The Case of the Postponed Murder

Chapter 3

Della Street, entering Perry Mason’s office with the morning mail, said, “Your bread on the waters seems to have returned in the form of cake.”

“What bread?” Mason asked.

“The letter you sent yesterday to Penn Wentworth.”

“Oh, that,” Mason said, and grinned. “I’m afraid I’ll have to send you to cooking school, Della.”

“Why?”

“That bread on the waters,” Mason remarked, “isn’t going to return in the form of cake. It’s going to return in the form of dough.”

“Dough?” she asked.

“Exactly,” he said. “Mazuma, coin of the realm. How long’s he been waiting, Della?”

“About half an hour. He’s fit to be tied.”

“Bring him in,” Mason said.

Penn Wentworth was in his early fifties. He had apparently tried to hide the evidence of those years by devoting a great deal of careful attention to grooming. His clothes were faultlessly pressed. His girth, compared with his chest, the fit of his clothes, and his carriage, indicated that the natural sag of his stomach was held in check by an elastic belt.

His hands were well cared for, the nails carefully manicured. The face, pink and velvety from the ministrations of a barber, was in sharp contrast with the greyish green of his pale eyes. He wore a small, neatly trimmed moustache carefully waxed at the ends.

“Good morning, Mr. Mason,” he said.

“Hello,” Mason observed casually. “Sit down.”

Wentworth accepted the indicated chair. His eyes appraised Mason as the eyes of a skilful bridge player sweep over the cards when he first picks up his hand. “Nice weather,” he said.

Mason’s face became granite hard. “Think it’ll rain?” he asked.

“No,” Wentworth said. “Just a high fog. I received your letter, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “Personally, I think it’s going to rain. What about the letter?”

“I feel that an explanation is due you.”

Mason said gravely, “That’s fine. I always like to get everything that’s due me.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Mason.”

“I won’t,” the lawyer said.

“What I meant was that you have undoubtedly been tricked. A man of your standing, reputation, and ability certainly wouldn’t have agreed to represent Mae Farr if he had known all the facts.”

“Smoke?” Mason asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Wentworth’s hand came across to the humidor which Mason extended. His fingers picked out a cigarette. He seemed glad of the interruption.

Mason scraped a match into flame, lit the cigarette, tossed the match carelessly into the wastebasket, and said, “Go on.”

“It will perhaps come as a surprise to you to learn that Miss Farr is a fugitive from justice,” Wentworth said.

“Indeed,” Mason observed tonelessly.

“The police hold a warrant for her arrest.”

“What’s the charge?” Mason asked.

“Forgery.”

“Of what?”

“Of a cheque,” Wentworth said indignantly, “a cheque which constituted a base betrayal of a friendship. The girl is a gold digger, an ingrate, a selfish, scheming—”

“Just a moment,” Mason said, pressing a button.

“As I was saying,” Wentworth observed, “she—”

Mason held up his hand, palm outward. “Wait just a moment,” he said. “I’ve rung for my secretary.”

“Your secretary?”

“Yes. I want her to take down your comments about the moral integrity of my client.”

“Look here,” Wentworth said in sudden alarm, “you’re not going to try to use any of this.”

Della Street opened the door from the outer office. Mason said, “Della, I want you to take down Mr. Wentworth’s comments about Mae Farr.”

Della flashed a glance of calm appraisal at the uncomfortable visitor, then came across to the desk and slipped Mason a note.

The lawyer, unfolding the interoffice memo, read, “Harold Anders waiting in outer office. Wants to see Penn Wentworth about a personal matter which he refuses to disclose. His address is North Mesa, Calif. Said he was told Wentworth was here and said he will wait for Wentworth to come out.”

Mason slowly tore up the sheet of folded paper, dropped the pieces into the wastebasket.

Wentworth said, “What I was saying was just between us.”

“Surely,” Mason said, “you wouldn’t make such serious charges against a young woman unless you could prove them.”

Wentworth said, “Don’t try to trap me, Mason. I came here in good faith to warn you about the type of person with whom you’re dealing. I don’t intend to expose myself to a suit for defamation of character.”

“Rather late to think of that now, isn’t it?” Mason asked.

“What do you mean?”

Mason turned abruptly to Della. “Send Mr. Anders in,” he said. “Tell him Mr. Wentworth will talk with him right here.”

Wentworth half rose from his chair. He looked at Mason with eyes that held some measure of suspicion and alarm. “Who,” he asked, “is Anders?”

As Della Street slipped quietly through the door to the outer office, Mason said soothingly, “Just a chap who wanted to see you on a personal matter. He’s been trying to locate you, heard that you were here, and, followed you.”

“But I don’t know any Anders,” Wentworth said, “and I don’t think I want to see him. Can’t I leave through this exit door, and...”

“But you don’t understand,” Mason said. “He comes from North Mesa. I think he wants to see you about Miss Farr.”

Wentworth got to his feet. He had taken two steps when Della opened the door from the outer office and a tall, rawboned man in his early thirties came striding into the room.

“Which one of you is Wentworth?” he asked.

Mason waved his hand in an affable gesture. “The gentleman heading toward the exit door,” he said.

Anders strode across the room, moving with a deceptive swiftness which cut off Wentworth’s retreat. “Wentworth,” he said, “you’re going to talk with me.”

Wentworth tried to brush past him. Anders grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat. “You know who I am,” he said.

“I’ve never seen you in my life.”

“Well, you know of me.”

Wentworth said nothing.

Anders said, “Of all the slimy, contemptible tricks I ever heard of, this business of having Mae arrested takes the cake. A lousy eight hundred and fifty bucks. Here, here’s your eight hundred and fifty. I’m making the cheque good.”

He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and started peeling off twenties. “Come over to the desk where we can count this money. I want a witness, and I want a receipt.”

“You can’t pay off that cheque,” Wentworth said.

“Why not?”

“Because the entire matter is in the hands of the district attorney. I would be compounding a felony if I accepted this money. Mr. Mason is a lawyer. He can tell you that’s right. That’s true, isn’t it, Mr. Mason?”

“Consulting me professionally?” Mason inquired.

“Oh bosh! I’m merely commenting on what is general information.”

“Put your money away, Anders,” Mason said. “Sit down. You too, Wentworth. While you’re both here, I have something to say to you.”

“I have nothing further to say,” Wentworth said. “I came here in the utmost good faith, thinking that I could spare you an embarrassing experience, Mason. I didn’t come here to be trapped, tricked, or insulted. I suppose that you carefully arranged this meeting with Anders.”

Anders’ face showed surprise. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “I never heard of the man in my life.”

Wentworth looked longingly at the door.

“No, you don’t,” Anders said. “I’ve been chasing you all over town. We’re going to have a showdown right here and now. Try to get out that door, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“You can’t restrain me,” Wentworth said.

“Probably not,” Anders observed grimly, “but I can beat the living hell out of you.”

Mason grinned at Della Street, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his ankles on the corner of his desk. “Don’t mind me, gentlemen,” he said. “Go right ahead.”

“What kind of a trap is this?” Wentworth demanded.

“There’s no trap at all,” Anders said, quivering with indignation. “You’ve pulled a dirty, stinking trick. I’m here to tell you you can’t get away with it. Here’s your eight hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I refuse to touch it,” Wentworth said. “It isn’t the money, it’s the principle of the thing.”

Abruptly, he jumped to his feet. “You try to stop me,” he said, “and I’ll call the police. I’ll sue you for conspiracy, for...”

Mason said to Anders, “Let him go, Anders,” and then to Wentworth, “I just wanted you to know that I am representing Mae Farr. It may also interest you to know that I’ve submitted a photostatic copy of that cheque to a handwriting expert.”

Wentworth, with his hand on the doorknob, stopped to stare at Perry Mason.

Mason said, “My guess is that if your signature is forged, so is that of Mae Farr.”

Wentworth said, “It serves me right for trying to do you a good turn. I should have had my lawyer with me.”

“Bring him, by all means,” Mason invited, “and when you bring him, you might explain the matter of that cheque to him and ask him for his advice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You,” Mason said, “have accused Mae Farr of forging that cheque, acting purely on the assumption that because the cheque was sent to the Stylefirst Department Store to be credited to her account, she must have been guilty of the forgery. I submit that you haven’t any evidence to back that claim, that you can’t prove she mailed the cheque, that you can’t prove she wrote it because the evidence of the handwriting expert will be that she didn’t, and that, therefore, the cheque was forged by some third party.”

Wentworth hesitated for a moment, then he said cautiously, “Well, of course, if that is true...”

“If that’s true,” Mason said casually, “you have been guilty of defaming the character of Mae Farr. You have made slanderous assertions to the effect that she is a forger and a fugitive from justice. You have made these to the police and to other persons. You have apparently sworn to a complaint charging Miss Farr with a criminal act... Do get your lawyer, Wentworth. I am sure he will advise you to instruct the bank to pay that cheque. Come in to see me any time. Ring up my secretary for an appointment. Good day.”

Wentworth stared at him with consternation showing in his eyes. Then abruptly he jerked the door open and stepped out into the corridor, leaving Harold Anders staring in perplexity at the lawyer.

“Sit down, Anders,” Mason invited.

Anders walked over to the big leather chair which Wentworth had just vacated and sat down.

“The trouble with me,” Mason observed conversationally, “is that I am a natural born grandstander. My friends call it a flair for the dramatic. My enemies call it four flushing. That, coupled with a curiosity about people and an interest in anything that looks like a mystery, is always getting me into trouble. What are your bad habits?”

Anders laughed and said, “I lose my temper too easily. I can’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I’m too much in love with the soil, and I have a hick outlook.”

Mason studied him with twinkling eyes. “It sounds somewhat as though the list had been compiled by a young woman who left North Mesa to come to the city,” he said.

“It was,” Anders admitted.

Mason said, “I’ve been retained to represent Mae Farr. As nearly as I can find out, her entire trouble is over this forged cheque with which you seem to be familiar. I don’t think we’re going to have any further trouble with that.”

“But look here,” Anders said, “it’s a cinch she didn’t forge that cheque. Mae wouldn’t do a thing like that, but what I can’t understand is, who did it.”

“Wentworth did it,” Mason said.

“Wentworth?”

“That’s right. We probably won’t be able to prove it on him, but he’s the one who did it or had someone do it for him.”

“Good Lord, why?”

Mason said dryly, “It is quite probable that Wentworth is another individual who can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Slow comprehension dawned on Anders’ face. Abruptly, he placed his hands on the arms of the big chair, pushed himself to his feet, and had taken two quick strides toward the door when Mason’s voice arrested him. “Wait a minute, Anders,” the lawyer said, his voice kindly yet packed with authority. “I’m running this show. Come back here. I want to talk with you.”

Anders hesitated a moment, his face flushed, jaw pushed forward.

“Come on back and sit down,” Mason said. “Remember, I’m acting as Miss Farr’s lawyer. I don’t want anything done which wouldn’t be in her best interests.”

Slowly Anders came back and sat down. Mason studied the rugged features, the bronzed skin, the deep tan at the back of the neck. “Rancher?” he asked.

“Uh huh,” Anders said.

“What kind of a ranch?”

“Mostly cattle, one patch of alfalfa, some hay.”

“Much of a place?” Mason asked.

“Fifteen hundred acres,” Anders said proudly.

“All cleared?”

“No, some of it’s in brush. A lot of it’s hill land. It’s all under fence.”

“Good,” Mason observed.

For several seconds the men sat in silence, Mason calmly regarding the man who sat across from him. Anders, his angry flush subsiding, studied the lawyer with growing approval.

“Known Mae for some little time?” Mason asked.

“Nearly fifteen years.”

“Know the family?”

“Yes.”

“Mother living?”

“Yes.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“One sister, Sylvia.”

“Where is she?” Mason asked.

“She’s there in North Mesa, working in a candy store.”

“How did you find out Mae was in trouble?”

“Sylvia got worried about her. She hadn’t heard from her for some little time, and then one of her letters was returned saying that Mae had moved and left no forwarding address.”

“You don’t hear from her regularly?” Mason asked.

Anders hesitated a minute, then said shortly, “No.”

“You keep in touch with her through Sylvia?”

“That’s right,” Anders said, in a tone that implied he considered the question none of the lawyer’s business. “But this time she called me to say she was in trouble over a forged cheque for eight hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Have you located Miss Farr?”

“No, I haven’t. I wanted you— Well, I’m her friend. I want her address.”

“I’m sorry,” Mason said. “I don’t have it.”

“But I thought she employed you.”

“The young woman who employed me,” Mason said, “explained that she was doing it on behalf of Mae Farr. She said that she didn’t know where Mae could be reached.”

Anders’ face showed disappointment.

“However,” Mason said, “if you keep on searching, I feel quite certain you’ll be able to locate her. When did you leave North Mesa?”

“Two days ago.”

“Where is the sister — Sylvia? Is she still in North Mesa, or did she come with you?”

“No, she’s still there, holding down a job. The girls support their mother. Mae has contributed most of the money.”

“She stopped sending cheques a few months ago?” Mason asked.

“No, she didn’t. That’s why I was trying to find Wentworth. Sylvia received three cheques from Wentworth. He said that Mae was working for him and had asked him to send part of her salary direct to Sylvia.”

“I see,” Mason observed thoughtfully.

“Look here, Mr. Mason. I don’t think we should let this thing rest. I think we should — well, do something about Wentworth.”

“So do I,” Mason agreed.

“Well?” Anders asked.

“I don’t like to jump to conclusions when I haven’t sufficient evidence to point the way, but it looks very much as though this is about what happened. Wentworth, as I understand it, is something of a gambler. I don’t know the exact nature of his business. Apparently, he’s rather wealthy. Miss Farr went to work for him. She didn’t care particularly about having her friends know where she was working.”

Anders said uneasily, striving to keep doubt from his voice, “That bill in the department store, that...”

“That undoubtedly means,” Mason assured him, “that she was acting as a hostess in some place which Wentworth controlled, or was doing some work for him which necessitated her coming in contact with the public. He insisted that she should be well dressed and probably sent her to the department store with a letter of guarantee. You’ll notice that he didn’t agree to pay for the merchandise outright, and, in view of the fact that he sent the cheques to Sylvia, it’s reasonable to suppose that he kept the bulk of Mae’s salary, the understanding being that he was to apply part of it toward paying off the bills at the department store and make the remittances to the sister.”

“But she said in her letters that she was working for him and...”

“Exactly,” Mason amended, “but she didn’t say just what she was doing. If she was hostess in a nightclub or something of that sort, it’s quite possible that Mae didn’t want to tell Sylvia about it.”

“I see,” Anders said, and then, after a moment’s thought, his face brightened. “By George,” he said, “that would explain the whole thing. Mae was afraid her mother would find out what she was doing. Her mother’s rather old fashioned and straitlaced. She’s not well, and Mae was afraid she might worry.”

“Exactly,” Mason said.

Anders got to his feet. “Well, Mr. Mason, I won’t make a nuisance of myself. I know you’re a busy man. I’ll— Look here, Mr. Mason, I’m at the Fairview Hotel, three nineteen. If you see Mae, would you tell her that I’m here and want very much to see her?”

“I’ll tell her,” Mason said. He stood up as Anders came across to shake hands. The two men were much the same build, tall, muscular, and rugged of feature. Anders’ bronzed hand gripped Mason’s. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this,” he said. “Look here, Mr. Mason, how about your fees? Can I—”

“No,” Mason interrupted, “I think Miss Farr would prefer to make all arrangements herself. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Anders said, “she would. Please don’t tell her I suggested it.”

Mason nodded.

“And you’ll let me know if you hear anything?”

“I’ll tell her where you are.”

Anders said, “Gosh, Mr. Mason, I’m certainly glad I met Wentworth here. Otherwise I’d probably have made a fool of myself. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Mason said.

Anders hesitated a moment uncertainly, then bowed to Della Street, who had sat silently throughout the conversation. “And thank you very much, Miss...?”

“Street,” Mason said. “Della Street, my secretary.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Street.”

Anders walked to the exit door with the long, free stride of a man accustomed to the outdoors.

When the door had closed behind him, Della glanced up at Perry Mason. “Do you believe that story?” she asked.

“What story?”

“The one you told Anders, the explanation for Mae Farr’s conduct.”

Mason grinned. “Gosh, Della, I don’t know. It was the best I could do offhand. Dammit, I wish I didn’t get so interested in people and so sympathetic with their problems.”

Della Street’s eyes were a trifle wistful. She said thoughtfully, “It was a peach of a story.”