The Case of the Nervous Accomplice

Chapter 3

Mason unlocked the door of his private office.

“Mrs. Harlan is here,” Della Street said, and smiled. “You arrived in the nick of time. She just came in.”

“Show her in,” Mason said, tossing his hat in the direction of the bust of Gladstone where it landed at a rakish angle.

Della ushered Mrs. Harlan into the office. “Did you get it?” Sybil Harlan asked anxiously.

“I got it,” Mason said. “I could probably have saved you better than ten thousand dollars.”

She gestured impatiently. “I was afraid you might try something like that. I told you to pay the price he put on it.”

“I paid it.”

She added by way of explanation, “If anything had happened, and he’d stopped to think it over, he might have called my husband, and if he had... well, you can’t tell what would have happened. This is the last chance I have, Mr. Mason. At least, it’s the only thing I could think of. If that hadn’t gone through we’d have had to start from scratch.”

“All right,” Mason said, “what do we do now?”

“Now,” she said, “as a stockholder of the Sylvan Glade Development Company, Mr. Mason, it will give me great pleasure to show you what you have purchased. My car is downstairs and we can go out right now. I want to show you the layout because this is probably the last time we dare be seen together. By this time tomorrow, they’ll have detectives shadowing your office, trying to find out who your client is. They’ll be smart enough to realize that you didn’t buy this for yourself.”

“I hope so,” Mason said, reaching for his hat. He motioned Sybil Harlan to precede him.

She flashed him a glance from the doorway. “Why?”

Mason said, “I don’t want people to get the impression that I go around buying property at the asking price. You should have seen Lutts. He was afraid we’d found uranium on the property. He didn’t want to sell, but he was afraid to let me get out of that door for fear I’d get away and wouldn’t come back. All in all, he was in quite a predicament.”

Mason told Della where he would be and followed Mrs. Harlan to the car.

“Tell me some more about the property,” he said as they eased into traffic.

“It was out at the end of a carline. At one time it had been a rather exclusive suburb. Then it was sold, subdivided into lots, went through a fashionable period, then became a real estate white elephant. Around 1933 or 1934 a fire wiped out many of the old mansions. Then for a period of five or ten years, the place started filling up with shacks. It was a strange combination. A couple of the old mansions, standing in utter disrepair, surrounded by squalid hovels.

“Then the carline was discontinued. New roads were cut through and Lutts was shrewd enough to realize that if he could buy the property, tear it down, move away the buildings, and level the hill, the place would make a wonderful close-in site for a golf course or good subdivision property. He tried to tie up all the adjoining property, and that’s when my husband got in on the deal. Enny is a pretty shrewd real estate operator. He realized what Lutts was trying to do.

“About that time, Enny became infatuated with Roxy. At first, the interest was legitimate. Roxy was a young divorcée with money to invest. She wanted Enny to recommend good real estate investments.

“Enny found out that the new freeway was going to come very close to this property, that they would need a lot of dirt for a fill. So, while Lutts was picking up options at a more or less leisurely pace, Enny, representing Roxy, swooped in and got hold of all the property to the north. Then he made the first deal with the contractor who was constructing the freeway and sold him dirt for the fill.”

“How much dirt?” Mason asked.

“All they had. You’ll see for yourself when we get out there. Roxy’s property has been leveled right up to the line. In fact, after the last rain our property caved and started to slide. The road contractor needs more dirt right away, and he’s negotiating with Lutts. That’s really what the directors’ meeting is about this afternoon.”

“To consider the contractor’s offer?” Mason asked.

“To accept it. After all, they can’t do anything else. He’s willing to pay for all the dirt and pay for tearing down the house and pave a roadway along the side of the property and along Roxy’s property. That’s why Enny will be at the meeting this afternoon.”

“To see that the offer is accepted?”

“Yes, he’s very anxious. He’s sold his dirt and got Roxy’s property leveled, so naturally he’s anxious to see that construction is speeded up and that Roxy gets the benefit of the paved road. The contractor is willing to build along the property lines so he can haul the dirt to the second fill. Dirt from Roxy’s property went into the first fill.”

“Suppose the corporation doesn’t accept the contractor’s offer?”

“Then they’d be stuck with moving the dirt and they’d have to find a place to put it.”

“Where would that leave the road contractor?”

“Well, he’d get dirt from somewhere. There has to be a fill. Of course, the deal is a natural, Mr. Mason. The contractor needs the dirt, and the Sylvan Glade Development Company wants the hill leveled.”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“Try to make Roxy pay for her roadway through the nose.”

“But it’s all one deal with the contractor?”

“Yes. Actually, the Sylvan Glade wants the roadway paved and dedicated because they’ll be using it. Roxy is willing to dedicate the roadway provided she gets it paved for nothing. The contractor is willing to pave for nothing provided he gets the dirt from the Sylvan Glade Development Company.”

“That’s the deal?” Mason asked.

“That’s the deal.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“Throw enough wrenches in the machinery so that Roxy knows she’s in for trouble. Do everything you can to embarrass her.”

“That might be in conflict with your best interests as a stockholder.”

“I told you before, Mr. Mason, I’m not buying stock. I’m buying a husband.”

Mason nodded, lit a cigarette, settled back in the car, and surreptitiously studied Mrs. Harlan’s profile.

She kept her eyes on the road, said, “I can feel that you’re putting me in a test tube, Mr. Mason. I suppose pure cussedness is the analysis.”

“Not exactly,” Mason said. “You interest me.”

“Thank you. Do you think I can interest my husband — again?”

“You did it once,” Mason said.

She nodded. “That was five years ago. Now I’m having to give my opponent a six-year handicap.”

“You can do it,” Mason said. “Where did this Claffin woman get all the money — insurance, an estate, or—?”

“Or gold digging,” she interrupted.

Mason looked at her in quick surprise. “I thought she was well fixed, the way you were talking.”

“She’s supposed to be, but where did she get it... or rather, where is she getting it?”

“No alimony?”

“Not a cent. She was on the losing end.”

“Investments?”

“Now she has investments, but the original cash came from somewhere. She’s a plunger and she’s hit a potential jackpot now.”

“You think your husband may have contributed?”

“No. He might be imposed upon now, but when the relationship started, it was on a business basis. It didn’t stay that way long. Trust Roxy for that.”

Mason studied her angry profile.

She turned the car off the highway, drove over half a mile of pavement which had been sadly neglected and was full of broken irregularities, then negotiated a sharp turn and climbed a steep grade up a hill.

“Here we are,” she said, indicating a three-story house which had at one time evidently been quite a mansion but which was now standing in solitary isolation. “That’s the house which is to be torn down. Those piles of lumber represent salvage from some of the shacks that were pulled down. Most of that lumber isn’t good for anything except to be sawed up as kindling. The company’s been selling it for what it can get. It’s been running ads in the classified section, offering second-hand lumber for sale — as is.”

Sybil Harlan stopped the car. Mason got out.

“Want to go in the house?” she asked.

Mason nodded. “Let’s take a look.”

She opened the glove compartment of the car, took out a leather key-container and a leather binocular case.

“What’s that in the back?” Mason asked sharply.

She snapped the door of the glove compartment closed. “A gun,” she said casually.

“What’s it for?”

“For protection.”

“Whose protection?”

“Mine. It’s one of Enny’s.”

“One of Enny’s?”

“Yes, he has quite a collection. He’s quite an outdoor man... used to do a lot of hunting.”

“And why the need for protection?” Mason asked.

“Because,” she said, avoiding his eyes, “I come up here every once in a while, and it’s lonely. I always put this gun in my handbag when I go inside the house. You read too many stories of women being attacked for me to take chances up here.”

They left the car and walked to the door. Mrs. Harlan opened the leather container, fitted a key to the lock, and slid the bolt back.

“Works smoothly,” Mason said.

“I oiled it.”

“May I see the keys?”

She hesitated. Mason held out his hand with steady insistence.

“Oh, all right,” she said, and gave him the leather key-container.

Mason looked through the keys. “These are all skeleton keys.”

“Yes.”

“How did you get them?”

“My goodness, Mr. Mason, don’t be naïve. Every good real estate man has a collection of skeleton keys. I filched these from Enny’s car.”

“Didn’t he miss them?”

“Yes, but he didn’t know who had taken them. He has others.”

“Exactly what’s the idea?” Mason asked.

“I was going to show you,” she said, “but now I’ll tell you. From up here on the third floor you can look directly down on the house which is on Roxy’s property — you can look into the patio and right into the swimming pool. Now, does that answer your question, Mr. Mason?”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on your husband?”

“Exactly.”

“Have you seen anything?” Mason asked.

“Lots.”

Mason said, “If you wanted to get evidence, why didn’t you employ a detective?”

“I told you, Mr. Mason, I don’t want to get evidence. I don’t want a divorce. I don’t want a separation. I want my husband.”

“How many times have you been up here?”

“Enough to find out what’s going on.”

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s go.”

She opened the door. “I’ll lead the way,” she said. The interior of the house was musty; the air was stale and had a faint smell of mildew.

Partitions had been ripped out and rearranged on the lower floor to provide places for small businesses. These businesses had, in turn, moved out and left a helter-skelter of junk — old newspapers, broken chairs, a few pieces of old clothing, wrecked counters, and partitions. Over all, was a coating of dark, heavy dust.

“Dispiriting, isn’t it,” she said.

Mason nodded.

“I’ll lead the way,” she said. “You’ll pardon me, Mr. Mason. This is dirty and my skirt is white.”

She raised her skirt, drew it tightly around the upper part of her legs, holding it with one hand while she climbed a steep flight of stairs.

Mason regarded the white shoes, the long length of nylon stockings. “You’re hardly dressed for a tour of inspection here,” he said.

“I know. I have an appointment at the beauty shop right after we leave here, and I dressed for that appointment instead of for this. I hope you don’t mind my making a spectacle of myself, but I don’t want to get dirty.”

“Lead on,” Mason told her.

The second floor had been given over to bedrooms. Here, again, there was a litter of rubbish where people had moved out, leaving behind old mattresses, broken bed sets, cheap furniture which in the course of years had become unglued at the joints and was not worth repairing.

Mrs. Harlan, still holding her skirt high and tight so that it would not brush against anything, climbed to the third floor, led the way to a room with a northern exposure. Here it was cleaner and less cluttered. The room’s only chair was covered with a newspaper and placed in such a position that one could sit in it and look out through the thin lace curtains of a window.

Mrs. Harlan’s white skirt dropped back into place; she looked down at her shoes to see if she was carrying any dirt on them, stamped them on the floor in order to get rid of the dust. “Here we are, Mr. Mason,” she said.

Mason looked down the steep excavated slope to a red-tiled, white stucco house. “Gives you a feeling of insecurity,” Mason said. “I can’t get over the feeling that this house may start sliding down the hill any minute.”

“I know how you feel,” she said. “The rains have washed gullies. Within thirty days this will all be torn down and the hill will be leveled. Look down there now, Mr. Mason. Do you see what I mean? Those two figures.”

She stepped to the window, released the catch and raised the sash. The lace curtains billowed in a faint breeze. She slipped a cord over the curtains, holding them back.

Then, stepping away from the window, she opened the leather binocular case and brought out a pair of expensive binoculars. “Just sit in that chair. You can look right out through the window.”

She handed Mason the binoculars, and Mason, curious, moved the newspaper, seated himself in the chair, adjusted the binoculars and looked down on the red-tiled roof of the patio and the swimming pool.

A man and a woman were at the pool. The man wore a business suit, the woman wore virtually nothing. She was lying on a foam rubber mattress.

“Sun-bathing,” Sybil Harlan explained. “She does that a lot, particularly when Enny is calling on business.”

“I take it that’s your husband.”

“That will be Enny,” she said. “Probably talking about the directors’ meeting, getting last minute instructions.”

As Mason watched, the man leaned forward and extended his hand; the woman took it, and with a light, swift motion bounded to her feet. For a moment she stood facing the man and then grabbed up a robe and hung it around her.

Mrs. Harlan, who had been watching over Mason’s shoulders without the aid of binoculars, said, “That gives you a good idea of what’s going on, Mr. Mason.”

“Want the binoculars?” Mason asked.

“I wouldn’t think of depriving you of the treat,” she said. “Now, she’ll get the robe and be very modest, very demure — after having given Enny a complete eyeful. A neat figure, don’t you think, Mr. Mason?”

“Very.”

“Otherwise,” Mrs. Harlan said dryly, “I wouldn’t have had to invest thirty-two thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars in stock that I didn’t want. Now she’ll invite him into the house for a drink or a cup of tea and—”

Harlan had been standing by the woman, who was smiling up at him. Mason could see her lips move as she said something, then, with her face near to the man’s, she paused for a moment, her chin elevated at just the right angle.

Abruptly, the man swept her into his arms in a crushing embrace.

Mason lowered the binoculars to glance at Mrs. Harlan.

She had turned her back to the window and was standing with her fists clenched.

“All right,” Mason said, “I’ve seen the property.”

“Ready to go?”

“I think I’d better. That directors’ meeting is for one-thirty. I want to be there when it opens.”

“Enny will be leaving any minute now,” she said.

“Was that house built after the property was—”

“No, the house has been there for some time. That’s on the level part of the property. The hill commenced just back of where the swimming pool is now. That’s new. Enny likes to swim. That wall around the patio, enclosing the swimming pool, gives them privacy. That unpainted boxlike shack just below here is the contractor’s shack.”

“Hasn’t it occurred to him to look up here?” Mason asked. “Can’t she see you at that window?”

“I have been very careful. They never even bother to look up here. They take this old empty house for granted, the way a wife takes her husband for granted — until she suddenly finds it’s too late to salvage her marriage.”

“You’re wearing white today,” Mason said. “When you raised that window, you could have been rather conspicuous and—”

“I don’t wear white when I come up here. I wear something dark. I just wanted you to see the property, Mr. Mason. You’ll have to understand the setup. Do you want to go down and look at the boundary line?”

“Can we see it from here?”

“We can see it from here, but, as you pointed out, I’m too conspicuous. Let’s go.”

Mason put the binoculars back into the case. She held out her hand.

“I’ll carry them,” Mason said.

Mrs. Harlan again carefully raised and folded her skirts. “I feel as much of an exhibitionist as that minx down there at the swimming pool, but the dirt in this house just jumps at you if you give it a chance — and I take it you’ve seen legs before, Mr. Mason.”

“Not that good-looking,” Mason said.

She laughed. “Thank you. I think I needed that to build my morale — otherwise, I wouldn’t have fished for it. They are good. I know my good points, Mr. Mason, but sometimes I’m afraid I don’t know my bad points.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m a creature of emotions. In my case, sophistication is a thin veneer. At times I have the most savage, ruthless impulses. Sometimes I— Well, Mr. Mason, there are depths in my emotions I’m afraid to look into. I’m not a well-controlled person. Sometimes I’m afraid I could become a vicious, clawing savage.

“You know, some women would have become friendly with the mistress, trying to size up her technique to see what she had that the wife didn’t have. I’ve seen them do that, cooing at each other, sparring for position in a cold war that was all sweetness on the outside. I couldn’t do that. I’d have been at her throat.

“I know I can’t trust myself. I’ll just have to stay away from that woman, that’s all.”

“That might be a good idea,” Mason said.

“What idea?”

“To keep away from her.”

“You’re right. Let’s quit talking about her, shall we?”

She led the way down the stairs. Mason followed her to the ground floor. She opened the outer door, released her skirts, fluffed them into place, and stood a moment in the doorway, the bright sunlight showing the silhouette of her figure through the light, white skirt. She stretched her arms above her head, with the tips of her fingers she smoothed her hair back around her ears, glanced over her shoulder at Perry Mason. “Think I stand a chance?”

“I would say you stood a very good chance.”

She stepped out into the sunlight, holding the door open for Perry Mason, and he followed her through the door. She closed and locked it.

“The boundary line comes right along here to the northeast,” she said. “You can see where they stopped the excavation. Then our property caved down after it rained.”

“It’ll cave some more if there are further rains,” Mason said.

“I suppose so. But after all, what difference does it make. The house is going to be torn down.

“Think of the stories this house could tell, Mr. Mason. At one time it was a mansion out in the exclusive suburbs. Those were the days when you traveled by horse and buggy and went back and forth to town on an interurban streetcar. Beautiful women climbed up and down those stairs. There were marriages... births... deaths... and then there were people who moved in, common, ordinary people, then another class of people. Can you imagine persons moving out of a house and leaving all of that nasty litter behind them? It’s awful when something outlives its usefulness, Mr. Mason.”

She stood in the sunlight, facing the lawyer, her face hard and bitter. “Six years,” she said, and spat the words out.

Mason said, “I thought it was your fifth anniversary.”

“My fifth anniversary,” she said, “but I’m talking about that beautiful brown body down there. She’s six years younger than I. That’s the handicap I have to give. That’s what I’m fighting against. And as I get older, I’ll have to give more and more of a handicap. There’s always a young crop coming along with curves and... oh, hell, Mr. Mason, I think I’m going to bawl.”

“Wait a minute,” Mason said sharply. “This is your fifth wedding anniversary, remember? You’re going to the beauty shop. You’re going to gild the lily and paint the rose, and then you’re going to turn on your personality and make that woman in the red-tiled house down there look pale by comparison.”

“She isn’t pale. She’s beautiful. She has a wonderful brown body. Her skin has beautiful golden tints. I’ve watched her, I’ve studied every inch of her — and she’s six years younger than I am.”

“And,” Mason said, “she’s going to start asking your husband why he didn’t protect her property rights and what is meant by the doctrine of lateral support?”

“What is the doctrine of lateral support?” Mrs. Harlan asked, suddenly curious.

“That,” Mason said, grinning, “is what the directors of the Sylvan Glade Development Company are going to be asking in just about forty-five minutes. And if you don’t mind accepting the appraisal of an expert, Mrs. Harlan, that girl down there doesn’t have anything on you. You can spot her curve for curve, and she can’t touch you on personality.”

“Thanks for trying to boost my morale, Mr. Mason. You don’t know how I need it. I’m getting pretty desperate. I—” She suddenly jumped into the car, unlocked the glove compartment, started to put in the binoculars which Mason held out to her, hesitated, then took the gun out and put it into her handbag.

“What’s that for?” Mason said.

Her laugh seemed cheerful. “I’ll put it back among my husband’s other guns. I’m not going to need it after all — now that I am beginning to understand the way you have things planned.”