Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece

“Specifically,” Mason interrupted, “what is it you want me to do?”

Kent came striding toward the desk. “I’m going to dump my troubles right in your lap. You come out to my house, get rid of Maddox and this potbellied lawyer of his, then go to Santa Barbara and buy my wife off.”

“When do you want to get married?” Mason asked.

“As soon as I can.”

“How far shall I go with your wife?”

“Pay her seventyfive thousand dollars in cash.”

“In addition to alimony of fifteen hundred a month?”

“No, that’ll cover everything.”

“Suppose she won’t take it?”

“Then fight… She’s going to claim I’m crazy.”

“What makes you think so?”

“When I left Chicago I was walking in my sleep.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re crazy.”

“I picked up a butcher knife and tried to get into her bedroom.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Over a year.”

“You’re cured now?” Mason asked.

“Yes, all except for this confounded twitching and spells of nervousness.”

“When do you want me at your house?”

“Tonight at eight o’clock. Bring a good doctor with you, so he can say I’m not crazy. My niece says the stars indicate this would be a good move.”

Mason nodded his head slowly. “Your niece,” he said, “seems to have a great deal of influence—with the stars.”

“She just interprets them. She’s very clever.”

“Have you any other relatives?” Mason asked.

“Yes, my halfbrother, Philip Rease, lives with me. Incidentally, I want him to have virtually all of my property.”

“How about your niece?” Mason asked.

“My niece won’t need it. The chap she’s going to marry has plenty of money for both of them. In fact, it was his idea that I should make a new will. You see, Edna’s just a little bit spoiled. Harris, the chap she’s marrying, got the idea he’d stand more chance of having a happy marriage if he controlled the purse strings.”

“Suppose she and Harris shouldn’t get along?” Mason inquired.

“Then I could change my will again.”

“It might be too late,” the lawyer suggested.

Kent frowned, then said, “Oh, I see what you mean. I’ve thought some about that, too. Can’t we make a will leaving my property in trust?”

“Yes, we can do that,” Mason said.

“That’s what we’ll do, then. I want Helen Warrington, my secretary, to have twentyfive thousand dollars. She’s been loyal to me and I don’t want her to have to work after I’m gone. Then we can create a trust, and the income will all be paid to my halfbrother so long as Edna’s married to Gerald Harris. In case of a divorce, she’ll share in the income.”

“Does your halfbrother know you’re going to leave your property to him?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose he’ll be disappointed if you change it into a trust?” Mason asked.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t leave him anything except income,” Kent said hastily. “He’s not very good at investments.”

“Why? Does he drink?”

“Oh, no, not that. He’s a bit peculiar.”

“You mean mentally?”

“Well, he’s a nervous type, always very much concerned about his health. A doctor told me he was what they called a hypochondriac.”

“Did he ever have money of his own?” Mason inquired.

Kent nodded, and said, “Yes, he had some rather unfortunate financial experiences, and he’s become very bitter—something of a radical, you know. He was unfortunate with his own investments and he’s inclined to resent any success other people have had.”

“He doesn’t resent yours, does he?” Mason asked smilingly.

“Very much,” Kent told him.

“Notwithstanding he’s to benefit by your will?”

“You don’t know him,” Kent said, smiling. “He’s rather a peculiar temperament.”

Mason toyed with a lead pencil, stared thoughtfully at Kent and said, “How about your future wife?”

“She isn’t going to get a cent,” Kent said. “I want you to draw up an agreement to that effect, one for her to sign before she marries me and one for her to sign afterwards. That’s the only way I can be certain she isn’t marrying me for my money. Incidentally, it’s her idea. She says she won’t marry me until I arrange things so she can’t get a cent of my property, either by way of alimony or by inheritance if I die.”

Mason raised his eyebrows, and Kent laughed and said, “Confidentially, Counselor, just between you and me, after she signs the agreements by which she can’t get any money from me legally, I’m going to give her a very substantial cash settlement.”

“I see,” Mason remarked. “Now, about this trust arrangement providing that Edna will have an independent income in the event she divorces Harris. It may accomplish just the result Harris wished to avoid.”

“I see your point,” Kent said, “I guess I’ll have to talk it over again with Harris. Frankly, Edna’s been a problem. She was hounded to death by fortune hunters, but I chased them out as fast as they showed up. Then Harris came along. He told me where he stood right at the start… You’ll meet him tonight. You let the matter of the will go for a few days, Counselor, but draw up those property agreements for my future wife and bring them to me tonight. In other words, that’s something of a test. If she’s willing to waive all of her rights to inherit my property then I’ll know she’s marrying me for love.”

“I see,” Mason said.

“Can you have those agreements with you tonight?”

“I think so.”

Kent whipped a checkbook from his pocket, scribbled a check with the quick nervousness which characterized him, tore it from the book, said, “Better blot it. That’s a retainer.” Without another word, he turned and strode out of the office.

Perry Mason said to Della Street, with a grimace, “That’s what I get for trying to be ethical and prevent a murder—a divorce case, which I don’t like; a conference with a pettifogging lawyer, which is a routine I despise, and an agreement of property settlement, which is a damned chore!”

His secretary, stretching forth a coolly capable hand, picked up the check and said, “I can see a five thousand dollar retainer, which doesn’t grow on bushes.”

Mason grinned and said, “Well, one thing about Kent, he’s a gentleman of discernment. Bank that check before I change my mind and tell him to get another lawyer. Get Dr. Kelton on the line, send Jackson in, and ring Paul Drake at the Drake Detective Agency and tell him I have a job for him.”

“You’re going to use a detective?” she asked.

“On Mrs. Doris Sully Kent,” he said, “and in a big way. When it comes to negotiating alimony settlements with matrimonial racketeers, an ounce of information is worth a pound of conversation.”

Della Street pulled a list of telephone numbers to her, moving with that unhurried efficiency which accomplishes things. Perry Mason strode to the window, stood staring meditatively down into the street below. Suddenly he turned, jerked open a drawer of his desk, and pulled out binoculars. He raised the window with his left hand, held the binoculars to his eyes, and leaned far out over the sill.

Della Street calmly hung up the receiver in the middle of her conversation to hold a pencil poised over her notebook. Mason, eyes glued to the binoculars, called out, “9R8397.” Della Street ’s pencil wrote the number on her notebook. Mason lowered the binoculars, closed the window. “Get it, Della?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“The license number of a green Packard roadster with the top down, driven by a woman in a blue dress, and trailing our client, Peter B. Kent. I couldn’t see her face, but if her legs don’t lie, she’s got a swell figure.”