The Case of the Mischievous Doll

Chapter One

Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, entering Mason’s private office, approached the big desk where the lawyer was seated and said, “A law office is the darnedest place.”

“It certainly is,” Mason said. “Now may I ask what brings forth this observation?”

“A certain Miss Dorrie Ambler.”

“And I take it Miss Ambler is in the outer office, asking for an appointment?”

“She says she has to see you right away.”

“How old?”

“Twenty-three or — four, but she’s been around.”

“Description?”

“Auburn hair, hazel eyes, five feet three; around a hundred and twelve; figure, thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-four.”

“And now,” Mason said, “we come to the comment of yours — a law office is the darnedest place. What brought that up?”

“You could guess for a long time,” she said, “but you would never guess what Miss Ambler wants — that is, at least what she says she wants.”

“I’ll bite,” Mason said. “What does she want?”

“She wants to show you her operation,” Della Street said.

“Her what?”

“Her operation.”

“A malpractice suit, Della?”

“Apparently not. She seems to feel that there is going to be some question as to her identity and she wants to prove to you who she is, or rather, who she is not. She wishes to do this by showing you the scar of an appendectomy.”

“What is this,” Mason asked, “a gag? Or is she laying the foundation for some sort of a shakedown? I certainly am not going to permit any young woman to walk in here and—”

“She wants witnesses present,” Della Street said.

Mason grinned. “Now this would be right down Paul Drake’s alley... I take it her figure is one that he would appreciate.”

“Leave it to Paul,” she said. “He has a keen eye... Shall I call him?”

“Let’s talk with our client first,” Mason said. “I am anxious to see the mysterious Miss Ambler.”

“Before I bring her in,” Della Street said, “there is one other thing you should know.”

Mason said, “Della, I get very, very suspicious when you start breaking things to me in easy stages. Now, suppose you tell me the whole story now.”

“Well,” Della Street said, “your prospective client is carrying a gun in her purse.”

“How do you know?” Mason asked.

“I don’t actually know,” Della Street said. “I am quoting Gertie.”

“Gertie,” Mason said, grinning, “sits there at the switchboard, sizes up clients as they come in, and works her imagination overtime. And she has a very high-powered imagination.”

“Conceded,” Della Street said, “but Miss Ambler put her purse on that plastic-covered seat in the outer office and, as she leaned forward to get a magazine, touched the purse with her elbow — that plastic is as slippery as a cake of wet soap. The purse dropped to the floor and when it hit it made a heavy thud.

“Gertie says that Miss Ambler jumped about a foot, and then looked around guiltily to see if anyone had heard the sound of the heavy object striking the floor.”

“Did Gertie let on?” Mason asked.

“Not Gertie,” Della Street said. “You know how Gertie is. She has eyes all over her body but she keeps a poker face and you never know just what she’s seen. However, Gertie has an imagination that can take a button, sew a vest on it and then not only give you a description of the pattern of the vest, but tell you exactly what’s in the pockets — and the stuff that’s in the pockets is always connected with some romantic drama of Gertie’s own particular type of thinking.”

“And in this case?” Mason asked.

“Oh, in this case,” Della Street said, “Dorrie Ambler is an innocent young girl who came to the big city. She has been betrayed by a big, bad monster of a wolf who is now leaving the girl in a strange city to fend for herself. And Dorrie had decided to confront him with his perfidy and a gun. He will have the horrible alternative of making an honest woman out of her or being the pièce de résistance at Forest Lawn.”

Mason shook his head. “Gertie should be able to do better than that,” he said.

“Oh, but Gertie has. She has already created the man in the case and clothed him with a whole series of ideas that are very typically Gertie. The man in the case, in case you’re interested, is the son of a very wealthy manufacturer. The father has picked out a woman that he wants the boy to marry. The boy is really in love with Dorrie Ambler, but he doesn’t want to disobey his father, and the father, of course, is going to disinherit the boy in the event he marries Dorrie. The boy is a nice enough kid, in a way, but rather weak.”

“And what about Dorrie?” Mason asked.

“Oh, Dorrie, according to Gertie’s scenario, is a very determined young woman who has a mind of her own and isn’t going to let the father dominate her life or ruin her happiness.”

“Hardly the type of innocent young woman who would permit herself to be seduced by a young man who has no particular force of character,” Mason said.

“You’ll have to argue with Gertie about that,” Della Street told him. “Gertie’s got the whole script all finished in her mind and no one’s going to change it. When Gertie gets an idea in her head, it’s there.

“You could pound dynamite in her ear, set off the charge and blow most of her head away, but the idea would still remain intact.”

“Well,” Mason said, “I guess under the circumstances, Della, we’ll have to see Dorrie Ambler and find out how Gertie’s romantic mind has magnified the molehill into the mountain.”

“Don’t sell Dorrie short,” Della Street warned. “She’s a mighty interesting individual. She looks like a quiet, retiring young woman but she knows her way around and she wasn’t born yesterday.”

Mason nodded. “Let’s have a look at her, Della.”

Della slipped through the door to the outer office and a few moments later returned with Dorrie Ambler in tow.

“So nice of you to see me, Mr. Mason,” Dorrie Ambler said in a rapid-fire voice.

“You are concerned about a problem of personal identification?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“And you wanted to have me take steps to... well, let us say, to be sure you are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you so anxious to establish your individual identification?” Mason asked.

“Because I think an attempt is going to be made to confuse me with someone else.”

“Under those circumstances,” Mason said, glancing at Della Street, “the very best thing to do would be to take your fingerprints.”

“Oh, but that wouldn’t do at all!”

“Why not?”

“It would make me... well, make a criminal out of me.”

Mason shook his head. “You can have your fingerprints taken and send them to the FBI to be put in their non-criminal file. Actually every citizen should do it. It establishes an absolute means of identification.”

“How long does it take?”

“To have the fingerprints taken and sent on? Only a very short time.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have that much time, Mr. Mason. I want you to... well, I want to establish my identity with you. I want you to look me over, to...” She lowered her eyes, “...to see the scar of an operation.”

Mason exchanged a quizzical glance with Della Street.

“Perhaps,” Mason said, “you’d better tell me just what you have in mind, Miss Ambler.”

“Well,” she said demurely, “you’d know me if you saw me again, wouldn’t you?”

“I think so,” Mason said.

“And your secretary, Miss Street?”

“Yes,” Della Street said. “I’d know you.”

“But,” she said, “people want to be absolutely certain in a situation of this sort and— Well, when the question of identification comes up they look for scars and... well, I have a scar.”

“And you want to show it to us.”

“Yes.”

“I believe my secretary told me that you’d like to have some other witness present.”

“Yes, as I understand it, a lawyer can’t be a witness for his client.”

“He shouldn’t be,” Mason said.

“Then perhaps we can get someone who could be a witness.”

“There’s Paul Drake,” Mason said, again glancing at Della Street. “He’s head of the Drake Detective Agency. He has offices on this floor and does most of my work.”

“I would have preferred a woman,” she said. “It’s — rather intimate.”

“Of course,” Mason said, “you could retire to one of the other rooms and Della Street could make an inspection.”

“No, no,” she said hastily. “I want you to see, personally.”

Mason glanced at Della Street again and said, “I’ll send a message to Paul Drake. We’ll see if we can get him to step in for a few minutes.”

The lawyer pulled a pad of paper to him and wrote:

Mason tore off the sheet from the pad, handed it to Della Street and said, “Take this down to Paul Drake, will you please, Della?”

Della Street, keeping the formal atmosphere which would be compatible with the transmission of a message by paper rather than by word of mouth, said, “Yes, Mr. Mason,” and opened the exit door.

Dorrie Ambler crossed good-looking legs. “I suppose you think I’m being very mysterious, Mr. Mason.”

“Well, let’s put it this way,” the lawyer said. “You’re a little out of the ordinary.”

“I... I just have a suspicion that someone is trying to set me up as a— What is it you call a person who is made the victim of a frame-up?”

“A fall guy,” Mason said, “or a Patsy.”

“Since I am not a guy,” she said, smiling, “I prefer the word Patsy. I don’t want to be a Patsy, Mr. Mason.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Mason told her. “And, by the same token, I don’t want to be placed in a position which might prove embarrassing to me... I take it you gave your name and address to my secretary?”

“Oh, yes, to the receptionist. The young woman at the switchboard.”

“That’s Gertie,” Mason said.

“I gave her the information. I reside at the Parkhurst Apartment, Apartment 907.”

“Married, single, divorced?”

“Single.”

“Well,” Mason said, “you must have people there who can vouch for your identity — the manager of the apartment, for instance.”

She nodded.

“How long have you lived there?”

“Oh... let me see... Some six months, I guess.”

“You have a driving licence?” Mason asked.

“Certainly.”

“May I see it, please?”

She opened her handbag, holding it in such a way that Mason could not see down into the interior, then took out a purse and from that extracted a driving licence.

Mason studied the name, the residence, the description, said, “This was issued five months ago.”

“That’s right, that was my birthday,” she said, and smiled. “You know how old I am now, Mr. Mason.”

The lawyer nodded. “This being a California licence, there is a thumbprint on it.”

“I know.”

“So your objection to having your fingerprints taken was at least partially overcome by—”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Mason,” she said. “I have no objection to having my fingerprints taken. It’s simply that the idea of having them taken and sent to the FBI...” She shuddered.

“We can make a perfect identification from this thumbprint,” Mason said.

“Oh,” she said, and looked at her thumb. “Are you a fingerprint expert, Mr. Mason?”

“No,” Mason said, “but Paul Drake is, and I know a little something about comparing prints.”

“I see.”

“Do you have any other scars?” Mason asked. “Any other operations?”

She smiled. “Just the appendectomy. It’s so recent I’m conscious of it all the time.”

Drake’s code knock sounded on the outer door, and Mason crossed the room to admit Della Street and Paul Drake.

“This is Paul Drake, the detective, Miss Ambler,” Mason said.

Drake bowed.

She smiled, said, “How are you, Mr. Drake.”

Mason said, “We have a peculiar situation here, Paul. This young woman wants to have a witness who can establish her identity. She wants you to take a good look at her and she even wants to go so far as to show the scar of a recent operation for the removal of her appendix.”

“I see,” Drake said gravely.

“And,” Mason went on, “I have explained to her that since it now appears she has a California driving licence with her thumbprint on it, that’s all that will be necessary. It will only be necessary to compare her thumbprint with the print on the driving licence.”

“Well now,” Drake said, “a thumbprint is, of course, identification, but on the other hand if she wants to—”

“I do,” she interposed. “I don’t like fingerprints. That is, I don’t like the idea of being fingerprinted. However, if you would like to compare my thumbprint with the print on the licence, here’s my thumb. But I don’t want to make fingerprints. I just don’t like the idea of getting ink all over my fingers and feeling like a criminal... Can you compare the thumb itself with the print and tell?”

Drake gravely took a small magnifying glass from his pocket, moved over to sit beside her.

“Permit me,” he said as she produced the driving licence. He gently took her hand in his, held the thumb under the magnifying glass, then looked at the print on the driver’s licence.

“I have to make a transposition this way,” he said, “and it’s a little difficult. It would simplify things if you’d...”

“No ink,” she said, laughing nervously.

“It just means I’ll be a little longer,” Drake said.

Della Street winked at Perry Mason.

Drake moved his glass back and forth from the thumb to the print on the driver’s licence, then looked up at Perry Mason and nodded. “All right,” he said, “check. You’re Dorrie Ambler. But, of course,” he added hastily, “we’ll check on the appendicitis operation.”

She got to her feet abruptly, moved over to a corner of the room.

“I’ll get away from the windows,” she said.

She slipped off her jacket, raised her blouse to show a small strip of bare skin, then became suddenly self-conscious and pulled it back down.

“Actually,” Mason said, “the thumbprint is enough.”

“No, no,” she said, “I want you to...” She broke off, laughing nervously. “After all,” she said, “I suppose a lawyer is like a doctor and I think nothing of being examined by my doctor. Well, here goes.”

She pulled a zipper at the side of her skirt, slipped her waistband down and pulled her blouse up.

She stood there for a second or two, letting them view smooth, velvety skin, its beauty marred by an angry red line, then suddenly shook her head, pulled the skirt into position and pulled up the zipper.

“Heavens,” she said, “I don’t know why, but I just feel horribly undressed.”

“Well, we’ve seen it,” Drake said, “and in a few months the colour will leave that scar and you’ll hardly know it’s there.”

“You can identify me?” she asked.

“Well,” Drake said, smiling, “with that thumb and that appendectomy scar I think I can make a pretty good identification if I have to.”

“That,” she said, “is all I want.”

While she had been fumbling with her clothes, Della Street had swiftly opened Dorrie Ambler’s handbag, looked inside, snapped the bag shut and then catching Mason’s eye, nodded to him.

“All right, Paul,” Mason said significantly, “I guess that’s all. You’re a witness. You can make the identification.”

“Perhaps it would help,” Drake said, “if I knew what this was all about.”

“It would help,” Dorrie Ambler said, “if I knew what it was all about. All I know is that either I have a double or I’m being groomed as a double for someone else and I’m... I’m afraid.”

“How are you being groomed?” Mason asked.

“I’ve been given these clothes to wear,” she said, flouncing the skirt up in such a way that it showed a neat pair of legs well up the thighs. “I’ve even been given the stockings, the shoes, skirt, jacket, blouse, underwear, everything, and told to wear them, and I’m following certain instructions.”

Mason said, “Are there any cleaning marks on those clothes?”

“I haven’t looked.”

“It might be a good plan to look,” Mason said, “but it probably would take fluorescent light.”

She said, “I... I’m doing something on my own, Mr. Mason, and I’ll be back later on.”

“Just what do you contemplate doing?” Mason asked.

She shook her head. “You wouldn’t approve,” she said, “and therefore you wouldn’t let me do it, but I’m going to force the issue out into the open.”

Abruptly she picked up her handbag, looked at her watch, turned to Mason and said, “I presume your secretary handles the collections.”

Mason said to Della Street, “Make a ten-dollar charge, Della, and give Miss Ambler a receipt.”

Della said, “This way, please,” and led the client out of the office.

Mason and Drake exchanged glances.

“You’ve got a man on the job?” Mason asked.

“Jerry Nelson,” Drake said. “He’s one of the best in the business. It just happened he was in my office making a report on another assignment when Della came in with your note. I also have a second man in a car at the curb... Boy, that’s a dish!”

Mason nodded.

“What do you suppose is eating her?” Drake asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “We’ll find out. Probably someone is grooming her for a double in a divorce action. Let me know just as soon as your men have a definite report.”

“She’ll just go back to her apartment now,” Drake said.

Mason shook his head. “I have a peculiar idea, Paul, she’s going someplace with a very definite plan of action, and she has a gun in her purse.”

“The deuce she does!” Drake exclaimed.

Mason nodded. “Gertie spotted it when she was in the outer office, and Della confirmed it by taking a peek in her purse while you were studying feminine anatomy.”

“Well,” Drake said, “next time you have a client who wants to do a strip tease, be sure to call on me.”

Della Street entered the office.

“She’s gone?” Mason asked.

Della Street nodded.

“What about the gun?”

“I didn’t have time to do more than just give it a quick look, but there aren’t any bullets in it.”

“You mean it’s empty?” Mason asked.

“No. The shells are in the gun. You can see them by looking down the cylinder, but there aren’t any bullets in the shells, just caps of blue paper at the end of the cartridge.”

“Blank cartridges!” Mason exclaimed.

“I guess that’s what they are,” Della Street said. “It’s a small pistol. It looks like a twenty-two calibre.”

Drake gave a low whistle.

“She gave you ten dollars and you gave her a receipt?” Mason asked Della Street.

“For services rendered,” Della Street said. “Then she wanted to give me a hundred dollars as a retainer on future services. I told her I wasn’t authorized to accept that, that she’d have to talk with you; so she said never mind, she’d let it go, and hurried out of the office saying she had a time schedule that she had to meet.”

“Well,” Mason said thoughtfully, “let’s hope that schedule doesn’t include a murder.”

“We’re having her shadowed,” Paul Drake said. “She won’t lose my men. They’ll know where she goes and what she does.”

“Of course,” Mason said thoughtfully, “she can’t commit a murder with blank cartridges, but something tells me your report from Jerry Nelson and his assistant is going to be somewhat out of the ordinary. Let me know as soon as you hear from your men, Paul.”