Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lucky Legs

Perry Mason reached for the receiver, paused for a moment with his hand held an inch or two from it; then suddenly scooped his hand down, pulled the receiver up to his ear, and said, "Yes, hello. Perry Mason speaking."

A woman's voice said, "I have a telegram for Mr. Perry Mason. Do you wish me to read it over the telephone?"

"Yes," said Perry Mason.

"The telegram," she said, "is filed from this city. It says: CHECK HER ALIBI BEFORE YOU LET HER DO ANY THING . The message," went on the purring voice of the operator, "is signed with a single initial 'M', as in mush."

"Thanks," said Perry Mason.

"Do you want me to send a copy over to your office?"

"In the morning," he told the operator, and continued to hold the receiver in his hand. He severed the connection by pressing the hook with his forefinger.

"That," he said slowly, "is one hell of a funny thing. Why should she send me a telegram, and why should it be that kind of a telegram?"

He moved his hand which held the receiver and dialed rapidly the number of the Bostwick Hotel, Exeter 93821.

The detective watched him with a speculation which seemed almost indolent in its careless scrutiny.

Perry Mason heard a voice saying, "Bostwick Hotel."

"Will you please," he said, "ring room 408."

The voice of the operator said instantly. "The occupant of room 408 checked out just a few minutes ago."

"You're certain?" asked Perry Mason.

"Absolutely certain."

"She was," said Perry Mason, "expecting a call from me. Would you mind ringing the room?"

"I'll ring it," said the operator, "but there's no one there. I tell you she checked out."

Perry Mason waited for a few moments, then heard the voice over the wire confirming the previous statement that no one answered.

He once more pushed down the catch which cut off the contact and stood staring at the telephone. He was still staring at it when the bell exploded into life.

"Looks like your busy night on the telephone," Paul Drake commented.

Perry Mason released the pressure of his fingers, and said, "Hello." He spoke with quick, nervous harshness.

The voice of Della Street came to his ears.

"Thank God I caught you, chief. Are you there alone?"

"Except for Paul Drake, yes. What's on your mind?"

"Get this," she said, "because you're going to figure in it. Two detectives just left me. They tried to give me a shakedown. They got pretty rough."

"What for, Della?"

"They claim that I rang up Dr. Doray and tipped him off that the police were looking for him, and told him to get out."

"What gives them that idea?" inquired Perry Mason.

"Listen," she said, "and get this straight, because I think they're on their way to give you a going over. They say that somebody rang up Dr. Doray at the Midwick Hotel sometime between nine fifteen and nine thirty this evening, and told him that Patton had been murdered; that Doray was going to be picked up as a suspect, and that there were some things in the evidence that looked bad for him and Marjorie Clune; that Marjorie was getting under cover and was going to keep under cover. In other words, that she was skipping out, and that it would be the worst thing on earth for her if Bob Doray should be picked up by the police. He was instructed to get out of town and keep from being questioned by the police."

Perry Mason frowned into the telephone.

"What made them connect that with us?" he said.

"Because," Della Street told him, "the voice was that of a woman. The operator at the Midwick Hotel happened to listen in, and the one who was doing the talking said that she was Della Street, the secretary to Perry Mason."

Perry Mason's eyes became hard as bits of frosted glass.

"The hell she did!" he said.

"You said it," Della Street told him. "And there are two dicks on the way to your office. Get ready to receive them."

"Thanks, Della," said Perry Mason, "did they get rough with you?"

"They tried to."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes," she told him, "I made a flat and indignant denial, and that was all they got out of me, but I'm afraid of what they may do to you, chief."

"Why?"

"Because," she said, "… you know what I mean."

"All right," Perry Mason told her, "you go to sleep, Della, and let me handle it."

"Do you think it's all right?" she asked.

He laughed in a low, reassuring tone.

"Of course it's all right," he said, "night night."

He slipped the receiver back on the hook and turned to face Paul Drake.

"Well," he said, "here's something for you to figure on. Some woman telephoned Dr. Doray at his hotel and told him that she was Della Street, secretary to Perry Mason; that Frank Patton had been murdered in his room at the hotel; that Marjorie Clune was implicated and that the police were looking for Marjorie; that Doray had better get out of town while the getting was good; that if the detectives located him and questioned him, it might look bad for Marjorie; that Perry Mason was going to represent Marjorie and that he wanted Dr. Doray out of town."

Paul Drake whistled.

"And," Perry Mason said, "with two detectives on their way up here to shake me down, you can figure the sweet angles this case is going to have."

"What time did the telephone call come in?" Drake inquired.

"Somewhere around nine o'clock—between that and nine fifteen. Doray had just reached the hotel when the call came through."

Paul Drake stared steadily at Perry Mason.

"How the devil could your office have known that Patton was murdered at that time? The police were just finding it out."

Perry Mason met his eyes steadily.

"That, Paul," he said, "is one of the questions the detectives are going to ask me."

Paul Drake looked nervously at his watch.

"Don't worry," Perry Mason said. "I'm not going to let the detectives find you here."

"Are you," asked Drake, "going to let them find you here?"

The lawyer's rugged face remained expressionless, seeming somehow to be firm and weatherbeaten. His patient eyes stared steadily at Paul Drake.

"Paul," he said, "I'm going to be frank with you. That's one of the things I can't afford to be questioned about right now."

He clicked back his swivel chair and pulled his hat down on his head.

Wordlessly, the men walked through the door which led to the outer corridor. Perry Mason pushed out the lights and the door clicked shut behind them.

"Where can we go?" asked Perry Mason. "In your office?"

Paul Drake fidgeted uncomfortably.

"What's the matter," asked Perry Mason, "are you getting gun shy? You and I have pulled some fast ones together. Now, you act as though I had the smallpox. Just because a couple of detectives want to ask me a question I haven't any intention of answering, is no sign I can't go to your office for an informal chat. If they found you in my office, it might not be so hot, but it certainly wouldn't bother you if they found me in your office."

"It isn't that," Paul Drake said. "I've got a confession to make. I was going to tell you when that telephone rang."

"A confession?" asked Perry Mason.

Paul Drake nodded and averted his eyes.

Perry Mason heaved a sigh.

"All right," he said, "let's go get a taxicab and ride around."

Perry Mason let the detective precede him into the taxicab.

"Drive straight down the street a couple of blocks, and then circle around the block," Perry Mason said.

The cab driver looked at them curiously for a moment, then snapped the car into gear. Perry Mason turned to Paul Drake.

"Well?" he said.

"It's a peculiar situation," said the detective. "I want you to understand one thing, Perry. I wouldn't doublecross you. I wouldn't doublecross any client, you least of all. I tried to get in touch with you and couldn't. I got in touch with Bradbury, who is my real client, and he said it was okay. There was a couple of hundred bucks in it for me, and I needed the money. Things have been rather quiet, and —"