The Case of the Sulky Girl

Chapter 6

Frances Celane wore a short sport outfit, with a blue and gold sweater which set off to advantage the spungold effect of her silken hair.

She sat in her bedroom on an overstuffed chair, with her knees crossed, her dark eyes staring at the face of her lawyer. There was that about her which indicated she was warily watchful. She seemed to be listening, waiting for something to happen.

All about them the big house echoed with sounds; creaked with a suggestion of packed occupancy. Feet were constantly pounding the boards of floors, hallways and stairs in an endless procession. Doors made noise as they opened and shut. The drone of voices sounded as a distant rumble.

Perry Mason stared down at Fran Celane. "Go ahead," he said, "and tell me exactly what happened."

She spoke in a voice that was a low monotone, expressionless and thoughtful, as though she might be reciting a part that had been learned by rote.

"I don't know very much about it. I had a fight with Uncle Edward after you left. He was impossible. He was trying to make a chattel of me and break my spirit. I told him that that wasn't what father wanted, and that he was being false to his trust."

"What did you mean by being false to his trust?" asked Mason.

"I meant that father had created that trust only because he wanted to see that the money didn't go to my head too much, and make me too wild. He didn't intend that Uncle Edward should grind me down so I became just an automaton."

"All right," said Mason. "Did anyone know of the quarrel?"

"I guess so," she said dispiritedly. "Don Graves knew about it. And I think some of the other servants heard it. I got mad."

"What do you do when you get mad?" he asked.

"Everything," she said.

"Did you raise your voice?" he inquired.

"As high as I could."

"Did you do anything unladylike? That is, did you curse?"

She said, still in the same toneless voice: "Of course I cursed. I was angry, I tell you."

"All right," he said, "then what happened?"

"Then," she said, "I came downstairs and decided that I would run away and leave Edward Norton and his money and everything. I just wanted to get away."

"That was when you took the car?" asked Mason.

"No," she said, "I'm coming to that. I got things packed up as though I was going away, and then decided not to do it. I commenced to cool off a little bit. I've got a bad temper, but after I get over it, I can realize when I've made a mistake. So I knew that I'd make a mistake if I ran away. But I did want to get some air. I didn't want to go out and walk. I wanted to drive a car. I wanted to drive a car fast."

Perry Mason made a dry comment: "Yes, I can understand how you could keep your mind off your troubles by driving fast."

"Well," she said, "you have to do something to get your mind off your troubles."

"All right," he told her, "go on. What happened?"

"Well," she said, "I went to the garage. My Packard was in behind the Buick and I was going to have to move the Buick anyway, so I moved the Buick, and didn't see any reason why I should go back for my Packard."

"The Buick was your uncle's machine?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"He didn't allow you to use it?"

"He'd never forbidden me to use it," she said, "but I've never used it much. He babies it along a lot, keeps records of the mileage and the oil and gas, and all of that, and has it greased every so many miles, and the oil changed every so often. I don't bother with my Packard that way. I run it until something gets to sounding funny, and then I have it repaired."

"So you took the Buick without your uncle's consent?"

"Yes, if you want to put it that way."

"And where did you drive it?"

"I don't know. I just drove it around, taking curves as fast as I could take them."

"That was pretty fast?" he asked.

"Of course that was pretty fast," she told him.

"How long were you gone?"

"I don't know. I came back to the house a little while before the police arrived here. I must have returned ten or fifteen minutes after the murder."

"And while you were gone your uncle discovered the loss of the car—that is, he discovered that the car was missing. Is that right?"

"I think that Devoe must have told him," she said.

"How did Devoe know?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he heard me drive away, and went out to the garage to see what car I'd taken. I never did like Devoe. He's one of those big, cumbersome fellows who can't think a thought of his own, but goes through life making motions."

"Never mind that," he told her, "what makes you think that Devoe told your uncle?"

"I don't know," she said. "It was the time of uncle's telephone call, I guess, and then I always had him figured for a snitcher."

"What time was the telephone call?"

"Uncle called the police to report the car theft at about a quarter past eleven. I think the police records show that it was exactly eleven fourteen."

"When did you leave with the car?" he asked.

"About ten fortyfive, I think it was," she said.

"Then you'd had the car for half an hour before your uncle reported the theft?"

"Yes, about that long, I guess."

"And when did you return?"

"Somewhere around quarter past twelve. I was out about an hour and a half."

"What time did the police arrive here?"

"About an hour and a half ago."

"No, I mean how long before you returned the car."

"Ten or fifteen minutes, I guess."

"All right," he said, "what did your uncle tell the police?"

"All I know," she said, "is what they told me. One of the detectives talked with me and asked me if I knew any reason why my uncle should have reported the car as stolen."

"All right," he said, "what did your uncle tell them?"

"Well," she said, "according to what this detective told me, my uncle telephoned the police and said that it was Edward Norton talking, and that he had a criminal matter to report. Then there was a delay. I think he was cut off or something, and the police officer, I guess they call him a desk sergeant, held the telephone for a minute until Uncle Edward got another connection, and said that he wanted to report a crime—the theft of an automobile. And he described it, a Buick sedan, 6754093, with license number I2MI834."

"You seem to remember those figures pretty well," said Mason.

"Yes," she said, "they're likely to be important."

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "I just feel that they may be important."

"Did you tell the detective that you had the car?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "I told him exactly what happened. That I took the car out about quarter to eleven, and brought it back about twelve fifteen, but that I hadn't asked my uncle's permission."

"The police seemed to take that explanation all right?" he asked.

"Oh yes," she said. "They have discontinued working on that end of the case. At first they thought that perhaps the burglars might have stolen the Buick for a getaway."

"They've about concluded now, I understand, that there weren't any burglars," said Mason.

"That's right," she said.

Mason paced up and down the floor.

Suddenly he whirled, and stared at the girl.

"You're not telling me the whole truth about this thing," he said.

She showed no resentment whatever in her manner, but stared at him with eyes that were coldly speculative.

"What is there in my story that doesn't hang together?" she asked, and her tone was impersonally thoughtful.

"It isn't that," he said, "it's something in your manner. You haven't told me the truth. You didn't tell me the truth when you first came to my office."

"What do you mean by that?" she wanted to know.

"About wanting to get married and all that," he said.

"Why, what do you mean by that?"

"You know what I mean. You had been married already."

Every bit of color drained from her face, and she stared at him with eyes that were wide and round.

"Who told you that? Have you been talking with some of the servants?"

He countered her question with another.

"Do the servants know about it?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Why then did you think that I had been talking with the servants?"

"I don't know," she said.

"You were married?" he asked her.

"That's none of your business," she said.

"Of course it's my business," he told her. "You came to me with a problem. You can't gain anything by lying to me, any more than you could by lying to a doctor. You've got to tell your lawyer and your doctor the whole truth. You can trust me. I don't betray communications made by my clients."

She pursed her lips and stared at him.

"What do you want me to tell you?" she asked.

"The truth."

"Well, you know it, so what's the use of my telling you?"

"You are married then?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"Because we were keeping it secret."

"All right," said Mason, "now somebody knows that secret. There is somebody blackmailing you."

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"Never mind that. Answer me."

She extended her right forefinger and started pushing it along the arm of the chair, squirming it around every irregularity in the cloth.

"Under the will," she said slowly, "now that my uncle is dead, does it make any difference if I am married?"

His eyes regarded her in cold, fixed appraisal.

"As I remember the provisions of the will," he said, "your uncle is given the option of turning the money over to charity in the event you marry before you are twentyfive."

"And on his death," she said, "the trust terminates?"

"On his death the trust terminates."

"Then if he can't exercise that option, it doesn't make any difference whether I'm married or not?"

"Offhand," he said, "that would be my interpretation of the will."

She heaved a sigh of relief.

"Then," she said, "it doesn't make any difference whether anyone tries to blackmail me or not?"

Mason's eyes stared at the girl as though they would rip the mask from her face and probe the interior of her soul.

"I wouldn't," he said, "make very many comments about that, young lady."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because," he said in a low steady monotone, "if the police should stumble onto that theory of the case, it would show a most excellent motive for a murder."

"You mean that I murdered him?"

"It would mean," he said, stubbornly and steadily, "that you had an excellent motive for murdering him."

"Pete Devoe murdered him," she insisted.

"They might say that Pete Devoe was an accomplice," he told her.

"They might," she agreed, shrugging her shoulders, and regarding him with enigmatical black eyes.

"All right, all right," Mason said, his voice now showing a trace of impatience, "come down to earth. Suppose you try to be fair with me."

"Listen," she told him, speaking rapidly, "I'm going to come into a large sum of money. I'm going to need some one to protect my rights. I've heard about you, and I know you've got a wonderful mind. You're going to be well paid for everything you do for me—everything. You understand?"

"All right," he said, "what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to represent my interests and my interests alone. I am going to pay you a fee of forty thousand dollars, and if you have to do any work about getting the trust fund, that is, work like going to court or anything, I am going to pay you more."

He regarded her for a few moments in silent speculation, then said: "That's a lot of money to pay a person to protect your rights if there's nothing to be done."

"How do you mean?" she asked.

"If," he said, "you simply borrowed your uncle's car without his permission and went out for a ride, returned the car and found him murdered, there is no necessity for paying an attorney forty thousand dollars to protect your rights."

She twisted her fingers together and asked: "Are you going to argue with me about that?"

"No," he said, "I simply made that comment. I wanted you to understand the facts."

"You understand what I mean when I say that I will pay you forty thousand dollars if you protect my rights?" she inquired.

"Yes," he said.

She got up and crossed the room with quick, nervous stride, dropped into a wicker chair in front of a writing desk, pulled a piece of paper to her and scribbled out a document in pen and ink, which she signed with a flourish.

"Here you are," she said, "my promissory note to pay to you the sum of forty thousand dollars as soon as I have received that amount from the inheritance left me by my father. And I also mention that if there is any litigation about the inheritance, I will pay you more."

Mason folded the note and dropped it into his pocket.

"Have the police questioned you in detail?" he asked.

"No," she said, "they aren't annoying me at all. You see, the fact that I had the car out when the murder was committed gives me an alibi. That is, they know I wouldn't know what took place in the house at the time of the murder."

"What time was the murder?" he asked.

"They can fix that very exactly," she said. "It was about eleven thirtythree or eleven thirtyfour. You see, Mr. Crinston had Judge Purley with him in the car, and Judge Purley wanted to get home. He started away from the house promptly at eleven thirty. He remembers because he looked at his wristwatch and I believe some comment was made about the fact that he had been here less than half an hour. I think Mr. Crinston promised Judge Purley that if the judge would drive Mr. Crinston out here, he would be detained less than half an hour in all. Mr. Crinston had an appointment with my uncle for eleven o'clock, and he was seven minutes late.

"I guess you saw enough of my uncle to know how he would feel about that seven minutes. Mr. Crinston kept urging Judge Purley to 'step on it, all the way out here."

"I still don't see," said Mason, "how that fixes the exact time of the murder."

"Well, you see," she explained, "Don Graves saw the murder committed. Now, if the car started from the house at eleven thirty, it would have taken about three minutes to get to the point in the driveway where Graves could look back and see the persons clubbing my uncle."

"Persons?" he asked.

"Person," she amended quickly.

"I see," said the lawyer dryly.