The Case of the Spurious Spinster

Chapter 7

From a telephone booth at Lancaster, Mason called Paul Drake.

“Put a tail on Endicott Campbell,” Mason instructed. “This thing is even bigger than I thought it was, Paul, and somehow I have a feeling it’s deadly dangerous. Get a tail on Campbell and try and find out where that son of his is.”

Drake said, “That’s going to be a pretty difficult assignment. He anticipated you’d be looking for the boy and he planned the cover-up well in advance. When an intelligent man does that, he makes it almost impossible for any private agency to backtrack him. The police might be able to, but it will be a long and expensive job if we do it.”

“See what you can do anyway,” Mason said. “I’m on my way back to the city. Wait in the office for me. I want to see you when I arrive.”

“What did you do up there — any good?”

“I think so,” Mason said.

“Let’s hope so,” Drake told him, “because you’re sure as hell running up a detective bill, Perry.”

“My credit still good?” Mason asked.

“Up to a million,” Drake told him.

“All right. Keep going,” Mason said, and hung up.

He called the number of the Arthenium Hotel so that no one except the exchange operator would know it was a long-distance call and asked to be connected with Amelia Corning’s suite.

When he heard her voice on the line, Mason said, “This is Perry Mason, Miss Corning. I’d like to see you some time in the early part of the evening.”

“Oh, that will be wonderful, Mr. Mason. I enjoyed talking with you and I think you and that client of yours can do me quite a bit of good. For your information, my talk with Endicott Campbell was not in the least satisfactory.”

“I see,” Mason said noncommittally.

“Now, I’ve just received a wire that my sister and my Brazilian agent have left Miami and are due to arrive here on the ten twenty-five plane. I’d like to see you before they arrive... could you run up now?... Where are you?”

“It would be inconvenient for me to come up right now,” Mason said, without divulging his location, “but how would seven-thirty do?”

“I’d like to see you before that but I realize, of course, that you’re a very busy man. I’m going to do something rather nice for that Susan Fisher. I have come to the conclusion that... well, I’d better tell you that personally when I see you. And you’ll bring your secretary with you?”

“Yes, indeed,” Mason said.

“Well, just come right up. Don’t bother to be announced. I’ll be expecting you at seven-thirty.”

“At seven-thirty,” Mason said.

“There’s one thing perhaps I should tell you, Mr. Mason. I’m a demon for being prompt. If you can be here at seven-thirty we’ll fix that time. If there’s any question about it, we’ll make it seven forty-five.”

“Seven-thirty will be all right,” Mason told her. “I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mason. Goodbye.”

Mason returned to the car, said to Della Street, “We have a date at seven-thirty on the button with Amelia Corning. Paul is putting a tail on Endicott Campbell.”

“How did Endicott Campbell get along with Amelia Corning? Any clues?” she asked.

“More than clues,” Mason told her. “Miss Corning didn’t make any bones about it. She said the interview was highly unsatisfactory.”

Della Street grinned. “I just had a feeling that fellow was going to overreach himself.”

“He can still make trouble,” Mason said. “We’re going to have to move right along, Della, and Miss Corning emphasized particularly that she wanted her appointments kept on the dot. By the way, her sister and her business agent have flown up from South America. They wired her from Miami and they’re corning in on the ten twenty-five plane.”

“Then the net is closing around Endicott Campbell,” Della Street said.

“It could be closing,” Mason said. “But don’t ever discount a man of that type. He’s ingenious, clever, daring, and he very probably has been anticipating a situation of this sort for some time and has planned ahead.”

“But what good do his plans do him?” Della said. “Sure, he had his getaway money all neatly tucked into a shoe box and then his son took it and gave it to Susan Fisher.”

“And then what happened to it?” Mason asked.

“Well,” Della Street said, “either the person who was impersonating Amelia Corning got it, or...”

“Go ahead,” Mason said, as she paused.

“Or,” she said, “Endicott Campbell went back to the safe and got it... Of course he did, Chief.”

“He had the opportunity,” Mason said, “and undoubtedly he went back to the office and opened the safe. But remember, if the woman impersonating Miss Corning had taken the box, it wasn’t there by the time Campbell arrived.”

“But, Chief, I don’t see what difference it makes. They were working hand in glove. He deliberately planted this impostor and set the stage so that Susan Fisher would fall for it. She gave this woman all of the documentary proof that would indicate irregularities and—”

“That, of course,” Mason interposed, “was the reason she was sent up there. But a shoe box full of hundred-dollar bills is something different.”

“You mean she may have double-crossed Campbell?”

Mason said, “Campbell is acting in a most peculiar way. You know, there’s just a possibility, Della, that someone double-crossed him and he doesn’t know for sure whether it was Susan Fisher who got the money and secreted it after telling him the story about leaving the shoe box in the safe, or whether his accomplice, the woman he got to pose as Amelia Corning, decided she might just as well look at the side of the bread that had the butter.”

“In other words, you feel, from the way he’s acting, that he doesn’t have the money?” Della Street asked.

“It’s a possibility,” Mason said. “Let’s let it go at that.”

Mason eased the car up to the legal limit of speed and concentrated on his driving.

As they neared Los Angeles, Della Street consulted her wristwatch several times, glanced apprehensively at Mason. “Are you going to try to call on Paul Drake first?” she asked.

“We won’t have time,” Mason said. “The road was a little slower than I thought it would be and we’re going to have to go right to the Arthenium in order to keep our appointment.”

“Do you want me to drop you off there and then go to check with Paul and have him call you?”

“No,” Mason said. “I want you to go up with me. Incidentally, Miss Corning asked for you particularly. She wanted me to be sure and bring you along. You’ve evidently made quite an impression with her... in fact, Della, you’ve been invaluable today.”

“You make me blush,” she said demurely.

“And you make me very, very proud,” Mason said. “You really did a job working out that approach with Lowry. I think we have some information now that will prove of the greatest interest to Amelia Corning. I wouldn’t be too surprised if she didn’t want to swear out a warrant for Campbell’s arrest. There is, however, one thing that bothers me.”

“What’s that?”

“I think Campbell must realize that we dashed out to Mojave to look up that mine.”

“Well?” she asked.

“In that event,” Mason said, “he’ll wonder what we’ve found out.”

“Does that make any difference?” she asked.

“It makes this difference,” Mason told her. “If he wanted to find out just how much we had discovered, what would he do?”

“Why, he’d... I guess he’d call Lowry.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “And when Lowry talks with him on the telephone now, Lowry isn’t going to be the same cooperative conspirator that he was earlier in the day. So Campbell is going to ask him if he told us the story of what had happened, and Lowry would make a poor liar.”

“He wouldn’t even try to lie,” Della Street said. “He’d tell the truth.”

Mason nodded. “So then try thinking what a desperate Endicott Campbell would be doing all this time before we can get back.”

Della Street became thoughtful. “That isn’t a reassuring thought.”

Mason nodded, gave the Sunday-evening traffic his frowning concentration, arrived in front of the Arthenium Hotel at seven twenty-seven.

Mason handed the doorman a couple of dollars. “You’ve got to take care of that car for me,” he said. “I haven’t time to park it.”

“I’ll take care of it. It’ll be all right, right there for a while,” the doorman said. “Will you be long?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll let you know if we’re detained beyond ten or fifteen minutes.”

Mason and Della Street hurried across the lobby to the elevators, then up to the Presidential Suite.

As Mason and Della Street walked down the corridor towards the Presidential Suite, Della Street said, “It looks as if the door is open.”

Mason observed the oblong of bright light which was corning from the door of the suite and quickened his pace.

The door of the Presidential Suite was standing wide open. All of the lights inside were turned on. There was no sign of the wheelchair, no sign of Amelia Corning.

“Now what?” Della Street asked.

Mason, standing in the doorway, said, “I would presume, Della, that, knowing she had an appointment with us, she left the door open so we could come in and be seated.”

They entered the room. Mason gestured towards the half-open door to the bedroom. “Better see if she’s in there, Della,” he said.

Della Street flashed him a quick apprehensive glance, started to say something, then checked herself, moved towards the half-open door, knocked on it and called out, “Hello, Miss Corning. We’re here.”

There was no answer.

Della Street pushed the door all the way open, walked into the bedroom.

“Anybody home?” she called.

She heard quick steps and Mason was standing behind her.

The room gave evidence of feminine occupancy; an open closet door, dresses on hangers, creams on the dressing table.

Mason, beating a hasty retreat, said, “Look around, Della. Just be sure there’s no one here. Try the closets — even under the bed.”

“Chief,” Della Street exclaimed apprehensively, “you don’t think that—?” She checked herself and hurried towards the closet.

Mason returned to the parlor and seated himself.

Some two minutes later, Della Street returned and shook her head.

“Look everyplace?” Mason asked.

“Everywhere.”

“The bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Mason said, indicating a door at the other side of the parlor. “There’s another bedroom there. Try that.”

Della Street hurriedly opened the door, this time without knocking, again made an exploration and returned. “No one,” she said.

“No wheelchair?”

She shook her head.

“How many suitcases?” Mason asked.

“I didn’t notice particularly. I think there are... wait a minute, let me think. That’s right, two suitcases and a bag.”

Mason said, “I guess we wait.”

Della Street seated herself. “Couldn’t we ask the elevator operators?” she asked.

“We could,” Mason said, “but we won’t. Not right at the moment.”

“One would have thought she’d have left a note,” Della Street said.

“Well,” Mason said, “she left the door open and—” He broke off as they heard the sound of voices.

“Someone corning down the corridor now,” Mason said.

A rather portly woman in the middle forties appeared in the doorway. Behind her was a dapper individual with dark hair, dark eyes, and a short mustache. Behind them were two bellboys with bags.

Mason got to his feet.

“I beg your pardon,” the woman said. “I thought this was Amelia Corning’s suite.”

“It is,” Mason said. “We are waiting for her.”

“She isn’t here?”

“Not at the moment,” Mason said. “We had an appointment and found the door open. We assumed it was an invitation to come in and be seated. Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Perry Mason, an attorney, and this is Miss Street, my secretary. And you are...?”

“I’m Sophia Elliott,” she said. “I’m Amelia’s sister. And this is Alfredo Gomez, her business agent.”

“Oh, yes,” Mason said affably. “I understand she was expecting you. She told me over the phone you were arriving, but I didn’t think you were corning until later.”

“We found we could catch an earlier plane,” Sophia Elliott said, and turned to the bellboy. “All right,” she said, “just bring the suitcases in.”

Alfredo Gomez, slim-waisted, quick, and catlike in his motions, came forward to bow low in front of Della Street, holding her hand in his for a moment, then crossed over to shake hands with Perry Mason.

“With much pleasure,” he said.

Della Street glanced quickly at Perry Mason.

“I presume you talked with Miss Corning over the phone from Miami?” Mason said.

“We sent her a wire,” Sophia Elliott said.

“Is it Miss or Mrs. Elliott?” Mason asked.

“It’s Mrs. Elliott!” she snapped. “And I’m a widow, if it’s any of your business — which it isn’t.”

Mason said, “I am representing a client who has had some dealings with Miss Corning, and Miss Corning asked me to meet her here.” Mason looked at his watch and said, “Nearly ten minutes ago.”

“Well, if she told you to be here ten minutes ago and she isn’t here, she isn’t intending to meet you here,” Sophia Elliott said. “She keeps her watch accurate to the second and when she makes an appointment she keeps it. Now, where are we going to put these things?”

The question was addressed not to Mason but to the bellboy.

“There are two bedrooms in the suite,” one of the boys said.

Sophia Elliott strode across the parlor to the bedroom door on the north, pushed it open, looked inside, came back to the parlor and without a word strode across to the other door, pushed it open, looked around, came back and said, “All right, Alfredo, you take that bedroom. Have the boy put your bags in there. There are twin beds in this other bedroom. I’ll move in with Amelia.”

Alfredo Gomez bowed his acquiescence, indicated a suitcase and a bag. “Those are mine,” he said to the bellboy in a somewhat stilted English that was pronounced quite distinctly and without accent.

The bellboys took the baggage into the bedrooms. Sophia Elliott supervised the placing of the baggage in the one bedroom but Alfredo Gomez stood waiting, silently watchful while the boy deposited his bags in the other room.

Sophia Elliott returned, said to Gomez, “Tip the boys.”

Gomez reached in his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills.

“That’s Brazilian money. It’s no good here,” Sophia Elliott said.

Gomez let his white teeth flash in a smile at the bellboys as he replaced the currency in his pocket, reached into another pocket, took out a billfold and solemnly extracted a dollar bill which he tendered to one of the bellboys.

“That’s not enough,” Sophia Elliott said.

Gomez took out two more bills.

“That’s too much,” the woman remarked. “Give each of them one dollar.”

Gomez gravely complied.

The bellboys, with impassive faces, muttered their thanks and left the room.

“I gathered,” Mason said to Sophia Elliott, “that your wire came as something of a surprise to Miss Corning.”

She pivoted slowly to regard Mason with an appraisal which lacked cordiality.

“You say you’re an attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Representing my sister?”

“No, representing someone who has business dealings with your sister.”

“Were you invited in here?”

“I was told to be here at seven-thirty.”

“That’s not answering my question. Were you specifically invited in here? I mean, right here in this room?”

“We found the door standing wide open,” Mason said. “I took that as a silent invitation.”

“What time is it now?”

“Nearly seven forty-five.”

“All right,” Sophia Elliott said. “She isn’t here, she didn’t leave any note for you. I’ll tell her you called. If she wants to see you again she’ll send for you.”

“I beg your pardon,” Mason said. “No one sends for me. I am an attorney.”

Alfredo Gomez came gliding up to stand at Sophia Elliott’s side.

“She sent for you this time, didn’t she?”

“She asked me to call and I agreed to be here.”

“All right. If you’re so touchy about it,” Sophia Elliott said, “if she wants to see you again she’ll ask for you to call and you can agree to be here. That’s all now. I’m moving in.”

She walked over to stand by the door, holding it open.

Mason bowed. “It was a very great pleasure to meet both of you,” he said, and stood aside for Della Street to precede him into the corridor.

“Humph!” Sophia Elliott grunted.

“And,” Mason said, “you might tell Miss Corning that if she wishes to see me, I will be in my office at nine-thirty tomorrow and she can telephone for an appointment.”

They stepped out into the corridor and Sophia Elliott pushed the door shut.

Della Street raised quizzical eyebrows.

The lawyer smiled, took Della Street’s arm, and started with her towards the elevator.

“What one would call a rather dominating personality,” Mason said.

“That,” Della Street observed, “is quite an understatement. One wonders how Amelia Corning reacts to all this.”

“One really wonders,” Mason said. “Quite apparently she didn’t send for her sister and the dashing Alfredo. They came of their own accord and presumably at their own invitation, and quite probably to protect their own interests.”

“Evidently didn’t want Miss Money Bags out of their sight,” Della Street said.

Mason rang for the elevator. “One would gather that Miss Corning’s sister has all the answers. Notice that she didn’t ask the bellboy to put the bags in the parlor until Amelia Corning showed up. She simply moved right in.”

“And proceeded to take charge,” Della Street said.

The elevator cage slid to a stop and the door opened.

“Where now?” she asked.

“Now,” Mason said, “we are going to see our client, Susan Fisher.”