Chapter One

Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, answered the telephone, talked briefly with the receptionist, then turned to Perry Mason.

“There is a woman in the outer office who gives her name simply as Ellen Adair. She says she knows it is an imposition to try to see you without an appointment, but she is prepared to pay you anything within reason. She has to see you right away on a matter of the greatest urgency, and she’s very agitated.”

Mason glanced at his wristwatch and at the papers on which he was working.

Della Street, looking at the appointment book, said hopefully, “You have twenty-eight minutes until your next appointment.”

“I wanted to have this legal point digested before that time,” Mason said, then shrugged. “Oh, well, I guess we have to take care of the urgent matters. Go take a look, Della, and size her up. Find out what she wants to see me about.”

Della nodded, said into the telephone, “Tell her that I’ll be right out, Gertie.”

Della Street left the office to return within a couple of minutes.

“Well,” Mason asked.

“She gets me,” Della Street said. “She’s a tall woman in her late thirties or perhaps early forties. Her clothes are quiet, modest, and expensive. Her bearing is regal — that of someone who is accustomed to giving orders. She’s two or three inches taller than I am and well formed.”

“And what does she want to see me about?” Mason asked.

“She wants to ask you some questions about law,” Della said. “She says the questions will be purely academic and impersonal.”

Mason sighed. “Another one of these cases where a client tries to hide behind a shield of anonymity. She’ll come in and say, ‘Suppose A marries B and B inherits property from his mother in New Mexico. Suppose A and B are having a divorce. Can A claim one-half of the property?’ Oh, I know the whole rigmarole, Della.”

Della extended a fifty-dollar bill. “She has given me fifty dollars as a retainer.”

Mason hesitated a moment, then said, “Give it back to her. Tell her that I’ll talk with her briefly: that if I decide to answer her questions, I’ll make a reasonable charge; that if I can’t satisfy myself she is putting her cards face up on the table, she had better get another attorney.”

“She says there is no time to get another attorney, that she simply has to see you, and that action has to be taken immediately.”

“I see,” Mason said. “She wants to ask me a lot of academic law questions and then take action. Oh, well, Della, she’s a human being, she’s in trouble of some sort, so let’s find out what it’s all about. Bring her in.”

Della Street nodded, left the office, and returned within a matter of seconds with a woman who stood very erect and held her head back and her chin up in an imperious manner. She bowed to Mason, said, “Mr. Mason, thank you for seeing me,” walked over to the client’s chair, calmly seated herself, and said, “Please pay very careful attention to what I am about to say, Mr. Mason, because we are fighting against time and I have to know where I stand.”

“And what’s the trouble?” Mason asked.

She shook her head. “Let me ask the questions, please. Mr. Mason, I have heard something about the right of privacy. Can you tell me what it is?”

“The right of privacy,” Mason said, “has been defined as the right of a person to be left alone.”

“That means he is immune from publicity?”

“No,” Mason said, “like every other doctrine of law, it is subject to exceptions. Perhaps if you’d tell me just what is bothering you, I could save a lot of time. A dissertation on the law of privacy would consume a lot of time, and some of the information I would be giving you would be irrelevant.”

“Such as what?” she asked. “Please tell me quickly what are the exceptions.”

Mason said, “If you are walking along the street in a public place and a photographer takes your picture to illustrate a street scene, he can use that picture as a magazine illustration.

“If the photographer singles you out to take your particular picture, he may or may not still be within his rights. If he uses that picture for any commercial enterprise, he has violated your privacy.

“If, on the other hand, you become newsworthy because you are the victim of a holdup, or if you decide to run for public office, or if you do anything of your own volition which makes you newsworthy...”

“I see. I see,” she said, looking at her watch impatiently. “You’re right. I’m going at it in the wrong way. A person who runs for public office waives the right of privacy?”

“Within reasonable limitations, yes.”

“How about a person who runs for — well, a beauty contest?”

“Declaring herself as a candidate?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“The same situation would apply.”

“And how long would that situation last?”

“At least as long as the contest and the enjoyment of the rewards of the contest, if any.

“Understand, Miss Adair — or is it Mrs. Adair?”

“It’s Miss Adair,” the woman said sharply. “Ellen Adair.”

“All right. Understand, Miss Adair, this is a relatively new branch of the law. From its very nature it is not capable of exact, precise delineation. Each case depends largely on the facts in that particular case.

“Now let me suggest that, if you’re involved in anything where you wish to assert your right to privacy, you start in, in an orderly way, by telling me the facts of the case and quit beating around the bush.

“After I have the facts I can apply my knowledge of the law to the facts and give you an intelligent answer.

“If you try to get the law from me and then apply the law to the facts, you may make a very costly mistake. You might know the legal principle, but the application to a particular set of facts would be all wrong.”

She hesitated, bit her lip, frowned, averted her eyes, then reaching a sudden decision, turned to Mason and said, “Very well; twenty years ago in a Midwestern city I was a contestant in one of those bathing-beauty contests. I won first prize. I was eighteen at the time. Winning the contest went to my head. I thought I was a motion-picture star, because winning the contest gave me a free trip to Hollywood and a screen test by one of the major studios.”

“You came to Hollywood and took the test?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“And have been here ever since?”

Ellen Adair shook her head, “No,” she said, “I disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Mason asked, his voice showing his interest.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To have my baby,” she said.

There were several seconds of silence, then Mason said sympathetically, “Go on.”

“Now,” she said, “a paper in my hometown is publishing one of those features which the rural newspapers dig up from time to time: a column dealing with twenty-five years ago, twenty years ago, fifteen years ago, ten years ago.”

“I see,” Mason said noncommittally.

“Well, they want to publish a story about me winning the beauty prize twenty years ago, it was quite an honor for the town. I won the state beauty contest, and the hometown was proud of me.

“Then I went to Hollywood and had a screen test and nothing came of it. I was given an automobile, a motion-picture camera, a projector, a lot of beauty creams and toilet articles, an airplane trip to Las Vegas — all that type of thing which is showered on a girl who wins a contest and from which the manufacturers get enough publicity so it offsets the cost of the merchandise. It is, of course, all part of a commercialized advertising program, and I was too dumb to know it. I thought that I was getting all of those things because of my popularity and charm.”

“And then you disappeared?” Mason said.

“Abruptly,” she said. “I wrote friends that I had a flattering offer to go to Europe. Of course I didn’t go to Europe.”

“Quite obviously,” Mason said, “this is a painful interview for you. It is raking over the ashes of a dead past, but it is also apparent that you are faced with a very real emergency. Does the newspaper know where you are now?”

“It can find me.”

“How?”

“It’s rather a long story. I disappeared. I didn’t even let my family know where I was. Remember that this was twenty years ago. The whole mores of the people have changed materially in twenty years. An unmarried woman can have a baby now and get by with it if she’s clever and self-respecting. In those days it was a matter of deep shame — shame to the unwed mother, shame to the parents, shame to the community.

“The whole town where I lived was proud of me. That would have changed overnight. They would have crucified me on a cross of public scorn.”

“No need to explain all that,” Mason said. “As a lawyer I know the facts of life. But you disappeared. You didn’t let your folks know where you were?”

“No.”

“And what happened?”

“My father died. My mother married again. Then her second husband died, and a few months ago my mother died. She left an estate of some fifty thousand dollars and no heirs. She left a will stating that the money was all to go to me if I was still alive and if I could be found.”

“Your mother was still living in this little town,” Mason asked, “where she...?”

“No, she had moved to Indianapolis. I had several... well, I had kept myself advised of what she was doing and where she was living. I would send her Christmas cards and birthday cards with no signature on them, but I think she knew whom they were from all right.

“Anyhow, I employed an attorney in Indianapolis, went there, established my identity, and collected the money. No one connected me with the winner of the bathing-beauty contest twenty years ago.”

“And what makes you think you could be connected with the past now?” Mason asked.

She said, “In twenty years the little town where I lived has become a fairly big city. The evening paper. The Cloverville Gazette, is a bustling, enterprising, aggressive newspaper.

“It has been publishing a series of articles on what happened twenty-five years ago, twenty years ago, fifteen years ago, and it has asked its readers for suggestions, follow-ups on old news stories that they think would be of interest to the readers.

“A few days ago a reader sent in this letter,” she said. “It speaks for itself.”

She opened her purse and took out a newspaper clipping and handed it to the lawyer.

Mason read the clipping aloud:

Mason handed the newspaper clipping back to his client. “When,” he asked, “did you take the name of Ellen Adair?”

“When I disappeared.”

“Some of my questions,” Mason said, “have to be somewhat embarrassing. Was the father of your child named Adair?”

Her lips tightened. She shook her head. “There are certain things, Mr. Mason, we are not going into.”

“You feel that the newspaper can locate you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. If the newspaper starts digging, it will find that my mother married Henry Leland Berry, that after her death I showed up and identified myself as her daughter and claimed the money.

“You can imagine how I felt, Mr. Mason. I had been ashamed to keep in touch with my mother during the period when the knowledge of what had happened would have been a terrific blow to her and to the family pride.

“After her death it seemed selfish to appear and claim the money, but if I hadn’t it would have gone to the state because there were no other heirs.”

“And what you want is to kill this story. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

Mason said, “If I appear in the matter, the newspaper will naturally suppose that you are located somewhere in this vicinity.”

“There are several million people located somewhere in this vicinity,” she said.

“You don’t think they can trace you?”

“There is only one way they can trace me,” she said, “and that is through the Indianapolis trail — and the newspaper simply has to be stopped before they start following that trail.”

Mason nodded to Della Street. “Get me the managing editor of The Cloverville Gazette on the line, Della.”

“Shall I tell them who’s, calling?” Della Street asked.

Mason nodded. “Better put the call through from the switchboard in the outer office, Della.”

Della Street nodded, went out to give the call to Gertie at the switchboard.

When she had gone, Mason said to his client, “You have reason to believe there is something more behind all this than just the desire on the part of some reader to dig into the past and find out what happened to you as a beauty-contest winner?”

She nodded.

“Care to tell me what it is?” Mason asked.

“I don’t think that is necessary,” she said. “Are you going to tell the editor of the paper that I am a client of yours?”

“Not in so many words,” Mason said.

Della Street returned to the office. “The call is going through,” she said.

“Della,” Mason said, “give Ellen Adair a dollar bill.”

Della Street glanced at Mason quizzically.

Mason indicated the petty-cash drawer.

Della opened it, took out a dollar bill, gravely handed it to Ellen Adair.

“Now then,” Mason said, “Della Street is a resident of Hollywood who is thinking of producing a play. She may want to give you a part in that play. She...”

The telephone rang.

Della Street picked up the receiver, nodded to Mason.

“Hello,” Mason said, “is this the managing editor of The Cloverville Gazette?... I see. I’m Perry Mason, an attorney in Los Angeles, and I am representing a Hollywood party who is interested in a deal with Ellen Calvert, who was the subject of an article which appeared a short time ago in your paper.”

“Well, well, well,” the voice at the other end of the line said, “this is indeed an honor. We’re attracting attention quite far away from our local sphere of influence.”

“You are, indeed,” Mason said. “Have you got anywhere with the story of Ellen Calvert?”

“We’re doing some research. We’ve got some very fine photographs of her when she won the contest. There was a banquet by the Chamber of Commerce — lots of copy. We’ve got photographs and files and...”

“Kill it!” Mason said.

“What was that?”

“I said kill it!”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,” the managing editor said.

“I mean kill it. Take your men off it. Forget it. Stop it. Don’t touch it with a ten-foot pole,” Mason said.

“May I ask why not?”

“Primarily because I’m telling you not to touch it. If you do, you’re going to get into a whole mess of trouble.”

“We are not accustomed to having the editorial policies of this newspaper dictated by persons who ring up and make threats.”

“I’m not making threats,” Mason said, “and I have no desire to intimidate you. I’m simply representing a client and taking the first step which is necessary to protect the interests of that client — to wit, telling you to kill the story.

“Now then, you probably have some attorney who represents you. I would much prefer to deal direct with your attorney. I will explain to him the legal reasons back of the position I am taking.”

“If you could tell me the legal reason, if you could give me just one good legal reason,” the editor said, “I’d feel a lot different about all of this.”

“Ever heard about the invasion of privacy?” Mason asked.

“What newspaperman hasn’t?” the editor said. “Although I understand it’s rather hazy as far as the legal applications are concerned. But the doctrine is well known.”

“Well,” Mason said, “the law of invasion of privacy protects a person against having her privacy invaded. It is the right of a person to be let alone.”

“Now just a minute,” the editor said. “I’m no lawyer, but there are certain exceptions to this rule. When a person becomes newsworthy, the right of privacy no longer exists. When a person deliberately puts himself in a position where he is newsworthy, the doctrine...”

“Don’t waste my time telling me the law,” Mason said. “Ask your attorney to call me on the phone.”

“Do you dispute the legal points I am making?” the editor asked.

“Certainly not,” Mason said. “Those legal points are all right, but after the particular events which made a person newsworthy have terminated, the right of privacy again exists.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” the editor said.

“If the cashier of your local bank embezzled a hundred thousand dollars, that would be news,” Mason said. “You could publish photographs of the embezzler. You could cover the trial of the embezzler. You could cover the sentence.

“After the sentence had expired, after the embezzler had paid his debt to society and been released, if he went into business under another name, you couldn’t ferret him out, publish the story of his defalcation and his subsequent rehabilitation as news. That would be an invasion of privacy.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” the editor said, “but surely that’s not the case here. This is the case of a very beautiful young woman of whom the community is proud. There is nothing shameful about winning a beauty contest.”

“Publish all you want to about her winning the beauty contest,” Mason said, “but don’t go in for any twenty-year follow-up. I wish you’d have your attorney call me.”

“No, no, no,” the editor said, “that’s not going to be necessary, Mr. Mason. If you adopt this position, we aren’t going to consider the story important enough to risk a lawsuit. You say you’re representing a Hollywood producer? May I ask if Ellen Calvert is perhaps making a success in films — possibly under another name?”

“You may not,” Mason said.

“May not what?”

“Ask that question,” Mason said.

The editor laughed. “All right; you’ve aroused my interest and you’ve certainly injected an element of mystery into this. We had a lead that would have, I think, paid off. Ellen Calvert’s mother married Henry Leland Berry, and we can check the residence in the marriage license and...”

“And work yourself into a sizable lawsuit,” Mason said, “I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t want to intimidate you.”

“Well, I’m not easily intimidated.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Have your lawyer get in touch with me on the telephone. The name is Perry Mason, and...”

“You don’t need to tell me a second time,” the editor said. “You’re not entirely unknown, Mr. Mason. Many of your cases have been featured in the wire services. We’ve even published some of your spectacular courtroom cross-examinations.”

“All right,” Mason said, “let your attorney talk with me.”

The editor said, “Forget it; the story is killed. Thank you for calling, Mr. Mason.”

“O.K.,” Mason said. “Good-bye.”

Mason hung up, turned to his client. “The story is killed.”

“Mr. Mason,” she said, “I’m eternally grateful.”

She opened her purse, handed him a fifty-dollar bill.

Mason said to Della Street, “Get her address, Della; give her back thirty dollars with a receipt for twenty dollars as a retainer and for services rendered to date. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble. Miss Adair. If you do, get in touch with me.”

“Thank you very much,” she said, “but I cannot leave any address.” She arose with queenly dignity and gave Mason her hand.

“We should be able to reach you in case of complications,” Mason said.

The woman shook her head with quiet finality. “No address,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Mason told her. “I won’t try to reach you unless your own best interests require it, but I’ll have to have a phone number or something.”

Ellen Adair hesitated, then picked up a scratch pad, scribbled a telephone number, handed it to Della Street.

“Don’t let anyone know that number,” she said. “Don’t try to call me except in a real emergency.”

“We’ll be highly discreet,” Mason promised.

Ellen Adair took the receipt and the change Della Street gave her, included both Mason and Della Street in a gracious smile, and started for the door to the outer office.

“You can go out this way,” Mason said, indicating the corridor door of the private office.

Della Street held the door open.

“Thank you,” Ellen Adair said, and made a dignified exit.

When the door had closed, Mason glanced quizzically at Della Street. “Now there, Della,” he said, “is a story.”

“How much of a story?”

“We don’t know,” Mason said, “but the situation is like an iceberg: only a small fraction of it shows above the water.

“Here’s a girl who wins a beauty contest, who thinks she has the world at her feet, when suddenly she discovers she’s pregnant. That was twenty years ago, when people simply didn’t do those things and get away with them. Many a young woman committed suicide rather than face the so-called shame.

“Here was a young woman who took things in her stride, who held her chin up, who severed all connections with her friends and relatives and stood on her own two feet and developed a certain queenly air about her. She wouldn’t knuckle under to anyone.”

“On the other hand,” Delta Street said, “she never dared to get married. She probably felt she couldn’t marry without telling her prospective husband — and there, again, times have changed.”

Mason nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder,” he said, “what became of the baby.”

“It would be nineteen years old now,” Della Street said, “and... Chief, what do you suppose did become of the baby? That’s a story in itself.”

“She didn’t want us to ask that question,” Mason said, “so I didn’t ask it. She wanted the story killed. We’ve killed it.”

The lawyer looked at his watch and said, “And it’s just about time for my next appointment. The life of a lawyer is just one damn thing after another.”