Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lucky Legs

"Now, that's going to put you right square on the spot. It isn't going to be pleasant. It's going to mean notoriety, and it's going to mean a lot of things. The question is, Can you do it?"

"I can," she said, "and I will."

Perry Mason turned to Marjorie.

"Go through this apartment," he said. "Pick out anything in here that belongs to you. Put it in a suitcase. Beat it out of here just as quick as you can. Go to a hotel somewhere. Register under your own name, but do it in a way that won't make you too easy to find—what's your middle name?"

"Frances," she said.

"All right," he said, "register as M. Frances Clune, also remember not to give your address as Cloverdale. You're here in the city now. Figure that you're a resident of the city, and put that as your address. Here's one of my business cards. The telephone number is on there, Broadway 39251. Call up my office, ask for Miss Street—she's my secretary—she'll know who you are. Don't mention any names over the telephone, simply say that you talked with me earlier in the day, and that I asked you to leave your address. Tell her the hotel that you're registered at. Then lock yourself in your room. Don't go out at all; don't get away from the telephone. Be where I can reach you at any hour of the day or night. Have your meals sent into your room. Don't try to communicate with me unless something happens. If the police should find you, put on your best expression of baby faced innocence and don't answer a single question, except as to whether you've got an attorney. Tell them that I'm your attorney. Demand that you be allowed to communicate with me."

She nodded slowly, her eyes fastened steadily upon him.

"You understand all that?"

"I think so."

"Get started then," said Perry Mason. "And remember that no matter what happens, you aren't to make any statement to any one until you have talked with me. You aren't even to answer questions. You won't even tell them who you are or where you came from. The minute any one puts you under arrest, you demand to be placed in communication with your attorney. Show them the card. Demand that you be allowed to telephone me. If they let you telephone me, I'll talk with you over the telephone and tell you not to say anything. If they don't let you telephone me, get sulky. Tell them that if they won't do what you want them to do, you won't do what they want you to do; that if they won't let you telephone me, you won't answer the questions they ask. And every time they ask you a question and you refuse to answer, use that same formula, that you won't answer questions unless they let you call me. You understand?"

"I understand," she said.

Perry Mason strode to the door. As he passed Thelma Bell, he patted her on the shoulder.

"Good kid," he said.

He stepped out into the corridor and heard the door close behind him and the bolt click into position.

J.R. Bradbury was seated in the lobby of the Hotel Mapleton when Perry Mason pushed his way through the door.

Bradbury looked cool, capable, and efficient, in a suit of gray tweeds which matched the gray of his eyes. He wore a gray shirt, a gray tie flecked with red, gray woolen socks and black and white sport shoes. He was puffing meditatively at a cigar, when his quick eyes lit on Perry Mason's figure.

Bradbury got to his feet and pushed his way toward Mason.

"Tell me about it," he said quickly and eagerly, "how did it happen? Have you found Marjorie? What can you do for her? What —?"

"Take it easy," said Perry Mason. "Let's go where we can talk. How about your room?"

Bradbury nodded, turned toward the elevator, then paused suddenly.

"There's a swell little speakeasy around the corner," he said, "we can get something to eat there, and we can get a drink. I need it; I haven't got anything in my room."

"You lead the way," Perry Mason said.

Bradbury pushed his way through the swinging doors of the lobby, waited a moment for Mason on the sidewalk, caught the lawyer's arm with his hand and said, "Are there any clews that don't point toward Marjorie?"

"Shut up," Perry Mason said. "Let's wait until we can get where we can talk, and if we can't get privacy in this speakeasy, we aren't going to talk there."

"Don't worry," Bradbury said, "we can get a quiet booth. It's very exclusive, I got a card from the bell captain of the hotel."

He rounded the corner, paused before a door, and pushed a button. A panel slid back, a pair of beady black eyes surveyed Bradbury, then the face vanished. There was a sound of a bolt clicking back, and the door opened.

"Right on upstairs," said Bradbury.

Perry Mason led the way up the carpeted stairs. A head waiter bowed a welcome.

"We want a booth," Mason said.

"Just the two of you?" the waiter inquired.

Mason nodded.

The waiter hesitated for a moment. Then at the steady insistence of Perry Mason's eyes, turned and led the way across a small diningroom in which tables had been crowded, across a small square of waxed dance floor, and down a carpeted corridor. He pulled back a curtain and Perry Mason went in and sat down at a table. Bradbury sat opposite him.

"I want some good red wine and some hot French bread with lots of butter," Perry Mason said, "and that's all."

"I'll have a rye highball," Bradbury told the waiter. "In fact, you'd better bring a pint of rye, some ice, and a couple of bottles of ginger ale. Mr. Mason will probably have a highball when he finishes his wine."

"Not me," said Perry Mason, "wine and French bread, that's all."

"Make it one bottle of ginger ale then," Bradbury told the waiter.

As the curtain clicked back into place, Bradbury looked at Mason and raised his eyebrows.

Perry Mason leaned forward with his elbows on the table, and spoke in a low, confidential, yet rapid voice.

"I located Marjorie Clune. I went out there. She's mixed up in it; I don't know just how badly. There was a friend of hers there, a girl named Thelma Bell. Thelma Bell is in the clear; she's got an alibi, she's going to help Marjorie Clune out.

"I didn't get Marjorie's complete story. I got the story she told me, but it wasn't the complete story. I didn't dare to get the complete story in front of Thelma Bell and I didn't dare to take Marjorie Clune into another room to talk with her, because I was afraid Thelma would think we were planning some sort of a doublecross. Thelma is going to shoot square with Marjorie. I can't tell you all the details. It's one of those cases where the less you know the better off you'll be."

"But Margy is all right?" asked Bradbury. "You can promise that you're going to keep her in the clear?"

"I can't promise anything," Perry Mason said. "I've done the best I could, and I got to her before the police did."

"Tell me about Frank Patton," said Bradbury. "How did it happen?"

"I don't know how it happened," said Mason. "I found out where he lived and went out there."

"How did you find that out?" Bradbury asked.

"Through the detective you employed."

"When did you find it out?"

"This evening."

"Then you knew where he was living when you started out of your office tonight?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you take me along?"

"Because I didn't want you along. I wanted to try and get some sort of a confession or an admission out of Patton. I knew that you'd lose your temper and start making a lot of accusations that wouldn't get anywhere. I wanted to talk to him and lay a trap or two for him and see if he wouldn't walk into one of the traps. Then I was going to get rough with him; after I had softened him up some, I was going to get you and my secretary to come out. My secretary would have taken down the conversation in shorthand."

Bradbury nodded.