The Case of the Sulky Girl

Chapter 10

George Blackman tried to present an impressive appearance. He combed his hair well back from his high forehead, cultivated a deep, booming voice, and wore nose glasses from which dangled a wide, black ribbon. He might have been a congressman or a banker, but was, in fact, a criminal lawyer.

Only a slight uneasiness of the eyes belied the picture of stolid, intellectual respectability which he tried to present to the public.

He stared across the desk at Perry Mason. "I understand that you're the attorney for the family," he said.

Perry Mason's eyes were hard, and patient.

"I'm representing Miss Celane in the termination of her trust matter," he said, "and I'm representing Arthur Crinston, who is the surviving partner of the partnership. There's some talk about having me represent the executor under the will, but I can't very well represent both the surviving partner and the executor."

Blackman grinned, and there was a trace of envy in his grin.

"Pretty soft for you," he said, "with all of those fees coming in."

"Was that what you came to talk about?" asked Mason, coldly.

Blackman's expression changed.

"I came to tell you," he said, "that I'm representing Peter Devoe, the chauffeur, who is charged with the murder."

"Got a good case?" asked Mason casually.

The other man winced.

"You know all about the case," he said.

"To tell you the truth," said Mason, speaking with elaborate carelessness, "I don't. I've been so busy with other angles of the matter that I haven't had time to look into the murder case at all."

Blackman said, "Baloney!" explosively.

Mason looked dignified and resentful.

Blackman leaned forward and tapped the desk impressively.

"Look here, Mason," he said. "You're playing things pretty foxy. But I just want you to know that you're up against somebody who's going to play just as foxy."

"Meaning?" asked Perry Mason.

"I mean that you can't sit back and rake in all the money, and keep all your people out of it, while you railroad Devoe to the gallows."

"I'm not railroading anybody to the gallows."

Blackman squirmed under the cold glare of the man across the desk.

"Look here," he said, "I'm talking facts now. There's nobody here to hear us. It's just a conference between us two. You know the game as well as I do. You defend persons accused of crime whenever there's a good fee in it, and so do I. When you defend a person, you're representing him and nobody else on earth. You'd fight the whole world to protect the rights of your clients."

"Sure," said Mason, patiently, tonelessly, "that's the duty of an attorney."

"All right," Blackman said. "I just want you to know that I'm going to be faithful to my duties."

"Go on," said Mason. "You've said too much or not enough. I can't tell which yet."

"All right," Blackman told him. "I mean just this: You're keeping this Celane woman pretty much in the background. You've managed to do it rather adroitly. After all, the only case against Pete Devoe is one of circumstantial evidence, and it's pretty weak circumstantial evidence, at that. He was lying there in bed, drunk, and anybody could have planted that club in his room and the two thousand dollars in his clothes."

"You overlook," said Mason, "the testimony of Don Graves, who actually saw the murder being committed. You overlook the fact that, according to Crinston's testimony, Edward Norton was sending for his chauffeur as Crinston left the place."

"I overlook nothing," said Blackman impressively, his eyes boring belligerently into Mason's face. "And I don't overlook the fact that there was a woman mixed up in the thing somewhere."

"Yes?" asked Mason in a tone of polite but surprised interest.

"Yes," said Blackman, "and don't be so damned surprised at it. You know it, as well as I do."

"Know what?" asked Mason.

"Know that Don Graves saw a woman in that room at the time the murder was being committed."

"Don Graves doesn't say so in the statement that he made to the police, as I understand it," Mason remarked.

"The statement he made to the police hasn't got anything to do with it," said Blackman. "It's the statement he is going to make on the witness stand that counts."

Mason looked at the ceiling and said, impersonally: "In the event, however, that the statement he makes on the witness stand doesn't coincide with the first statement he made to the police, it might have a tendency to weaken his testimony, particularly as far as the woman was concerned."

"Yes, it might," said Blackman.

There was silence for a moment, then Blackman lowered his voice and said emphatically, "All right. You know where I stand now. You're controlling all the money in this case, and I'm representing the man who has been picked for the fall guy. I want the family to cooperate in this thing, and I want some money. Otherwise, I'm going to tear the lid off."

"What do you mean by cooperation?" asked Mason.

"I mean that I want the family to convey the impression to the police that they're not at all vindictive; that if Devoe did anything, he was drunk when he did it, and that if the District Attorney will take a plea of manslaughter they'll be just as well satisfied. And then I'm going to want some of the gravy."

"You mean," said Mason, "that you want Frances Celane to see that you get paid to plead Pete Devoe guilty of manslaughter so as to hush up any scandal? Is that what you're trying to convey to me?"

Blackman got to his feet with ponderous dignity.

"I think, counselor," he said, "that you understand my errand perfectly. I think that I have stated my position fairly and frankly, and I do not care to commit myself by replying to the rather crude summary which you have attempted to make."

Perry Mason pushed back the chair from his desk, stood with his feet planted well apart, his eyes staring at Blackman.

"Don't think you can pull anything like that, Blackman," he said. "We're here alone. You're going to tell me what you want, and tell it in so many words."

"Don't be silly," Blackman told him. "You know what I want."

"What do you want?"

"I want money."

"What are you going to give in return for it?"

"I'll cooperate with you in keeping Miss Celane in the background."

"To the extent that you'll have Pete Devoe plead guilty to manslaughter?"

"Yes. If I can get a plea."

"Is he guilty of manslaughter?" asked Perry Mason.

"Why the hell bother about that?" said Blackman irritably. "I told you that he'd plead guilty to manslaughter."

"How much money do you want?"

"I want fifty thousand dollars."

"That's too much money for a fee," Mason remarked, in a voice that was almost casual.

"Not for the work I'm going to do it isn't."

"The work for Devoe?" asked Mason.

"The work for Frances Celane, if you want to put it that way," Blackman told him.

"All right," Mason went on, "as you, yourself, expressed it, we're here alone. There's no reason why we can't talk frankly. Did Pete Devoe kill Edward Norton?"

"You ought to know," said Blackman.

"Why should I know?"

"Because you should."

"I don't know. I'm asking you if he did."

"Why worry about that? I'll get him to plead guilty to manslaughter."

"For fifty thousand dollars?"

"For fifty thousand dollars."

"You're crazy. The District Attorney wouldn't accept any such plea. This is a murder case. Second degree murder would be the best you could get."

"I could get manslaughter," Blackman said, "if the family would cooperate, and if Graves would change his story a little bit."

"Why should Graves change his story?" Mason inquired.

"Why should anybody do anything?" Blackman asked in a sarcastic tone of voice. "Why should I do anything? Why should you do anything? We're not mixed in it. We're doing things for money too."

Slowly, almost ponderously, Perry Mason walked around the big desk toward Blackman. Blackman watched him with greedy eyes.

"Just say it's all right," said Blackman, "and you won't hear anything more about it."

Perry Mason came to a stop in front of Blackman. He looked at him with eyes that were cold and sneering.

"You dirty scum," he said, his voice vibrant with feeling.

Blackman recoiled slightly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You," said Mason.

"You've got no right to talk to me like that."

Perry Mason took a swift step forward.

"A dirty shyster," he said, "who would sell out his client for a fifty thousand dollar fee. Get out of this office, and do it right now!"

Blackman's face twisted in surprise.

"Why," he said, "I thought you were going to listen to my proposition."

"I listened to it," Mason told him, "and heard all I wanted to."

Blackman suddenly bolstered up his courage, and brandished a rigid forefinger in front of Mason's face.

"You're mixed in this thing pretty deep yourself," he said. "You're either going to accept this proposition, or you're going to hear a lot more about it."

Perry Mason reached up and grasped the extended forefinger in his left hand. He twisted the other's hand down and around, until the lawyer exclaimed with pain. Mason abruptly released the forefinger, spun the other lawyer halfway around, grasped the back of the lawyer's coat with his big, capable hand, and propelled the lawyer to the door. He jerked open the door of the private office, gave Blackman a shove that sent him sprawling off balance, into the outer office.

"Get out, and stay out!" he said.

Blackman almost ran for half the distance across the outer office, then turned, with his face livid with rage, his glasses dangling at the end of the black ribbon.

"You're going to regret that," he said, "more than anything you ever did in your life!"

"Get out!" said Perry Mason, in a slow, even tone of voice, "or I'm going to do some more."

Blackman groped for the knob of the outer door, pulled it open, and stepped into the corridor.

Perry Mason stood in the doorway of his private office, shoulders squared, feet planted widely apart, staring belligerently at the slowly closing door.

"What happened?" asked Della Street, in sudden concern.

"I told the cheap heel where to get off," Mason remarked, without looking at her, his cold eyes still fastened on the door from the outer office.

He turned and walked back to his private office, leaving Della Street staring at him with wide, apprehensive eyes.

The telephone was ringing as he reached his desk. He scooped the receiver to his ear, and heard the voice of Frances Celane.

"I've got to see you at once," she said.

"All right," he told her, "I'm in my office. Can you come in?"

"Yes, unless you can come out here."

"Where are you?"

"Out at the house."

"All right," he told her, "you'd better get in that Buick and come in here."

"I can't come in the Buick," she said.

"Why not?" he asked.

"The police have sealed it up. They've locked the transmission and padlocked the wheels."

Perry Mason gave a low whistle over the telephone.

"In that event," he said, "you'd better get in the Packard and come here just as fast as you can. You'd better grab a suitcase and put some clothes in it, but do it without attracting too much attention."

"I'll be in in twenty minutes," she said, and hung up.

Perry Mason put on his hat, and paused for a moment to talk with Della Street as he went out.

"I'm expecting Miss Celane in here," he said, "in about twenty or twentyfive minutes, and I think I'll be back by the time she arrives. But if I'm not, I want you to put her in my private office and lock the door. Don't let anyone in. Do you understand?"

She looked up at him, swiftly apprehensive, and nodded her head in a gesture of affirmation. "Has anything gone wrong?" she asked.

He nodded curtly, then smiled and patted her shoulder.

He walked out of the door, took the elevator down, and walked a block and a half to the Seaboard Second National Trust Company.

B.W. Rayburn, vice president of the bank, regarded Perry Mason with hard, watchful eyes, and said: "Yes, Mr. Mason?"

"I'm representing Miss Frances Celane, the beneficiary under a trust fund which was administered by Edward Norton," said Mason. "Also, I'm representing Mr. Arthur Crinston, who is the surviving partner of Crinston & Norton."

"Yes," said Mr. Rayburn. "So I understand from a conversation I had this morning with Mr. Crinston."

"On the day of his death," said Mason, "Mr. Norton made a trip from his home to a bank and back again. I am wondering if the trip was to this bank, or to the Farmers and Merchants National, where I understand he also had an account."

"No," said Rayburn slowly, "he came here. Why do you ask?"

"I understand," said Mason, "he came here to secure a large sum of money in one thousand dollar bills. I am anxious to know if there was anything peculiar about his request for that money, or anything peculiar about the bills."

"Perhaps," said Rayburn significantly, "if you could be a little more explicit, I could give you the information you wanted."

"Did Mr. Norton," asked the lawyer, "say specifically for what purpose he wanted those bills?"

"Not specifically," said Rayburn, with the secretive manner of one who is determined only to answer direct questions.

Mason took a deep breath.

"Did he ask you in advance," he said, "to get for him a certain number of thousand dollar bills bearing consecutive serial numbers?"

"He did," said the vice president of the bank.

"And did he further state to you that, through your banking affiliations, he would like very much to have you make note of the numbers of those bills and ascertain when the bills were presented for deposit at any bank in the city?"

"Not exactly in those words," said Rayburn cautiously.

"Did he state that he intended to use that money to make a payment to a blackmailer, and would like to find out the identity of the person who deposited the currency?"

"Not in exactly those words," said the banker again.

"I think," said Perry Mason, smiling, "that I have all of the information I can ask you to give me, and sufficient for my purpose. Thank you, Mr. Rayburn."

He turned and walked from the bank, leaving behind him a coldeyed individual who surveyed his back in a gaze of shrewd speculation.

Mason returned to his office and beckoned Della Street to his inner office.

"Get Drake's Detective Bureau for me," he said, "and say that I want Paul Drake, himself, to handle a matter of utmost importance. Say that I want Drake to come to my office posing as a client, and that I want him to wait in the reception room until I give him a line on what he's to do. During the time he's waiting, he is to appear merely as a client."

She looked at him with eyes that showed grave apprehension.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"That's all," he told her.

"And you don't want that Celane woman to know anything about who Paul Drake is?"

"Get this straight," Perry Mason told her. "I don't want anyone to know who Drake is. As far as anyone who comes into the office is concerned, Drake is a client who is waiting to see me."

"Okay," she said.

She paused for a few moments, watching him with eyes that made no effort to conceal their concern.

He grinned reassuringly.

"Don't worry," he said, "it's okay."

"You're not getting in trouble?" she asked.

"I don't think so."

"Is Miss Celane?"

"She's in already—up to her neck."

"Does she know it?"

"I think so."

"You won't let her drag you into it?"

He shook his head slowly.

"No," he said, "I don't think so. I can't tell just yet."

"When can you tell?" she asked.

"Not until Miss Celane tells me the truth."

"When will that be?"

"Not until she gets worse frightened than she is now."

Della Street frowned, then said, quickly: "Suppose we frighten her?"

Perry Mason shook his head and smiled.

"No," he said, slowly, "I don't think we'll have to."