Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lucky Legs

Perry Mason took the stairs to the fourth floor, then rang for the elevator.

"Steady," he warned Marjorie Clune.

Perry Mason piloted Marjorie Clune through the lobby of the hotel, holding her back when she would have rushed into rapid flight.

"Take it easy," he cautioned in a low voice.

He signaled a cab at the sidewalk.

"Mapleton Hotel," he told the driver. As Mason seated himself in the cab, he extended a cigarette to Marjorie Clune.

"Smoke?"

She took a cigarette. Perry Mason lit it for her, then lit one for himself.

"Settle back against the cushions," he told Marjorie Clune. "Try to think about something besides the case. Relax as much as you can. Don't interrupt me, because I'm going to be thinking, and don't try to think yourself, because it's simply going to make things that much more difficult for you. Think about something else. Relax and rest. You're going to have a trying time."

"Are we going to police headquarters?" she asked.

Perry Mason's tone was grim.

"Not if I can help it," he told her.

They completed the ride in silence. Perry Mason told the cab to wait; told Marjorie Clune to stay in the cab and to keep her hand up in front of her face as much as possible. A uniformed doorman opened the cab door and Perry Mason walked with quick, purposeful strides through the revolving door of the Mapleton Hotel and directly to the desk of the cashier.

"You have a J.R. Bradbury," he said, "staying here in room 693."

The cashier raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I'm his attorney," Perry Mason said. "There's a possibility I may have to take him out of town on a matter of important business. I want to have his bill all paid up so he can get away if he has to."

"You're checking out for him?" asked the cashier.

"No," he told her, "I'm simply paying his bill to date."

She opened a filing drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, crossed to an adding machine, manipulated the keys, took the total and returned to Perry Mason.

"The total bill," she said, "is eightythree dollars and ninetyfive cents."

"On 693?" asked Perry Mason.

"He has 693 today," she said, "but he has been connected with 695 and has been paying the bills on both rooms."

Perry Mason pushed a one hundred dollar bill through the window. The cashier inspected it, crinkled it crisply between efficient fingers, then crossed to the cash register. She rang up the amount and handed Perry Mason the change, together with a receipted bill.

Mason studied the bill.

"These telephone calls," he said, indicating the bill with his finger, "are they local or long distance?"

"The long distance calls are marked," she said. "Those others are local."

"I think," Perry Mason told her, "that I would like to have an itemized account of those local calls. You see, I'm paying this bill for Mr. Bradbury. The other amounts are quite all right; he can't question them, but I'd like very much to have an itemized statement of the local telephone calls."

She puckered her forehead for a moment, then said, "I can get them for you. It will be a little trouble and will take a few minutes."

"If you would be so kind," Perry Mason said, smiling. "You can mark them right on the back of this receipted bill."

The cashier took the receipted bill, crossed to the telephone desk and spoke with the operator. A moment later she brought back to the desk a leathercovered notebook, opened it and started writing with nimble fingers. When she had finished, she returned the receipted bill to Perry Mason.

"The calls," she said, "are all marked on there."

Perry Mason thanked her, folded the receipted bill without even bothering to look at it, thrust it into his pocket and turned from the cashier's window.

"Thank you," he said, "very much indeed."

Perry Mason pushed open the door of his office and stood to one side for Marjorie Clune to enter.

Della Street, who had been seated at the secretarial desk by the switchboard, jumped to her feet and stared from Perry Mason to the blue eyes of Marjorie Clune.

"Della," said Perry Mason, "this is Marjorie Clune, the girl with the lucky legs. Margy, this is Della Street, my secretary."

Della Street made no effort to acknowledge the introduction. She stared at Marjorie Clune, then shifted her eyes back to Perry Mason's face.

"You brought her here?" she said. "You?"

Perry Mason nodded.

"But there have been detectives in," Della Street said. "They'll be coming back. They've got the building watched. You got in, but you can't get out, and Marjorie Clune is wanted for murder. It will simply cinch the case against you as an accessory."

Marjorie Clune clung to Perry Mason's arm.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. Then, facing Della Street, added, "I wouldn't have done it for the world if I'd known."

Della Street crossed rapidly to Marjorie Clune, put an arm around her shoulders.

"There, there, dear," she said, "don't you care. It isn't your fault. He's always doing things like that; always taking chances."

"And," said Perry Mason, smiling, "always getting away with them. Why don't you tell her that, Della?"

"Because," Della Street said, "some day you're not going to be able to get away with them."

Perry Mason glanced meaningly at Della Street.

"Take her in my private office, Della," he said, "and wait there."

Della Street opened the door of the private office.

"You poor kid," she said maternally, "it's been frightful, hasn't it? But don't worry. It's going to come out all right now."

Marjorie Clune paused in the doorway.

"Please," she said to Perry Mason, "please don't let me get you into trouble."

Della Street exerted a gentle pressure with her arm and piloted Marjorie Clune to the inner office and sat her in the big leather chair which flanked Perry Mason's desk.

"Wait there and try and get some rest," she said. "You can lay your head right back against the cushions and curl your feet up in the seat."

Marjorie Clune smiled at her gratefully.

Della Street rejoined Perry Mason in the outer office.

Mason walked to the door of the outer office, opened it and pushed the catch into place which put on the night latch.

"I don't want to be disturbed for a few minutes," he said. "Where's Bradbury? In the law library?"

Della Street nodded her head, then glanced toward the door of Perry Mason's private office.

"Where did you find her?" she asked.

"You can take a lot of guesses," Perry Mason said, "and then you'll miss it."

"Where was she, chief?"

"In Summerville."

"How did she get down there?"

"By train. But I got there before she did."

"You did?"

"Yes. I was following some one else."

"Who?"

"Dr. Doray. He went down on the midnight plane."

"And they were there?" she asked.

Perry Mason nodded.

"Together, chief?"

Perry Mason pulled out his package of cigarettes, regarded them ruefully.

"Two left," he said.

"I've got a package here," Della Street told him.

Perry Mason lit a cigarette, and sucked in a huge drag of smoke.

"Were they together?" asked Della Street.

"In the bridal suite," Perry Mason told her.

"She's married then?"

"No, she wasn't married."

"Were they going to get married?"

"No, she was going to marry Bradbury."

"Then," said Della Street, "you mean… that… that…"

"Exactly," he told her. "She was going to marry Bradbury because Bradbury had jockeyed her into such a position that she had no other alternative. But, before she did that, she was going to give a week of her life to Bob Doray."

Della Street motioned toward the book which stood by the telephone.

Mason nodded.