Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lucky Legs

"What'd you tell him?" asked Mason.

She laughed.

"I didn't know whether you wanted it or not," she said, "but I figured it would keep him out of mischief, so I told him sure to bring it along. He should be in—here he comes now."

"Put him on the phone," Perry Mason said, "I want him."

Mason could hear the sound of her voice, coming faintly over the line.

"Mr. Mason is on the line, Mr. Bradbury," she said, "and he wants to talk with you. You can take the call from that phone over there on the table."

There was a click in the connection; then Bradbury's eager voice.

"Yes?" he asked. "Yes, what is it?"

Perry Mason's voice was low and impressive.

"Now listen, Bradbury," he said, "I'm going to tell you something, and I don't want a fuss made over it."

"A fuss," Bradbury asked, "what sort of a fuss?"

"Shut up," Mason told him, "and keep quiet until I can tell you just what the situation is. Just answer yes or no. I don't want my secretary to know what's going on. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Bradbury.

"You've been to your hotel?"

"Yes."

"Did you get the papers?"

"Yes."

"You have them there with you?"

"Yes."

"And there was a brief case with some other stuff in it that you brought?"

"Yes."

"The one you telephoned my secretary about?"

"Yes."

"All right," Mason said, "Now we located Frank Patton a little while ago."

"You did," exclaimed Bradbury. "That's great. Have you talked with him yet?"

"He's dead," Mason said.

"What?" yelled Bradbury, his voice shrill with excitement. "What's that? You mean to say you found him —"

"Shut up," barked Perry Mason into the telephone. "Use your head. I told you to sit tight and listen. Don't make a lot of exclamations."

There was a moment of silence. Then, Bradbury's voice, lower in tone, said, "Yes, Mr. Mason. Go ahead. I couldn't hear you very well."

"Now get this," Perry Mason said, "and get it straight, and don't make a commotion about it. We located Frank Patton. He's living at the Holliday Apartments and he has apartment 302. Those apartments are out on Maple Avenue. I went out to see him. I wanted to try and get a confession out of him before you entered the picture. I figured your presence might simply lead to argument, and not do any one any good.

"Frank Patton had been killed about ten minutes before I got there. Some one had stuck a bread knife into his chest. He was lying in his apartment, stone dead."

"Good God," said Bradbury, and then added, almost immediately, "Yes, Mr. Mason. I was just thinking of something. Go ahead and tell me some more."

"Just as I was about to go into the apartment house," Mason went on, "I saw a girl coming out. She was around twentyone or twentytwo. She had snaky hips and wore a white coat, with a fox collar. She had on white shoes, and a little white hat with a red button on it. Her eyes were very blue, and she looked as though she might be running away from something.

"Now, I want to know if that was Marjorie Clune."

Perry Mason could hear the gasping intake of Bradbury's breath over the line.

"Yes, yes," he said, "that description fits. I know the coat and hat."

"All right," Perry Mason said, "figure it out."

"What do you mean?"

"She may be in a jam."

"I don't understand."

"She was leaving the apartment house just as I went up. There was a woman in an adjoining apartment who had heard quite a racket in Patton's apartment and had gone out to get a cop. She showed up with the cop about five minutes after I got there. There's a pretty good chance the cop may have seen Marjorie Clune. There's also a chance that they may find out she was in the apartment. There was some girl in the bathroom having hysterics and screaming about her lucky legs. That would seem to tie in with Marjorie Clune. Now, what do you want me to do about it?"

Bradbury's excitement burst the bounds of selfcontrol.

"Do about it?" he screamed. "You know what I want you to do about it. Go ahead and represent her. Go ahead and see that nothing happens to her. To hell with Frank Patton. I don't care anything about him, but Margy means everything in the world to me. If she's in a jam, you go ahead and get her out of it. I don't care what it costs. You send the bill to me and I'll foot it."

"Wait a minute," Perry Mason told him. "Keep your shirt on. Don't throw a fit. And, after you hang up the telephone, if Della Street starts asking you questions, don't tell her anything. Tell her that I told you I thought I was going to have some news for you in about an hour, or something of that sort. Stall her along and tell her to wait there. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Bradbury said, but his voice was still highpitched with excitement.

"You wait right there," Perry Mason said.

"Not here," Bradbury told him, "I'll go to my hotel. You can call me there at my room. You know the number, room 693. Be sure and ask for my room number. I'll be there."

"You'd better wait there in the office."

"No, no, I want to be where I can talk. I've got a lot to tell you, and I want to find out all about what's happening. Will you call me at my room in fifteen minutes, and tell me exactly what's happened?"

"Snap out of it," Perry Mason told him. "I told you not to spill all this information. I'm busy, and I haven't got time to argue with you."

He slammed the receiver savagely on the hook, and strode out of the drug store.

"Go to the St. James Apartments," he told the cab driver. "That's at 962 East Faulkner Street, and drive like the devil."

Perry Mason tapped on the door of apartment 301 at the St. James Apartments.

Almost instantly he heard the quick rustle of motion from the interior of the apartment, then footsteps on the floor, then silence as the person on the other side of the door stood motionless, listening with an ear against the door.

Perry Mason knocked again.

He thought he could hear the sound of quick feminine whispers. Then, after a moment of silence, a voice said, "Who is it?"

Perry Mason said gruffly, "Telegram."

"Who for?" asked the feminine voice, louder and more confident this time.

"Thelma Bell," said Perry Mason.

There was the sound of a bolt clicking back. The door opened a crack and a bare arm thrust out through a loose sleeve that appeared in the crack in the door.

"I'll take it," said the voice.

Perry Mason pushed the door open and entered the apartment.

He heard the swirl of motion, the patter of footsteps. A door slammed shut before he could turn his head in the direction of the noise. There was water running in the bathroom, and Perry Mason could hear the steady churning of the water in the tub.

A woman wearing a kimono which had apparently been thrown hastily about her stood staring at Perry Mason with warm brown eyes which now held a trace of angry defiance as well as a trace of panic.

She was, perhaps, twentyfive years of age, well formed, and poised.

Perry Mason stared at her.

"Are you Thelma Bell?" he asked.

"Who are you?"

Perry Mason let his eyes drift over her, noticing the dampness of the fine hairs of her temples, the bare feet, hurriedly thrust into slippers, the pink coloring of the skin at the ankles.

"Are you Thelma Bell?" he again inquired.

"Yes," she said.

"I want to see Marjorie Clune."

"Who are you?"

"Is Marjorie here?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"I haven't seen Margy in ages," she said.

"Who's in there taking a bath?" Mason asked.

"There's no one in there," she said.

Perry Mason stood quietly, staring at the woman. The water in the bathroom had been turned off, and there could plainly be heard the sounds of hurried splashings as some one performed a quick, vigorous scrubbing. Then there was the sound of bare feet thudding to the floor.