Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lucky Legs

"Did you?" asked Perry Mason.

"No."

"You're not telling me very much about Eva Lamont," he said, "and it's important that I know more about her."

"I don't like her."

"That doesn't make any difference, this is a murder case. What do you know about her?"

"I don't know very much about her, but I've heard lots."

"Such as?" asked Perry Mason.

"Oh, lots of things."

"Do you know," Mason asked, "if she looked up Frank Patton after she came here to the city?"

"She would have," Marjorie Clune said slowly, "she's the type that would."

"Has she any reason to be bitter against you, Marjorie?"

Marjorie Clune closed her eyes, slid back into the bed and pulled the covers up around her shoulders.

"She was madly infatuated with Bob Doray," she said.

"And Doray is mad about you?"

"Yes."

Perry Mason took out his package of cigarettes from his pocket, extracted one, had it raised halfway to his lips before he caught himself and extended the package to Marjorie Clune.

"Do you want me to smoke?" she asked.

"Just suit yourself."

"No, I mean when this man comes in. Would it look better if I was smoking?"

"No, it would look better if you were chewing gum, you'd hardly be doing both."

"Then I'll smoke now," she told him.

She took a cigarette. Perry Mason brought an ashtray from the dresser, set it on the bed between them, held a match to Marjorie Clune's cigarette.

"Give me that other pillow, Marjorie," he said.

She handed him the pillow, he propped it against the foot of the bed and settled his back against it.

"I'm going to think," he told her, "and I don't want to be disturbed."

He smoked the cigarette for a few puffs, then held it in front of him and watched the smoke as it curled upward, with eyes that seemed to be filmed with a dreamy abstraction. The cigarette had almost burnt down to his fingers before he nodded slowly, and let his eyes snap into sharp focus on Marjorie Clune.

He ground out the cigarette in the ashtray, jumped to his feet and pulled down his vest.

"All right, Marjorie," he said, in a voice that was kindly, "I think I know the answer."

"The answer to what?"

"The answer to everything," he told her. "And I don't mind telling you, Marjorie, that in some ways I've been a damn fool."

She stared at him and shivered slightly.

"You look perfectly cold, when you look at me that way," she said, "as though you were capable of anything."

"Perhaps," he told her, "I am capable of anything."

He pulled another cigarette from his pocket, walked to the dresser, tore the cigarette in two, picked out a couple of grains of tobacco, pulled out the lower lid of his left eye and dropped the grains into place. Then he pulled out the lower lid of his right eye and dropped a couple of grains of tobacco into that, as well. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

Marjorie Clune sat upright in bed to stare at him with curious fascination.

Tears streamed from Perry Mason's eyes and trickled down his cheeks. He groped his way to the wash stand, splashed cold water in his eyes, dried them on a towel and regarded himself in the mirror.

His eyes were red and bloodshot.

He nodded his satisfaction, moistened his fingers in water from the tap, drew them around the inside neckband of his shirt until his collar was moist and crumpled, then he pulled his tie slightly to one side and once more surveyed the effect in the mirror.

"Okay, Marjorie," he said, "wait here until I come back, and remember to chew gum."

He walked to the door, opened it, stepped into the corridor without a single backward glance, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Perry Mason walked the length of the corridor, looking for the freight elevator. At length he found it and pressed the button, waiting for the cage to come lumbering up to the sixth floor. When it arrived, he pulled open the door, got in the cage and pressed the button marked Baggage Room.

The big elevator moved slowly down the shaft and came at length to a jolting stop. Perry Mason opened the two doors, and stepped out into the baggage room. A uniformed porter, seated at a desk, looked at him with questioning, uncordial eyes.

Perry Mason staggered against the door of the elevator, lurched for two steps, paused, took a deep breath, and grinned fatuously at the man in uniform.

"Came f'r m' trunk," said Perry Mason.

"What trunk?" asked the porter, with hostility in his voice.

Perry Mason grinned and fished around through his pockets, finally bringing out a roll of bills. He pulled out a one dollar bill and lurched across to the porter. He handed over the bill; then, just as the porter was about to take it, jerked it back.

"Thash not 'nuff," Perry Mason said.

He took a five dollar bill from the roll, regarded that speculatively, shook his head in solemn negation, explored the roll of bills, and pulled out a twenty.

The porter's palm was eagerly extended. The porter's fingers clutched at the bill. The look of unsmiling hostility left his face. He pocketed the bill, got to his feet with an amiable grin.

"Have you got the check for the trunk?" he asked.

Perry Mason shook his head.

"Can't find it," he said.

"What kind of a trunk?" asked the porter. "What did it look like?"

"Big trunk," said Perry Mason, "great big trunk. Shalesman's trunk. You know, got all my shtuff in it. Gotta have it. Two daysh late now."

The porter moved toward a pile of trunks. Perry Mason became garrulous.

"Two daysh late now," he said, "wife's showing up. 'Magine that. Jush got tip from friend, wife'sh coming down from city to look me up. Maybe she'sh got detectives trying to get goods on me. Got 'nawful nice little girl friend. Can't get her mixed up in it."

The porter indicated a large trunk.

"This it?" he asked.

Perry Mason shook his head.

The porter moved around a stack of trunks.

"This one," he said, "was left here…"

Perry Mason's face broke into smiles.

"Thash one," he said, and patted the trunk affectionately. "Lesh go."

"What's your room number?" asked the porter.

" Six fortytwo," said Perry Mason.

"I'll bring it right up," the porter said.

"Gotta come right now," Perry Mason insisted. "Maybe detectivesh watchin' hotel."

The porter was sympathetic.

"All right," he said, "let's go right away. That's no way for a woman to check on a man who's on the road a lot of the time. He's got to have a little pleasure sometime."

Perry Mason patted the porter's shoulder.

"You shaid mouthful," he confided. "Little pleashure now'n then ain't gonna hurt nobody."

The porter got a hand truck, put the trunk on it, and wheeled it into the freight elevator. Perry Mason stood beside him as the elevator went up to the sixth floor, walked by the side of the truck down to the room. He opened the door of the room and stood to one side.

The porter pushed the hand truck into the room. Marjorie Clune turned her face toward the porter and made chewing motions with her jaw.

The porter stole a surreptitious glance, then averted his eyes.

"Gotta get half cashe whiskey in shish trunk," said Perry Mason, waving his hand in the general direction of the bureau. "Putter down anywhere. Goin' out in about fifteen minutes," said Perry Mason, "maybe ten minutes. Wife may have detectives watchin' hotel. You get me taxicab, wait by trade entrance, will you?"

He flashed his hand once more toward his trouser pocket.

"You've already given me…" said the porter, then let his voice trail into silence as Perry Mason gravely pulled out the roll of bills, took another twenty from it and dropped it into the porter's palm.

"Just give me a ring," he said, "whenever you're ready. I'll have a cab waiting."