."

The voice at the other end of the line became crisply efficient.

"Twentyfour or twentyfive, slender, brunette, with black eyes. At the office of the Drake Detective Bureau."

"Check," said Perry Mason. "Make it snappy."

He hung up and dashed out to the curb, looked up and down the street and caught the lights of a cruising taxi. He waved his hand and brought the taxi to the curb.

"Get me to the Gilroy Hotel," he said, "and make it snappy."

The streets were open, the traffic signals, for the most part, discontinued, and the cab made fast time to the Gilroy Hotel.

"Stick around," Mason told him. "I'm going to want you, and I may not be able to pick up another cab in a hurry. If I'm not back in ten minutes, keep your motor warm."

He barged into the lobby, nodded to a sleepy clerk and strode to the elevators.

"Ninth floor," he told the elevator operator.

When the elevator stopped at the ninth floor Perry Mason said, "Which direction is 927?"

The operator pointed down the corridor.

"Just this side of the fire escape light," he said.

Perry Mason strode down the corridor, his feet pounding the carpet. He found 927 at the place the elevator operator had indicated. He swung around to find 925 on the opposite side of the corridor. He banged on the door of 925.

The transom was open. The door was of thin wood. Perry Mason could hear the creaking of bed springs. He knocked again. After a moment there was the sound of bare feet thudding to the floor, then motion from behind the door, and a man's voice said, "Who is it?"

"Open up," said Perry Mason gruffly.

"What do you want?"

"I want to talk with you."

"What about?"

"Open up, I tell you," Mason said.

The bolt clicked, and the door opened. A man, attired in pajamas, with his eyes swollen from sleep, his face wearing a startled expression, switched on lights and blinked dazedly at the lawyer.

Perry Mason crossed to the window, through which a wind was blowing, billowing the lace curtains. He pulled the window down, gave a swift look about the room, then indicated the bed.

"Get back into bed," he said. "You can talk as well from there."

"Who are you?" asked the man.

"I'm Perry Mason, the lawyer," Mason said. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Yes, I've read about you."

"Were you expecting me?"

"No, why?"

"I was just wondering. Where were you tonight from seven o'clock on?"

"Is it any of your business?"

"Yes."

"Just what makes it your business?" asked the man. Perry Mason stared at him steadily. "I suppose you knew," he said, "that Thelma Bell was arrested and charged with murder?"

The man's face twisted with expression.

"Arrested?" he said.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Not very long ago."

"No," the man said, "I didn't know it."

"Your name's George Sanborne?"

"Yes."

"Were you with Thelma Bell this evening?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"From around seven fifteen or seven thirty to around nine o'clock."

"Where did you leave her?"

"At her apartment house—the St. James—out at 962 East Faulkner Street."

"Why did you leave her at that time?"

"We'd had a fight."

"What about?"

"About a man named Patton."

"That's the man she's accused of murdering," Mason said.

"What time was the murder committed?" Sanborne said.

"Around eight forty."

"She couldn't have done it," Sanborne said.

"You're positive?"

"Yes."

"Can you prove she was with you?"

"I think so, yes."

"Where did you go? What did you do?"

"We started out around seven twenty, I guess, and thought some of going to a picture show. We decided we'd wait until the second show. We went to a speakeasy, sat around and talked for a while, and then we got in a fight. We'd had a couple of drinks, I guess I lost my temper. I was sore about Patton. She was letting him drag her down. He thought of nothing except her body. She had won a leg contest, and Patton continually harped on that. To hear him talk, you'd think her legs were her only asset. She couldn't get anywhere working in choruses, posing as an artist model and having her legs photographed for calendar advertisements."

"That was what the fight was about?" asked Perry Mason.

"Yes."

"And then you went home?"

"Yes."

"Do you know anybody at the speakeasy?"

"No."

"Where is the speakeasy?"

Sanborne's eyes shifted.

"I wouldn't want to get a speakeasy into trouble," he said.

Perry Mason's laugh was mirthless.

"Don't worry about that," he said. "That's their lookout. They all pay protection. This is a murder case. Where was the speakeasy?"

"On Fortyseventh Street, right around the corner from Elm Street."

"Do you know the door man?" asked Perry Mason.

"Yes."

"Will he remember you?"

"I think so."

"Do you know the waiter?"

"I don't particularly remember the waiter."

"Had you been drinking before you went there?"

"No."

"When you first sat down what did you order?"

"We had a cocktail."

"What kind?"

"I don't know, just a cocktail."

"What kind of a cocktail? Martini? Manhattan? Hawaiian…?"

"A Martini."

"Both had a Martini?"

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"Then we had another one."

"Then what?"

"Then we had something to eat—a sandwich of some sort."

"What sort of a sandwich?"

"A ham sandwich."

"Both of you had a ham sandwich?"

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"I think we switched to highballs."

"Don't you know?"

"Yes, I know."

" Rye or Scotch or Bourbon?"

" Rye."

"Both had rye?"

"Yes."

"Ginger ale?"

"Yes."

"Both had ginger ale?"

"Yes." Perry Mason gave a sigh of disgust. He pulled himself up from the chair and made a wry face.

"I should have known better," he said.

"What do you mean?" Sanborne wanted to know.

"Evidently Thelma Bell had you primed before I telephoned this evening," Mason said. "When I said that I was at the Emergency Hospital you answered that test all right. Now you talk like a school kid."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, this business of both having the same thing. Both had Martinis. Both had ham sandwiches. Both had rye highballs with ginger ale. What a sweet witness you'd make to fix up an alibi in a murder case!"

"But I'm telling you the truth," Sanborne said.

Mason's laugh was mirthless.

"Do you know what Thelma Bell told the officers?" he asked.

Sanborne shook his head.

"They asked her all about the drinks," he said. "She said that you went to a speakeasy; that you had a Manhattan and she had an oldfashioned cocktail; that you'd had dinner before you went there, both of you; that you didn't eat a thing while you were there; that you got a bottle of wine, with two glasses, and had some of that, and that then you had your fight and went home."

Sanborne ran his fingers through his matted hair.

"I didn't know," he said, "they were going to ask us all about those drinks."

Perry Mason walked toward the door.

"Don't use your telephone," he said, "until morning. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand, but shouldn't I call —"

"You heard what I said," Mason told him. "Don't use your telephone until morning."

He jerked open the door, slammed it shut behind him and walked down the narrow corridor toward the elevator. His shoulders were slightly slumped forward in an attitude of dejection. His face, however, remained virtually without expression. His eyes were weary.

The cage rattled upward, came to a stop. Perry Mason climbed in.

"Find your party?" asked the elevator boy.

"Yes."

"If there's anything you want," began the boy, "I can —"

"No, you can't," Perry Mason said almost savagely, and then added, after a moment, with grim humor, "I wish to God you could."

The elevator operator brought the cage to the lobby and stood staring curiously at Perry Mason as Mason barged purposefully across the lobby.

"St. James Apartments–962 East Faulkner Street," said Perry Mason with a touch of weariness in his voice as he jerked open the door of the taxicab.