Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece

Mason cut off Drake’s chuckle by slamming the receiver back into place. “Listen, you two,” he said, “Doris Kent is on her way up. She’s probably going to make me a proposition. If she meets you here or in the corridor, it might cramp her style. Miss Street will take you into another room. When the coast is clear, you can slip down the corridor. Edna, they’ll probably be waiting for you at the street entrance with a subpoena. Don’t try to dodge service. Be a little lady, smile, and keep your mouth shut. Okay, Della, take them into the law library.”

Della Street was just returning from the law library when Mason’s telephone rang and one of the girls in the outer office said, “Mrs. Doris Sully Kent insists that you should see her upon a matter of great importance.”

Mason said, “Show the lady in,” dropped the receiver back on the hook and said to Della Street, “Beat it into your office, Della, take notes on this conversation.” He clicked a switch which connected a loud speaker interoffice telephone with his secretary’s private office, then raised expectant eyes to the door from the outer office.

Della Street was just closing the door of her office when the switchboard operator opened the other door to usher in an attractive woman in her early thirties, who smiled at Mason with wide blue eyes. Mason surveyed her critically, took in neatly turned ankles displayed just far enough to arouse interest without satisfying curiosity, full red lips, accentuated by lipstick, finespun blonde hair. She met his detailed scrutiny with a tolerant smile. Without the faintest hint of selfconsciousness, she walked across to Mason’s desk, extended him her hand and said, “It was nice of you to see me.” Mason indicated a chair. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, hitching the chair around so that she not only faced him, but he could see her crossed knees to advantage. “They tell me you’re a very clever lawyer.”

“My reputation,” Mason said, “probably varies greatly, depending upon whether one talks with the plaintiff or defendant.”

Her laugh was tinkling. “Don’t be like that,” she said. “You know you’re good. Why not admit it? That’s my trouble with lawyers—they’re afraid to admit anything—always afraid someone’s laying a trap for them.”

Mason did not smile. “All right, then,” he said, “I’m good. So what?”

There was a swift trace of uneasiness in her eyes as she sized him up, but the smile remained, a friendly parting of the full red lips, disclosing even rows of white teeth. “So you’re defending dear old Pete,” she said. Mason said nothing. “Can you get him off?” Mason nodded.

She opened her purse, took out a cigarette case, opened it and extended it to Mason. “No, thanks,” he said; “I have my own.” He selected one from his own cigarette case. She held her head slightly tilted to one side, her eyes expectant. Mason crossed to her and held a match to her cigarette. Her laughing eyes looked up into his.

She inhaled a great drag of smoke, expelled it in twin streams from appreciative nostrils and said, “I came to see what I could do to help.” He raised his eyebrows. “Helping to clear poor Pete,” she amplified.

“Just what did you have in mind?”

“I could testify that I had known for some time he was suffering from a progressive mental malady which made him irrational at times, particularly at night. On many occasions he has awakened and shown evidences of suffering delusions. I thought at first that he was trying to kill me, but, thinking back over it and calling to my mind certain matters which seemed trivial then, I can appreciate now that poor Pete was mentally a very sick man. He had a nervous breakdown in Chicago and never recovered from it.”

“Anything else?”

She glanced at him with a slight frown. The smile was no longer in evidence. “What more do you want?” she asked.

“Anything you care to tell me.”

“I don’t think I’d care to tell you any more until I knew just where I stood.”

“In what way?”

“Whether you were going to cooperate with me.”

Mason said slowly, “I can’t see where there’s any question of cooperation, Mrs. Kent. If you have any testimony you want to give, I’ll be glad to hear it.”

“I can testify about a lot of things. Perhaps, if you’d tell me just what you needed in order to make your defense stand up, I could think of things which would be pertinent. You see, in the everyday contacts of married life there are many incidents which aren’t entirely forgotten, yet which can’t be recalled offhand, unless something refreshes the recollection. Therefore, if you’d tell me just what you want, I might be able to help you. You wouldn’t need to worry about me on crossexamination. I can take care of myself.”

“Meaning you can sway a jury?” Mason asked.

“If you want to put it that way, yes.”

“Very well,” Mason told her, “leave your address and I’ll get in touch with you, if I can think of anything.”

“Can’t you think of it now?”

“No.”

“I’d like to know whether you were… well, shall I say receptive?”

“I thank you very much for coming; but don’t you think it would be better for you to have your attorney with you, if you intended to discuss matters of this nature?”

She leaned toward him and said, “I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Mason. I’m glad you brought that up.

“Why?”

“Because,” she said, “I haven’t as yet signed any agreement with my attorney. I’ve been stalling him off.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He wants a contract for onehalf of anything I get, if my action’s successful. I don’t want to pay him unless I have to, and I don’t have to. Can’t you see? My husband isn’t in a position to fight me any more.”

“Why not?”

“Because he needs my testimony. If I can get him out of this murder charge on the ground he’s mentally deranged, then I can set aside the divorce case. Then I’d be custodian of his property because I’d be his wife.”

“I see all of that,” Mason said, “but I don’t care to discuss it with you unless your attorney is present.”

“Why?”

“Professional ethics.”

“I don’t see why you can’t discuss my testimony.”

“I can discuss your testimony but I can’t discuss this divorce case.

“It seems to me, Mr. Mason, that you’re very, very cautious… very ethical.”

“I am.”

There was no sign of petulance on her face, but she crushed the cigarette into an all but shapeless mass as she viciously ground it into the ashtray. “Too damned ethical, and it isn’t like you,” she said, and, getting to her feet, went at once to the corridor door without giving Mason so much as a backward glance.

It was late afternoon. The big office building echoed with the sounds of hectic activity incident to the closing of business offices. Stenographers, anxious to get home after a grinding day in the office, clickclacked down the flagged corridor, their highheeled shoes beating a nervous tattoo of rapid steps. There was a certain monotony about the whole hectic routine. Steps sounded in the distance, grew into added volume as they passed Mason’s door, then paused before the glass mail chute as letters shot downward. Elevator doors clanged, the corridor was cleared of its human cargo, only presently to echo under a fresh barrage of pattering feet. As the clock chimed five, the sounds grew in volume. By fivethirty the building was almost silent, the center of noise having shifted to the street, from which blaring horns and shrill traffic whistles beat insistently upon the lawyer’s ears. Perry Mason paced the floor, thumbs thrust in the armholes of his vest, head bent forward in thought. Apparently he was oblivious of all of the distracting noises. The door of his private office noiselessly opened. Della Street tiptoed to her secretarial desk and seated herself, waiting.