The Case of the Mischievous Doll

Chapter Three

An atmosphere of tense expectancy hung over Perry Mason’s office until a few minutes before five o’clock when Perry Mason said, “Well, Della, I guess our client has decided she doesn’t need an attorney — and I’m hanged if I know why.”

“Do you suppose they’ve been interrogating her and won’t let her get to a phone to put through a call?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I can think of a lot of explanations but none of them is logical. However, I’m not going to worry about it. Let’s close up shop, go home and call it a day. We should have closed the office at four-thirty and— Wait a minute, Della, it’s almost five. Let’s tune in on the five o’clock newscast and see if there is some mention made of what happened. It’ll be worth something to find out whether I’m going to have to try to defend a client on a charge of shooting up an airport with blank cartridges.”

“About the only defence to that would be not guilty by reason of insanity,” Della Street said.

Mason grinned.

Della Street brought out the portable radio, tuned it in to the station and promptly at five o’clock twisted the knob, turning up the volume.

There were comments on the international situation, on the stock market, and then the announcer said, “The local airport was thrown into a near panic today when an attractive young woman brandished a revolver, shouted ‘This is a stick-up!’ and then proceeded to fire three shots before retreating into the women’s rest room.

“While police were organizing to storm the citadel, the woman in question casually emerged. Upon being identified by spectators and taken into custody by the police, the woman at first professed her innocence, then finally smilingly admitted that she had done the act as a prank. Frankly skeptical, police soon determined two facts which lent strong support to the young woman’s statement. One fact was that the revolver was loaded only with blank cartridges and apparently the three shells which had been fired were blanks. The other fact was that an inspection of the woman’s driving licence identified her as Minerva Minden, who has been designated in the past by at least one newspaper as the madcap heiress of Montrose.

“Miss Minden has from time to time paid visits to Police Headquarters; once for deliberately smashing dishes in a restaurant in order to get the attention of a waiter; once for reckless driving and resisting an officer; once for driving while intoxicated; in addition to which she has received several citations for speeding.

“The young heiress seemed to regard the entire matter as something in the nature of a lark, but Municipal Judge Carl Baldwin took a different view. When the defendant was brought before him to fix bail on charges of disturbing the peace and of discharging firearms in a public place, Judge Baldwin promptly proceeded to fix bail at two thousand dollars upon each count.

“A somewhat chastened Miss Minden said she would plead guilty to the charges, put up cash bail and left the courtroom. She is to appear tomorrow morning at nine-thirty for a hearing on her application for probation and for receiving sentence.”

The broadcaster then went on to discuss the weather, the barometric pressure and the temperature of the ocean water.

“Well,” Della Street said, as she switched off the radio, “would you say our Miss Ambler is a double of Minerva Minden, the madcap heiress?”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “The crime,” he said, “was evidently premeditated, and the driving licence and the thumbprint were most certainly those of Dorrie Ambler — so now the scar of the appendectomy may assume considerable importance.”

“But how?” Della Street asked. “What could be the explanation?”

Mason said, “I can’t think of one, Della, but somehow I’m willing to bet...”

The lawyer broke off as timid knuckles sounded against the door from his private office to the corridor.

Mason glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes past five. Don’t open that door, Della. Go out through the door from the reception room and tell whoever it is that the office is closed for the day, that I’m not available; to telephone tomorrow morning at nine o’clock and ask you for an appointment.”

Della Street nodded, slipped out of Mason’s private office into the reception room.

A moment later she was back. “Guess who?” she asked.

“Who?” Mason asked.

“Dorrie Ambler.”

“Did she see you?”

Della Street shook her head. “I just opened the door from the reception room into the corridor and started to step out when I saw her. I thought perhaps you’d want to talk with her even if it is after hours.”

Mason grinned, stepped to the door and opened it just as the young woman was dejectedly turning away.

“Miss Ambler,” Mason said.

She jumped and whirled.

“The office is closed,” Mason said, “and I was on the point of leaving for the night, but if it’s a matter of some importance I’ll see you briefly.”

“It’s a matter of great importance,” she said.

“Come in,” Mason invited, holding the door open.

Della Street smiled and nodded.

“Sit down,” Mason invited. And then when she had complied, said, “So you’re really Minerva Minden, sometimes referred to as the madcap heiress of Montrose.”

She met his eyes with a steady frank gaze. “I am not!” she said.

Mason shook his head, his manner that of a parent reproving a mendacious child who persists in an incredible falsehood. “I’m afraid your denial isn’t going to carry much weight, but this is your party. You wanted to see me upon a matter of some importance and it’s only fair to remind you that you’re paying for my time. Moreover, one of the factors in fixing my charges is the financial ability of the client to pay. Now, you just go ahead and take all the time you want. Tell me any fairy story you want me to hear and remember that it’s costing you money, lots of money.”

“You don’t understand,” she said.

“I’m afraid I do,” Mason told her. “Now I’m going to tell you something else. When you were here in the office I knew that you had a gun in your purse. I hired a detective to shadow you. You were shadowed up to the airport, and a detective was standing within a few feet of you when you staged that demonstration.

“Now then, Miss Minden, I’d like to know just what your game is, what you have in mind and how you expect me to fit into the picture.

“For your further information, I don’t like to have clients lie to me, and I feel that after I have heard your story there is every possibility that I will not care to have you continue as a client.”

She was watching him with wide eyes. “You’ve had me shadowed?”

Mason nodded.

“You knew there was a gun in my purse?”

Again the lawyer nodded.

She said, “Thank God!”

Mason’s face showed his surprise.

“Look,” she said, “I’m not Minerva Minden. I’m Dorrie Ambler, and the thing I did this afternoon at the airport was for the purpose of forcing Minerva Minden to tell what was really going on, but she was too smart for me. She outwitted me.”

Mason’s eyes showed dawning interest. “Go ahead,” he said.

She said, “It all started four days ago when I answered an ad for a young woman, either trained or untrained, who could do special work. The ad specified that applicants must be between twenty-two and twenty-six years of age, that they must be exactly five feet three inches tall, weighing not less than a hundred and ten pounds nor more than a hundred and fifteen pounds, and offered a salary of a thousand dollars a month.”

Della Street flashed a glance at Perry Mason. “I saw that ad,” she said. “It only ran for one day.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said to Dorrie Ambler.

“Someone mailed me a copy of the ad and I applied for that job,” she said, “and so did scads of other people — and there was something phoney about it.”

“Keep talking,” Mason said, his eyes now showing keen interest.

“Well, to begin with, we were asked to go to a suite in a hotel in order to make application. A very efficient young woman sat at a desk in a room in that suite, on which had been pasted a sign, personnel manager.

“Opening out of this suite were two rooms. One of them had a label, red room. The other had a label, black room. The young woman at the desk would give each applicant a ticket. The red tickets went to the red room, the black tickets went to the black room.”

“Then what?” Mason asked.

“As far as the red room is concerned I don’t know for sure, but I did talk with one girl who was given a ticket to the red room. She went in there and sat down and she said there were about twenty young women who came in and sat down in that room. They waited for about fifteen minutes and then a woman came to them and told them that there was no need for them to wait any longer; the situation was no longer open.”

“All right,” Mason said, “you were given a ticket to the black room. What happened there?”

“Apparently only about one applicant out of fifteen or twenty got a black ticket. I was one of them. I went in there and sat down and one other girl came in while I was there.

“After I’d been there for ten or fifteen minutes, a door opened and a man said, ‘Step this way, please.’

“I went into still another room in the suite — heavens, that suite in the hotel must have cost a small fortune.”

“Who was the man?” Mason asked.

“He said he was a vice president in charge of personnel, but the way he acted I think he was a lawyer.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The way he threw questions at me.”

“What sort of questions?”

“He had me sit down and asked me a lot about my background, all about my parents, where I’d been employed, and so forth. Then he asked me to stand up and walk around. He was watching me like a hawk.”

“Passes?” Mason asked.

“I don’t think that was what he had in mind,” she said, “but he certainly was looking me over.”

“And then?”

“Then he asked me how my memory was and if I could give quick answers to questions and a lot of things like that, and then said, ‘What were you doing on the evening of the sixth of September?’

“Well, that hadn’t been too long ago, and after thinking a minute I told him that I had been in my apartment. I hadn’t had a date that night although it had been a Saturday, and he asked me who was with me and I told him no one. He wanted to know if I’d been there the entire evening and I told him I had. Then he asked me if I’d had any visitors at all during the evening, or had had any phone calls, and a lot of personal questions of that sort, and then asked me for my telephone number and told me that I was being seriously considered for the job.”

“Did he tell you what kind of a job it was?”

“He said it was going to be a rather peculiar job, that I was going to have to undergo intensive training in order to hold down the position but that I would be paid during the period of training. He said that the pay was at the rate of a thousand dollars a month, that the position would be highly confidential, and that I would be photographed from time to time in various types of clothing.”

“Did he say what type?” Mason asked.

“No, he didn’t. Of course I became suspicious right away and told him there was no use wasting each other’s time, did he mean I’d be posing in the nude, and he said definitely not, that it was perfectly legitimate and above board, but that I’d be photographed from time to time in various types of clothing; that the people I was to work for didn’t want posed photographs. They wanted pictures of young women on the street, that I wasn’t to be alarmed if someone pointed a camera at me and took pictures of me on the street, that that would be done often enough so that I would lose all self-consciousness.”

“And then what?”

“Well, then I went home and after I’d been there about two hours the telephone rang and he told me I’d been selected for the position.”

“You were unemployed at the time?” Mason asked.

“As it happened, I was. I’d been foolish enough to think I could support myself by selling encyclopedias on a door-to-door basis.”

“Couldn’t you?” Mason asked.

“I suppose I could,” she said, “if I’d absolutely had to. But I just didn’t have the stamina for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You ring doorbells,” she said. “Someone comes to the door. You only get invited in about once out of five times if you’re really good. If you’re not, you’re apt not to get invited in at all.”

“If you do, what happens?”

“Then you get in and make your sales pitch and answer questions and arrange for a follow-up.”

“A follow-up?” Mason asked.

“Yes, you call during the daytime and the woman doesn’t like to take on that much of an obligation without consulting her husband. So if you’ve really made a good pitch you’re invited to come back in the evening when he’s home.”

“And you didn’t like it?” Mason asked.

“I liked it all right but it was just too darned exhausting. In order to stay with a job of that sort you have to develop a shell. You become as thoroughly professional as a — as a professional politician.”

“So you quit?” Mason asked.

“Well, I didn’t exactly quit but I made up my mind that I’d only work mornings. Afternoons are rather non-productive anyway because so many times you find women who are planning on going to a club meeting or have got their housework caught up and want to do something else during the afternoon. They are either not going to give you the time to let you talk with them or they’re impatient when they do talk with you.”

“I see,” Mason said. “Go ahead.”

“All right,” she said. “I went back to my apartment. It was a day when I was resting. I didn’t feel too full of pep anyway and I was taking life easy when the phone rang and I was told that I’d been selected and asked to come back to the hotel.”

“Then what?”

“Then I went to the hotel and everything had changed. There was no longer the woman at the desk, but this man was sitting in the parlor of the suite and he told me to sit down and he’d tell me something about the duties of the job.

“He gave me the plaid suit I was wearing this morning, the blouse, the stockings, even the underthings. He told me that this was to be my first assignment, that he wanted me to put on these clothes and wear them until I got accustomed to them, that I was to get them so they looked as though they were a part of my personality, and I was not to be at all self-conscious. He suggested that I could step in to the bedroom and try the clothes on.”

“Did you?” Mason asked.

“I did after some hesitancy,” she said, “and believe me, I saw that both doors into that bedroom were locked. I just had a feeling that I had got into something that was a little too much for me.”

“All right,” Mason said, “go on. What happened? Did he make passes?”

“No, I had the deal sized up a hundred per cent wrong. The man was a perfect gentleman. I put on the clothes and came out. He looked me over, nodded approvingly and then gave me a hat and told me I was to wear that hat. He told me that my duties would be very light for the first few days, that I was to sleep late the next morning, that I was to get up and have had breakfast by ten-thirty; that I was to go to the intersection of Hollywood and Vine and cross the street fifty times. At the end of that time I was free to go home.”

“Crossing the street from what direction?” Mason asked.

“He said it didn’t make any difference. Just walk back and forth across the street, being careful to obey the signals, and that I was to remember not to pay any attention to anybody who might be there with a camera.”

“Was somebody there?” Mason asked.

“Yes, a man was there with a camera. He took pictures mostly of me but occasionally he would take a picture of someone else.”

“And you walked back and forth?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“The clothes fit you?”

“As though they’d been made for me. They were the ones I wore this morning.”

“Now then,” Mason said, “this is an important point. Were these clothes new or had they been worn?”

“They were new. They hadn’t been sent to the cleaner as nearly as I could tell. They had, however, evidently been made specially. There were even some bits of the basting threads left in the seams.”

“Did you,” Mason asked, “ever see any of the pictures?”

“No, just the man with the camera.”

“All right, go on. What happened?”

“I was told to telephone a certain unlisted number for instructions. I telephoned the number and was told that everything was okay. I had done all that I needed to do for the day and I could have the rest of the time off.”

“Then what?” Mason asked.

She said, “I did a little detective work on my own.”

“Such as what?”

“I called the unlisted number, disguised my voice and asked for Mac. The man said I had the wrong number and asked what number I was calling and I gave him the number. It was, of course, the correct number. He said I had made a mistake and had the wrong number. I told him that I didn’t, that I knew the number Mac had given me. So then he started getting a little mysterious and I think a little concerned. He said, ‘Look, this is a detective agency, Billings and Compton. We don’t have any Mac working for us,’ and I said, ‘A detective agency, huh?’ And slammed up the phone.”

“So then what?”

“Then,” she said, “I looked up the address of Billings and Compton Detective Agency and decided to go up there and ask for a showdown. I didn’t know just what I was getting into.”

“And what happened?” Mason asked.

“I never went in,” she said. “I... Well, something happened and I thought I saw the picture.”

“What was it that happened?”

“I drove my car up there. There’s a parking lot right next door to the building. I put my car in the parking lot and was just getting out when I saw my double.”

“Your what?”

“My double.”

“Now,” Mason said, “I’m beginning to get the picture. Just what did your double look like?”

“She looked exactly like me. She was dressed exactly the same way, and there was more than a superficial resemblance. It was really startling. She was my height, my build, my complexion, and of course since we were wearing identical clothes... well, I had to stop and do a double take. I thought I was looking at myself in the mirror.”

“And what was your double doing?”

“Standing in line, waiting for her car to be brought to her.”

“And what did you do?”

“I kept on doing detective work. I stopped my car and continued to sit in it and when the man gave me a parking ticket I just kept on sitting there until I saw her car being delivered and I got the licence number of her car, WBL 873.”

“So then you looked up the registration?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“And the registration was Minerva Minden?”

“Right.”

“And then?” Mason asked.

“Well, then I reported for work the next day and I was told to go to another locality. This time it was Sunset and La Brea and I was to cross the street fifty times.”

“You did that?”

“Yes.”

“And the photographer was there?”

“Part of the time the photographer was there, part of the time he drove by in an automobile. Once I’m certain that he had a motion-picture camera in the automobile when he stopped and parked the car and took motion pictures of me.”

“And then what?”

“Then I called the unlisted number again and was told that my work was done for the day, that I could relax, have cocktails and dinner and that there would be no more calls on my time.”

“So what did you do?”

She said, “I came to the conclusion that I was being groomed for something and that I was going to be what you called a Patsy.”

“Perhaps Minerva Minden wants an alibi for something,” Mason said.

“I’ve thought of all that,” she said. “We’re not twins but there certainly is a startling resemblance. But wait until you hear what happened the next day.”

“Okay, what did happen?”

“So,” she said, “the next day I was told to go to Hollywood Boulevard and Western, that I was to cross the street, walk one block along Hollywood Boulevard, wait ten minutes, walk back, cross Western, then cross Hollywood Boulevard and go up the other side of the street; wait ten minutes, then come back down and retrace my steps. I was to keep that up at ten-minute intervals for two hours.”

“You did it?” Mason asked.

“I only did part of it.”

“What part?”

“About the third time — I think it was the third time I was making the trip up Hollywood Boulevard I passed a store and a little girl cried out, ‘Momma, there she is now!’ ”

“Then what happened?”

“A woman ran to the door and took a look at me and then suddenly dashed out of the store and started following me.”

“What did you do?”

“I walked up Hollywood Boulevard just as I had been instructed, and the photographer was there at the corner and took a picture of me, and I think of the woman following me. Then suddenly I got frightened. I jumped in my car which I’d left parked on the side street and drove away as fast as I could.”

“That was when?”

“That was yesterday.”

“And then what?”

“Then I made it a point to look up Minerva Minden, and the more I saw of the thing the more I was satisfied that I was being groomed as a double for some sinister purpose. So I made up my mind that I’d just bring matters to a head.”

“By shooting up the airport?”

“I decided I’d do something so darned spectacular that the whole business would be brought out into the open.”

“So what did you do?”

“I rang up the number for instructions. They told me I didn’t need to do anything today. I learned that Miss Minden was taking a plane for New York. I checked her reservation. So I got all prepared and went to the airport.

“She was wearing the same clothes that I was and... well, I got the pistol, loaded it with blank cartridges, had you inspect my appendicitis operation scar so there could be no question— Oh, it’s terribly mixed up, Mr. Mason, but it was the best way I could think of, of—”

“Never mind all that,” Mason said. “Tell me what happened.”

“Well, I went down to the airport. I waited until Minerva showed up and went into the women’s room, then I jumped up, grabbed the gun, yelled ‘This isn’t a stick-up’ and shot into the air. Then I dashed into the women’s room. There are several stalls in there for showers where a person can put in a coin, get a shower, towels and all of that. Those stalls insure complete privacy. So I ran into the rest room, skidded the gun along the floor, put the coin in the slot and went into the shower.

“I felt sure that Minerva would walk into the trap, and of course she did.”

“You mean she came out of the rest room and was identified?”

“She came out of the rest room and was promptly identified. People came crowding around her and the cops started questioning her and of course that gave her a pretty good background of what had happened.”

“And at that time you thought she’d say that she hadn’t done it at all, that it was someone else and the officers would look in the rest room and find you.”

“Well, I wasn’t certain that it would go that far. I thought that I would have an opportunity to get out of the rest room in the excitement before the officers came in and searched, but what I was totally unprepared for was to have her realize what had happened and with diabolical coolness say that she had been the one who had fired the shots.”

Mason looked at his client steadily.

“She was the one who fired the shots, wasn’t she, Dorrie? And you’re working some part of a carefully rehearsed scheme?”

“On my honour, Mr. Mason, I was the one who fired those shots. Minerva was the one who tried to take the blame — and I can tell you how you can prove it in case you absolutely have to. I was afraid that if I said ‘This is a stick-up,’ that even if the gun had blank cartridges in it I might be guilty of some sort of a felony, of trying to get money by brandishing a firearm or something, so I played it safe by shouting at the top of my voice, ‘This isn’t a stick-up.’

“Now, I know that most of the witnesses heard what they thought they should have heard, and claim the person brandishing the gun said this is a stick-up. But if you should ever have to cross-examine them and should ask them if it wasn’t a fact that the woman said this isn’t a stick-up, I’ll bet you they would admit that that’s what they really heard — but you know how it is. No one wants to come forward and be the first to say the woman said this isn’t a stick-up. It would make them sound sort of foolish and... well, that’s the way it is. No one would want to be the first, but once someone tells the real truth the others will fall in line.”

“Just what did you have in mind?” Mason asked. “What do you want me to do now?”

She said, “I want you to protect my interests. I would like to find out what it is that happened on the sixth of September that would have caused someone to go to all this trouble.”

“You feel that you were built up as a fall guy, a substitute, a Patsy.”

She said, “I’m quite satisfied that I have been built up as a double and am going to be called on to take the blame for something I didn’t do. And if you had detectives follow me to the airport, you know I was the one who fired those shots and then the woman who came out — this Minerva Minden, did some quick thinking and decided to take the blame rather than let it be known I was her double.”

“Would you mind letting me see your driving licence again?” Mason asked.

“Certainly not.”

She opened her purse, took out her driving licence and handed it to Mason.

Mason checked the licence, then said, “Let me have your thumb. I’m going to make a comparison.”

“Good heavens, but you’re suspicious!”

“I’m a lawyer,” Mason said. “I hate to have anything slipped over on me.”

She immediately extended her thumb.

Mason said, “I know your aversion to fingerprints so I’ll try making a check from the thumb itself.”

He took a magnifying glass from his desk, studied the thumb and the print on the driving licence.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

Mason nodded.

“Now I’ll show you the scar.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mason said. “I’m convinced.”

“Very well,” she said. “Now will you try and find out what it is I’m being framed for? In other words, what sort of a racket I’m mixed up in?”

Mason nodded.

“Now look,” she told him, “this is going to take some money. I don’t have very much but—”

“Suppose we skip that for the moment,” Mason said. “I’ll give the case a once-over and then get in touch with you.”

“I’m so... so frightened,” she said.

“I don’t think you need to be,” Mason told her.

“But I’m fighting someone who has unlimited money, someone who is ruthless and unbelievably clever, Mr. Mason. I’m afraid that even with your help I... Well, I’m afraid they may pin something on me.”

Mason said, “Call that unlisted number right now and ask the person who answers what your duties are for tomorrow.”

Mason caught Della Street’s eye. “You can call him from this phone,” he said, “and I want to listen in and see what the man says.”

She hesitated a moment.

“Any objections?” Mason asked.

“I’m not supposed to call until later on.”

“Well, let’s try it now,” Mason said. “Let’s see if there’s an answer. Miss Street will fix the telephone connection so you’re connected with an outside line and you can go right ahead and dial the number.”

Della Street smiled, picked up the telephone, pressed the button and a moment later when a light flashed on the phone, handed the instrument to Dorrie Ambler.

“Go right ahead,” Mason said. “Dial the number.” Dorrie seated herself at Della Street’s desk and dialed the number. When she had finished dialing, Mason picked up the telephone to listen.

A man’s voice said, “Yes? Hello.”

“Who is this?” Dorrie Ambler asked.

“Who are you calling?”

Dorrie Ambler gave the number.

“All right, what do you want?”

“This is Miss Ambler — Dorrie. I wanted to know what instructions there were for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” the man’s voice said, “you simply sit tight. Do nothing. Take it easy. Go to a beauty shop. Have a good time.”

“I do nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“And my salary?”

“Goes on just the same,” the man said, and hung up.

Dorrie Ambler looked over at Mason as though for instructions and slowly dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle.

“All right,” Mason said cheerfully, looking at his watch, “we’ve got to close up the office and go home, Miss Ambler, and I guess the best thing for you to do is the same.”

“Suppose something should happen — there should be some developments. Where can I reach you?”

“I don’t have a night number where you can reach me,” Mason said, “but if you want to call the Drake Detective Agency which is on this floor and leave a message for me, they’ll see that I get it within an hour or so at the latest... You feel something may be going to happen?”

“I don’t know. I just have that feeling of dread, of apprehension, of something hanging over my head. Minerva Minden knows what happened, of course, and she’s apt to do almost anything. You see, she’ll know I’ve found out she’s the one I’m doubling for.”

Mason said, “We’ll try to find out what it’s all about, and don’t worry.”

“I feel better now that the situation is in your hands — but I do have a definite feeling that I’m being jockeyed into position for a very devastating experience.”

“Well, we can’t do very much until we know more of the facts,” Mason said.

“And remember, Mr. Mason, I want to pay you. I can get some money. I can raise some. Would five hundred dollars be enough?”

“When can you raise five hundred dollars?” Mason asked.

“I think I could have it by tomorrow afternoon.”

“You’re going to borrow it?”

“Yes.”

“Who from?”

“A friend.”

“A boy friend?”

She hesitated a moment, then slowly nodded.

“And does he know anything about all of this?” Mason asked.

“No. He knows that I have a rather peculiar job. He’s been asking questions but I’ve been sort of... well, giving indefinite answers. I think any young woman who has training in the business world should learn to keep her mouth tightly closed about the things she observes on the job. I think she should keep them entirely removed from her social life.”

“That’s very commendable,” Mason said. “You go on home and I’ll try and find out something more about all this and then get in touch with you.”

“Thank you so much,” Dorrie Ambler said, and then acting on a sudden impulse, gave him her hand. “Thank you again, Mr. Mason. You’ve taken a tremendous load off my shoulders. Good night. Good night, Miss Street.”

She slipped out of the door into the corridor.

“Well?” Della Street asked.

“Now,” Mason said, “we find out what happened at Western and Hollywood Boulevard on September sixth. Unless I’m very much mistaken, Minerva Minden was driving while intoxicated and became involved in a hit-and-run, and now she wants to confuse the witnesses so they’ll make a wrong identification.

“Telephone the traffic department at Headquarters, Della, and see what they have on file for hit-and-run on the sixth.”

Della Street busied herself on the phone, made shorthand notes, thanked the person at the other end of the line, hung up and turned to Perry Mason.

“On the night of the sixth,” she said, “a pedestrian, Horace Emmett, was struck in the crosswalk at Hollywood Boulevard and Western Avenue. He is suffering from a broken hip. The car which struck him was driven by a young woman. It was a light-colored Cadillac. The woman stopped, sized up the situation, got out of the car, then changed her mind, jumped into the car and drove away. She apparently was intoxicated.”

Mason grinned. “Okay, Della. We close up the place and I’ll buy you a dinner. Tomorrow we’ll see about Minerva Minden. By tomorrow night we’ll have a very nice cash settlement for our client, Dorrie Ambler, and a very, very handsome cash settlement for Horace Emmett.

“And we’ll let Paul have his man, Jerry Nelson, cover Minerva Minden’s hearing tomorrow and see what the judge does to her — and better tell Paul to get all the dope on that Horace Emmett accident.”