Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece

“How much is a settlement going to cost Peter Kent?” she asked.

“He’s told me to go up to a hundredandfifty thousand dollars, if I have to.”

“Will you have to?”

“I don’t think so. I hope not, but she’s greedy. I’ll stall around a while before I make her any offer.”

“You’ll deal through her attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Won’t that make it more expensive?”

“Yes.”

“Why not deal directly with her?”

“It wouldn’t be ethical.”

“Somehow,” Della Street said, “she doesn’t impress me as being a woman who would want to pay a big slice of what she receives to an attorney.”

Mason was about to say something when the telephone bell rang and Della Street, picking up the receiver, cupped her hand over the transmitter and said, “It’s Mrs. Doris Sully Kent. She’s in the office now. She wants to see you, and says to tell you that she has discharged her attorneys, so that at present she has no one representing her.” Mason gave a low whistle. “So what do we do?” Della Street asked.

Mason made an exaggerated bow in the direction of the outer office. “The little woman is clever,” he said; “we see her.”

“You want me to take down everything she says?”

“Yes. Through the interoffice loudspeaking arrangement, however. You wait in the law library and keep a line open to this office. Take down everything that’s said. By the way, Della, have you ever seen her?”

“No.”

“Well, manage to get a look at her when she comes in, but keep out of sight yourself.”

Della Street nodded, scooped up notebook and pencils, and headed for the outer office. Mason snapped the switch which operated the interoffice loudspeaking arrangement and said in a conversational tone of voice, “Tell Mrs. Kent I can give her just about five minutes.” He lit a cigarette and was apparently concentrating on the contents of a law book so that he didn’t hear her when she stepped into the room.

She coughed, Mason raised his eyes, said, “Good morning,” waved his hand in the general direction of a chair, and returned to a perusal of the book.

She hesitated for a moment, then walked toward his desk, stood very close to him and said, “If you’re busy, I won’t bother you.”

“That’s all right,” he said without looking up, “I’ll see you in a minute. Don’t interrupt me.”

She continued to stand very close to him. “I came as a friend,” she said. Her voice was seductively low.

Mason sighed, pushed the book away, and pointed to a chair. “Go over there and sit down. Tell me about it and give me all the facts so I don’t have to ask for a lot of explanations.” She hesitated a moment, then with a little petulant shrug of her shoulders, seated herself, crossed her knees, and smiled at him. “Go ahead,” he told her.

“I’ve discharged my attorney.”

“Paid him off?”

“Does that make any difference?”

“It might. Particularly if he has any papers which belong to you.”

“I’ve reached a complete understanding with him.”

“Very well; what else?”

“I want to talk with you.”

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Mason,” she asked, dropping her seductive manner, “that I hold the whip hand?”

“No,” he said, “it hasn’t.”

“Well, I do.” He made a gesture, as though to reach for his law book and she started a rapid fire of conversation. “Do you know what it’ll mean, if I get on the stand and swear that Peter got a carving knife and tried to kill me; that he said he was walking in his sleep, but that I knew he was lying? Well, I don’t want to do that. I want to help Peter. But, if Peter is going to fight me, I’ll have to fight Peter.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“I just want you to understand I’m looking out for myself.”

“I understand that.”

“And don’t think I can’t do it!”

“I also understand you’re fairly good at that.”

“Well, I want to know where I stand.”

“I’m sure I can’t tell you.”

“Yes, you can. You’re Peter’s lawyer. I know Peter well enough to know that when it comes to standing up to a real knockdownanddragout fight, he won’t do it. He’s too nervous. We can settle this thing. He’ll want to settle. He’s got to settle.”

“What do you want, an income or a cash settlement?”

“Neither. I want to have Peter take me back as his wife. I want to stand by him during this period of adversity. I want him to let me take my place by his side.”

“So, after a few months, you can begin all over again and get a larger settlement and a larger chunk of alimony?” Mason asked.

“That’s unkind, Mr. Mason. You have no right to say that. That isn’t what I want. I want to be Peter’s wife.”

“Knowing,” Mason said acidly, “that he’s in love and wants to marry, you decide that you can throw more monkey wrenches into the machinery by keeping him tied up to you. He’ll eventually pay more to buy his freedom.”

She produced a lace handkerchief, slowly, dramatically. Her eyes blinked rapidly, filled with tears, the corners of her lips quivered, then with a little, inarticulate cry, she raised the handkerchief to her eyes. Her shoulders heaved with sobs.

Mason watched her unemotionally. “How much for a cash settlement?” he asked.

“I don’t want a cccash settlement.”

“How much for a monthly income?”

“I don’t want a mmmonthly income. I wwwant PPPeter. I wwwant to help him. I wwwant to tttestify that he’s not right mentally. I hope he cccan be cccured. But, if he cccan’t, I want to ssstand by him.”

Mason’s face showed indignation. He got to his feet, strode toward the sobbing figure and reached out as though to jerk the handkerchief from her eyes, then as he stood there, his eyes suddenly narrowed in thought. He stood in frowning concentration for a moment, then turned back to the desk and surreptitiously slid his forefinger to the push button which summoned Della Street to his office. A moment later, as his puzzled secretary noiselessly opened the door from the law library, Mason moved his hands about his head in a pantomime, indicating a hat. Then he made gestures about his shoulders, imitating the motions of one holding a coat collar tightly about the throat. Della Street frowned in a perplexed attempt to gather his meaning. Mrs. Kent continued to sob into her handkerchief. Mason walked over to her, patted her shoulder. “There, there, my dear,” he said sympathetically, “I didn’t mean to be harsh with you. Perhaps I’ve misunderstood you. Get your hat and coat and come back.”

She peeked up at him from around the side of her handkerchief. “My hat and coat?” she asked, puzzled.

“Oh, pardon me,” Mason said hastily; “what I meant was that I wanted you to return when you weren’t so emotionally upset.” Della Street noiselessly closed the door to the law library.

“You were mmmean to me,” Doris Kent sniffled into her handkerchief.

“I’m sorry,” Mason said, patting her shoulder; “I’m upset this morning and perhaps I did you an injustice.” She dried her tears, blew her nose, sighed tremulously and put the handkerchief in her purse. Her eyes glinted with the remains of unmistakably genuine tears. “Do you,” he asked casually, “still have keys to Peter Kent’s residence?”

“Of course. I haven’t used them for a year, however. Why did you ask?”

“Nothing in particular. I just wondered.”

“Well, does it make any difference?”

“Not necessarily. What’s your attitude going to be toward Maddox?”

She raised her eyebrows and said, “Maddox?… Maddox?… I don’t believe I know him.”