The Case of the Perjured Parrot

Chapter ten

Randolph Bolding had carefully cultivated an expression of what Mason had once described to a jury as “synthetic, professional gravity.” His every move was calculated to impress any audience he might have with the fact that he was one of the leading exponents of an exact science.

He bowed from the hips. “How do you do, Mr. Mason,” he said.

Mason walked on into the private office and sat down. Bolding carefully closed the door, seated himself behind the huge desk, smoothed down his vest, mechanically adjusted papers on the blotter, giving his visitor an opportunity to look at the enlarged photomicros of questioned signatures which adorned the walls.

Mason said abruptly, “You were doing some work for Fremont C. Sabin, Bolding?”

Bolding raised his eyes. They were bulging, moist eyes which held no expression. “I prefer not to answer that question.”

“Why?”

“My relations with my clients are professional secrets — just as yours are.”

Mason said, “I’m representing Charles Sabin.”

“That means nothing to me,” Bolding said.

“As Fremont C. Sabin’s heir, Charles Sabin is entitled to any information you have.”

“I think not.”

“To whom will you communicate this information?”

“To no one.”

Mason crossed his long legs and settled back in the chair. “Charles Sabin,” he said, “wanted me to tell you that he thought your bill was too high.”

The handwriting expert blinked his moist eyes several times in rapid succession. “But I haven’t submitted one yet,” he said.

“I know; but Sabin thinks it’s too high.”

“Well, what’s that got to do with it?”

“Sabin,” Mason said, “will probably be the executor of the estate.”

“But how can he say my bill is too high when he doesn’t know how much it is?”

Mason shrugged his shoulders. “That,” he said, “is something you’ll have to take up with Sabin. Of course, you know how it is, Bolding. If an executor approves the charge against the estate, it goes right through. If he doesn’t approve it, then you have to bring suit to establish your claim. In case you don’t know it, it’s a long way to Tipperary.”

Bolding gazed down at the blotter on his desk for several thoughtful seconds.

Mason stretched, yawned prodigiously, and said, “Well, I guess I’ll be going. I’ve got lots of work to do.”

“Wait a minute,” Bolding said, as Mason rose to start toward the door. “That attitude isn’t fair.”

“Probably not,” Mason agreed carelessly. “However, Sabin is my client and that’s what he says. You understand how it is dealing with clients, Bolding. We have to follow our client’s wishes and instructions.”

“But it’s so manifestly unfair,” Bolding protested.

“I don’t think it is,” Mason said.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Mason told him, “you aren’t submitting a bill to Fremont C. Sabin for anything you did for him personally, you’re submitting a bill to the estate for things which were done to conserve the property during Sabin’s lifetime... at least, I suppose that’s the theory of it.”

“That’s the theory of it,” Bolding agreed.

“Well,” Mason said, “you haven’t conserved anything.”

Bolding flushed. “I can’t help it if a man dies before he carries out his plans.”

“No,” Mason observed, “I daresay you can’t. However, that would seem to be your loss, not ours. You’ve lost a client.”

“But under the law, I’m entitled to recover compensation for my services. A thousand dollars is a most reasonable charge.”

“Go right ahead,” Mason told him, “and recover your compensation. I was simply giving you a friendly tip that Sabin thinks your charges are too high. He’ll probably bring in a couple of the other experts, who have been waiting to take a rap at you, and have them testify that your fees are outrageous.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” Bolding asked.

“Just warning you,” Mason said.

“What do you want?”

“Me?” Mason asked, surprised. “Why I don’t want anything.”

“What does Sabin want?”

“I don’t know,” Mason told him. “You’ll be getting in touch with Sabin when you present your bill. You can ask him then.”

“I’ll ask him nothing.”

“Okay by me,” Mason said. “Sabin thinks your charges are plain robbery. He says that whatever you did, you did for Mr. Sabin and not for the estate.”

“I am doing it for the estate.”

“I don’t see how,” Mason said.

“You’d have to understand what it was all about in order to see that,” Bolding said.

“Doubtless,” Mason admitted, “if I knew all the facts, I’d feel differently about it. Doubtless, if Sabin knew all the facts, he’d feel differently about it. You see, he doesn’t know all the facts, and there’s no likelihood he’ll learn them — in time to do the estate any good.”

“You’re putting me in a very difficult position, Mason,” Bolding said irritably.

Mason’s voice showed surprise. “I am? Why, I thought you’d put yourself in it.”

Bolding pushed back his swivel chair, crossed over to a steel filing case, unlocked the catch and angrily jerked the steel drawer open. “Oh, all right,” he said, “if you’re going to act that way about it.”

Bolding opened the files and spread papers out on the desk. “Richard Waid,” he said, “was Fremont C. Sabin’s secretary. He held Sabin’s power of attorney and had authority to sign checks up to five thousand dollars. Checks over five thousand dollars had to be signed by Sabin. I have in this file sixteen thousand five hundred dollars in forged checks. The checks are three in number, each is over five thousand in amount, and each purports to have been signed by Sabin. The forgeries were so clever the bank cashed them.”

“How were they discovered?” Mason asked.

“Sabin discovered them when he audited his bank account.”

“Why didn’t Waid discover them?”

“Because Sabin had the habit of issuing checks from time to time without advising his secretary.”

“Did Waid finally learn of these checks?”

“No, Mr. Sabin wanted it kept a closely guarded secret, because he thought it was a family matter.”

“Just what,” Mason asked, “do you mean by that?”

Bolding said, “Perhaps I can quote from Mr. Sabin’s letter to me, and it will explain matters more clearly.” He picked up a typewritten letter, turned over the first page and read from the second page:

“What conclusions did you reach?” Mason asked.

“The checks are clever forgeries. They are free-hand forgeries; that is, the signatures were dashed off at high speed by a competent and daring forger. There are no tremors in the signatures. The signatures were not traced. There is no evidence of the painfully laborious handwriting of the slow, clumsy forger who must rely upon tracing. Such signatures look quite all right to the naked eye, but under the microscope look quite different from the smooth, fast-flowing lines of a quickly executed signature such as these.”

“I understand,” Mason said.

“The forged signature may be the work of Steven Watkins, the young man whose handwriting was sent me by Mr. Sabin. I don’t know. I am inclined to think the endorsements, however, were not made by young Watkins. In fact, they have all the earmarks of being genuine signatures, although they may have been fictitious.”

“How were the checks cashed?”

“They were put through various banks for collection, in each instance by a person who opened an account, let it remain for a week or two, and then drew out the entire balance. The references, addresses, etc., in each instance were fabricated.”

“And you don’t think Watkins did it?”

“To be frank,” Bolding said, “I do not... That is, the endorsements on the checks. As to the forgery of the signature, I cannot say.”

“Did you so advise Mr. Sabin?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“On Friday, the second of September. He was in the city and called on me for a brief conference.”

“Then what?” Mason asked.

“He said he would think it over and let me know.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“About four o’clock on Monday, September fifth. It was a holiday, but I happened to be in my office. Sabin caught me here on a long distance telephone call.”

“Did he say where he was?”

“He said he was in his mountain cabin.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, he’d been thinking over the matter of those forgeries and said he was sending me other handwriting specimens in a letter which he would mail that afternoon.”

“Did you ever receive the letter?” Mason asked.

“No.”

“Then you gather that he didn’t mail it?”

“I think that’s a reasonable inference.”

“Do you know why he didn’t mail it?”

“No. He may have changed his mind; he may have postponed it, or he may have entered into some transaction... perhaps some property settlement... which was conditioned upon the fact... Well, you may draw your own conclusions.”

“What gives you that idea?” Mason asked.

“Certain circumstances which I am not at liberty to divulge.”

Mason said, “Under the circumstances, Bolding, it would seem that your services have been of the greatest value to the estate. I would advise the executor to honor your bill.”

Bolding said, without enthusiasm, “Thank you.”

Mason said, “If you’re in need of money, I might advance the money myself from my personal account and take payment of your claim in the regular course of administration.”

Bolding said, “That would be most acceptable.”

“Your bill was a thousand dollars?” Mason asked.

“Fifteen hundred,” Bolding said.

“I would, of course, want to take possession of the documents in the case on behalf of the administrator,” Mason said.

“That’s understood.”

Mason pulled out his checkbook, wrote a check for fifteen hundred dollars, scribbled an assignment of Bolding’s bill on the back of the check, and passed it across to Bolding. “Your endorsement on the back of the check,” he said, “will at once constitute a receipt for the amount of the money and an assignment of your claim against the estate.”

“Thank you,” Bolding said. He pocketed the check, took an envelope from the desk drawer, placed the checks and letters in it, and handed the envelope across to the lawyer. Then he arose, went to the door of the private office and held it open.

Mason heard the rapid, nervous click... click... click of the high heels on a woman’s shoes. He stepped back so that he was concealed behind the jamb of the door as he heard Helen Watkins Sabin say, “I bet you didn’t think I was going to come back with the cash, did you, Mr. Bolding? Well, here it is, one thousand dollars, ten one-hundred-dollar bills. Now, if you’ll give me a receipt, I’ll take the documents and...”

Bolding said, “You’ll pardon me, Mrs. Sabin, but would you mind going around to the other office. I have a client here.”

“Oh, well,” she said, “your client can go right on out. He doesn’t need to mind me. You were standing there in the door to usher him out, so you can just usher me in.”

She swept past Bolding into the office, and then suddenly whirled to face Perry Mason.

“You!” she said.

Mason bowed.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Collecting evidence,” Mason told her.

“Evidence of what?”

“Evidence of what may have been a motive for the murder of Fremont C. Sabin.”

“Bosh,” she said. “Mr. Bolding doesn’t have any such evidence.”

“You are familiar with what he has then?” Mason asked.

“I didn’t come here to be cross-examined,” she said. “I have some business to transact with Mr. Bolding, and I don’t care to have you present at my conversation.”

“Very well,” Mason said, and bowed himself out into the corridor.

He had just reached the elevator when he heard a door open and close with a violent bang. He heard running feet in the corridor and turned to find Mrs. Sabin bearing down upon him with ominous purpose.

“You got those papers from Bolding,” she charged.

“Indeed,” Mason said.

“You boosted the ante five hundred dollars and took those documents. Well, you can’t get away with it. You have no right to them. I’m Fremont’s widow. I’m entitled to everything in the estate. Give me those papers at once.”

“There is some doubt,” Mason told her, “about just who will be settling up the estate. There is even some doubt about your being Fremont Sabin’s widow.”

“You tangle with me,” she said, “and you’ll be sorry. I want those papers, and I’m going to get them. You can save time by turning them over to me now.”

“But I see no reason to save time,” Mason told her, smiling coldly. “I’m not in a hurry.”

Her eyes glittered with the intensity of her feeling. “You,” she said, “are going to try to frame something on Steve. You can’t make it stick. I’m warning you.”

“Frame what on him?” Mason asked.

“You know perfectly well. Those forgeries.”

Mason said, “I’m not framing anything on anybody. I’m simply taking charge of evidence.”

“Well, you have no right to take charge of it. I’ll take charge of it myself.”

“Oh, no,” Mason said, “I couldn’t think of letting you do that. You might lose the forged checks. After all, this is rather a trying and exciting time, Mrs. Sabin. If you should mislay these checks and couldn’t find them again, it would give the forger altogether too much of a break — particularly when we consider that the forger is, in all probability, the murderer.”

“Bosh!” she said. “Helen Monteith murdered him! I found out all about her. However, I suppose you’re quite capable of dragging Steve into it in order to save her, aren’t you?”

Mason smiled and said, “Quite.”

“Are you going to give me those checks?”

“No.”

“You’ll wish you had.”

“By the way,” Mason observed amiably, “the inquest is to be held tonight in San Molinas. I believe the sheriff has a subpoena for you, and...”

She stamped her foot. “It’s just the same as larceny. I think there’s a law covering that. All property belonging to the decedent...”

“Is a forged check property?” Mason asked.

“Well, I want them anyway.”

“I gathered you did,” Mason observed affably.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You... you... you...”

She launched herself at him, clawing at the envelope in the inside pocket of his coat. Mason pushed her easily aside and said, “That isn’t going to get you anywhere, Mrs. Sabin.”

A red light flashed as an elevator cage slid to a stop. Mason entered. “Coming, ma’am?” the elevator man asked Mrs. Sabin.

“No,” she said, and turned on her heel to stride belligerently back toward the office of Randolph Bolding.

Mason rode down in the elevator and drove at once to a branch post office. He carefully sealed the envelope containing the forged checks and the various letters and addressed the envelope to Sheriff Barnes at San Molinas. He then placed postage stamps on the letter and dropped it in the mailchute.