The Case of the Negligent Nymph

Chapter 7

MASON FOUND DELLA STREET WAITING IN THE PRIVATE office.

“Well,” she asked, “what happened?”

Mason chuckled. “Alder had to make some explanation to his guests. He said the unknown thief had broken into his house and stolen fifty thousand dollars’ worth of gems. At the time he didn’t realize that Dorothy Fenner had left a bath towel, bathing cap, and a rubber bag on his property near the illuminated sign, so he embellished the burglary with a lot of lurid details.

“Then, very much to his consternation, the police ran down the clue of the laundry mark on the towel and apprehended Dorothy.

“Naturally, Alder is a little flabbergasted. Then when I pointed out to him that all of his jewelry was insured, and the insurance company would expect him to make a claim of loss—and he knew damned well that the insurance company would be suspicious of the whole setup —well, he began to lose his ardor very rapidly.”

Della Street said, “You have a visitor waiting in the reception room, Chief. He said he’d wait until I closed up the office no matter what time it was.”

“Who?” Mason asked.

“Mr. Dorley H. Alder.”

Mason gave a low whistle.

“He told me he simply had to see you tonight.”

Mason, narrowing his eyes in thought, gave the matter careful consideration, then said, “Try to fix the time when he came, Della. I want to find whether it was before or after George Alder began to realize he had a bear by the tail.”

“It must have been before. He’s been waiting since, oh, I’d say since quarter past four.”

“Describe him, Della.”

“As far as looks are concerned, that’s a cinch, but on his character it isn’t so easy. He’s in the middle sixties, well-dressed, well-preserved, shaggy-eyebrowed, and gray-haired. But there’s something about the man which hits you with—well, not an impact, exactly. It catches you on your blind side. It’s not exactly a benevolence. It’s a quiet power—something in his manner and in the tone of his voice.”

“Let’s take a look at him,” Mason said. “He sounds interesting.”

“Definitely,” Della Street said. “The man’s interesting, but he’s nobody’s fool and I’ll bet that this is the first time he’s waited any length of time in anyone’s reception room.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Bring him in.”

The lawyer seated himself at his desk, pulled some letters toward him which Della Street had placed on his desk for signature, and said, “I’ll be signing mail when he comes in. It’s the conventional thing to do, you know-appear busy.”

“You just keep right on signing them,” Della Street said, laughing. “I want them to get in the mail tonight. I’ll bring him in.”

Mason was signing the last of the letters when Della Street opened the door and said, “Right in here, Mr. Alder.”

Mason blotted the signature, dropped the pen back into its holder, and looked up to meet steady gray eyes which were surmounted by shaggy eyebrows.

“Mr. Alder,” Mason said, arising and extending his hand.

Alder shook hands without actually smiling. His eyes softened into a twinkle for a moment, then were once more keen, hard and probing.

He was a thick, powerful man, and in repose his face had deeply etched lines which, together with the keen scrutiny of his eyes, gave an impression of calmness, and of poised power.

Dorley Alder seated himself comfortably in the big overstuffed client’s chair and seemed to fill it completely.

That big leather chair was one of Mason’s most subtle psychological weapons. The cushions Were deep and soft. Clients who sat in it were inclined to relax physically and, in so doing, get off their guard, or, in more urgent matters, they would come forward to the extreme edge of the chair as though fearing to let themselves go.

Mason had worked out a system of card indexing clients based upon the manner in which they occupied their chair. Some tried to hide from the realities of the world in its protecting depths others squirmed uneasily but there were a few people who could sit there comfortably and fill the chair. Dorley Alder was one of these.

“I gather you wanted to see me about a matter of considerable importance,” Mason said.

“Mr. Mason, are you familiar with our company—the Alder Associates, Incorporated?”

“I’ve heard something about it,” Mason said dryly.

“Do you know generally about the setup?”

“Did you,” Mason countered, “wish to consult me about that?”

“Not entirely,” Dorley Alder said, “but I don’t want to waste time telling you things you already know.”

“You might assume that I know nothing,” Mason said.

The frosty gray eyes hardened.

“That would be an insult to your intelligence and to mine, Mr. Mason. You are representing a syndicate which holds a rather considerable acreage adjoining some of our holdings.”

Mason said nothing.

“And,” Dorlgy H. Alder went on, “we happen to know the syndicate has been very anxious to sign an oil lease, but the drilling company will not go ahead with development work unless it can also control our acreage. Not only have we refused to consolidate our holdings with yours for the purposes of the lease, but, frankly, we were quite definitely manipulating things so as to force your clients to sell out their holdings for a fraction of their value. A little financial squeeze here, a little political pressure there. Under those circumstances, Mr. Mason, to think that you would be entirely ignorant of die nature of our little corporation would be a reflection on your own abilities as an attorney, and my perspicacity as an opponent.”

“Go right ahead,” Mason said, grinning, “it’s your party. Start serving the refreshments whenever you get ready.”

A twinkle of humor softened Dorley Alder’s eyes. There was something almost hypnotic about the calm cadences of his voice. “I will assume that you have made such a survey, Mr. Mason, that you have probed for points of weakness, and that you may perhaps have found some. As you are probably aware, the actual control of the corporation is in the hands of my nephew, George S. Alder.

“George is relatively a young man, Mr. Mason. I am in the middle sixties. I am taking it for granted that you are familiar with the terms of the trust under which my brother left stock in the corporation.”

“That trust covers all the stock?” Mason asked.

“All of it,” Dorley said.

“Very well,” Mason told him. “Go ahead.”

“Corrine Lansing, George’s half sister, had, of course, an equal interest.”

Mason merely nodded.

“She disappeared.”

Again Mason nodded.

“Under the circumstances,” Dorley Alder said, “while there are some temporary expedients which we can resort to, we are advised that not until seven years have elapsed can we legally prove that she is dead.”

“No comment,” Mason said, smiling. “I have enough trouble advising my own clients without checking another lawyer’s opinions.”

“Of course,” Alder went on, “that is true in case we have merely an unexplained disappearance. If we can find circumstantial evidence to indicate an actual death, that would be another matter.”

“I’m quite certain you didn’t want to consult me about that,” Mason said.

Dorley said, “I’m merely outlining a situation.”

“Go on with the outline.”

“In the event Corrine should still be alive, the situation in regard to the control of the company might change very drastically. At the present time under the trust, I am merely a minority stockholder so far as votes are concerned. If Corrine were alive, I have reason to believe she would, perhaps, see things my way.”

“You had something specific in mind?” Mason asked.

Dorley Alder said, “Mr. Mason, you and I are businessmen. Why not speak frankly?”

“You’re doing the talking. I’m listening frankly.”

Dorley Alder smiled, said, “This little window dressing, Mr. Mason, this story about the stolen gems. That’s all right for the public, but for you and me the situation is different.”

“How different?”

“I have reason to believe that Dorothy Fenner entered that house. I think she entered it for the purpose of getting a letter. I am very much interested in that letter.”

“How interested?”

“Quite interested.”

“And precisely what do you know about the letter?” Mason asked.

“I know that a letter was found by a beachcomber. I know that letter had been written on the stationery of the Thayerbelle, which is George’s yacht. I understand that it was written by Minerva Danby, a woman who was washed overboard and drowned during a sudden, very severe storm.”

“And what else do you want to know?” Mason asked.

“I would like to know very, very much what that letter contained.”

Mason studied the man thoughtfully. “Do you want to know the contents of the letter, or merely whether I know the contents of the letter?”

“I want to know the contents.”

“And suppose the contents were significant, just what would be the advantage to us in communicating them to you?”

“You would have a valuable ally.”

“In this business,” Mason said, smiling, “the difficult thing is to tell whether you’re making an ally, or simply arming an enemy at your rear.”

“You have my word, Mr. Mason … and I am very fond of Dorothy.”

Mason took from his pocket the copy of the letter which had been made on Dorothy Fenner’s portable typewriter. Wordlessly, he handed it to Dorley Alder.

The older man all but grabbed at the letter in his eagerness. He started reading rapidly, his eyes shifting back and forth from line to line. When he had finished, he lowered the letter to his lap, sat for a moment gazing vacantly at the opposite wall of the office. Then he said softly, “Good heavens.”

Mason gently reached forward and, taking advantage of Dorley Alder’s preoccupied concentration, slipped the copy of the letter from the man’s lap, folded it and put it back in his pocket.

“Good lord,” Dorley said, almost to himself, “I had suspected something, but nothing like that—nothing at all like that.”

“It gave you a jolt?” Mason asked.

Dorley Alder said, “George is a peculiar boy—a most peculiar boy, Mr. Mason. The man will not permit anything to stand in his way. Once he makes up his mind to a certain course of conduct, I believe he would sacrifice his own life or the life of anyone else to carry out his purpose. Mr. Mason, I must see the original of that letter.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?’

“A copy was made of the letter. The original letter then disappeared.”

Sudden anger suffused Dorley Alder’s countenance. “Good lord, Mr. Mason, are you trying to play games like that with me?”

“I am telling you that this is a copy of the letter that was in that bottle.”

“Stuff and nonsense.”

“An exact copy,” Mason went on.

“How do you know it’s an exact copy?”

“I can assure you that it is.”

Dorley Alder said, “I’m afraid that you’re either being victimized by your client, or that you’re trying to victimize me. I … No, Mason, I’m sorry. That slipped out. I lost my self-control because I’m so bitterly disappointed. I was hoping you had that original letter in your possession or that your clicnt did. I had every reason to believe such was the case.”

Mason said, “This is a copy.”

“Who says so?”

“My client.”

“PoofI”

“And,” Mason went on, “one other witness who compared it with the original, a witness whose name I’m not prepared to disclose at the moment.”

Dorley Alder’s face lit up. “You mean there is a dis-interested witness who can vouch for the accuracy of this copy?’”

“Yes.”

“That,” Dorley Alder said, “is different.”

“Quite different,” Mason assured him.

“Does George know that letter was copied?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He may suspect it?”

“He may.”

“Did George manage to get that letter back?”

“There’s every indication that he did.”

Dorley Alder sat in silent thought for several seconds, then he turned to Mason and said impressively, “Mr. Mason, I want you to keep away from George Alder. I want your client to keep away from George Alder. I am particularly concerned about her. If George has any idea that she has a copy of that letter she … Well, in the interests of safety, in the interests of preserving her life, I feel that she should take steps to safeguard herself. She is in custody now, and … “

“She isn’t any longer,” Mason said. “She was released on bail about an hour ago.”

“She was?”

“That’s right.”

“And where is she now?”

“At her apartment, I believe.”

Dorley Alder pushed his way up out of the depths of the big chair, said to Mason, “Keep her away from George Alder. Stay away from George Alder yourself. Safeguard the copy of that letter. You may hear from me within the next day or two. Remember what I told you, Mr. Mason. You have made a valuable ally.”

“Just a minute,” Mason said. “There are two questions I should like to ask.”

“What are they?”

“How did you learn about that letter in the bottle?”

“Frankly, I learned as much as I know from my nephew, George S. Adler. He started to confide in me, then changed his mind. I knew enough to know there had been such a letter. I wanted to find out more about it. I asked Dorothy if she had heard anything about it. She hadn’t. I hoped my question would inspire her to make inquiries of Pete Cadiz.

“And your second question, Mr. Mason?”

“Why are you so afraid of George?”

“I’m not.”

“But you’ve emphasized that I am not to go near him, and that…”

“Oh, that!”

“Yes, that.”

“Well, Mr. Mason … I, personally, am not afraid of him. When he is crossed he has rages that are terrible. When Corrine disappeared in this fit of suicidal despondency, I fear it may have been caused in part by a difference of opinion she was having with him. He flew down to South America to get her to sign some papers. It is my understanding that she first turned him down, then refused to see him after that and … Well, you know the rest … Frankly I don’t feel he ever forgave the poor sick girl for not yielding to his demands.

“However, I have answered this second question perhaps too fully. I must leave—at once.”

He bowed to Della Street, shook hands with Mason, turned toward the corridor door, said, “I can get out this way?”

Mason nodded.

“Say nothing about my having been here,” Dorley Alder said, “nothing to anyone.”

He strode to the exit door, opened it and walked out without once looking back, yet managing to maintain the dignity and power of his presence by the even set of his shoulders and the lines of his back.

Mason and his secretary were silent for some seconds after the door had closed.

“Well?” Della Street asked at length.

Mason said, “Get Dorothy Fenner on the phone, Della. Tell her that I am anxious to have her keep away from George Alder, and for the moment not to be available to Dorley Alder.”

Della Street raised her eyebrows.

“Anything that Dorley has to say to her,” Mason explained, “can be said through me. You may or may not have noticed it, Della, but the man was careful to say that all the shares of stock were in the trust.”

“And?” she asked.

“Carmen Monterrey is supposed to hold ten shares that aren’t in the trust.”

Della Street thought that over. “And could those ten shares be important?”

“They might be damned important, Della.”

“Then we didn’t make an ally after all, Chief?”

“That,” Mason said, “will be disclosed in due time.”

“And what’s due time?”

“Damn soon,” he said, grinning.