Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

“The authorities aren’t uniform on the subject. In the case of Gallagher versus Williamson, 23 Cal. 331, it was held generally that statements made by a client in the presence of other persons are not privileged and the attorney is bound to disclose them. Later on, in the case of People versus Rittenhouse, 56 C.A. 541, it was held that a third person who was not within the classification of a confidential relation and who overheard communications between an attorney and a client could disclose what he had heard. Then again, in People versus White, 102 C.A. 647, it was held that communications between an attorney and his clients in the presence of third persons were not privileged communications. However, there was a question in that case as to whether the communications were intended to be of a confidential nature. The court held generally that an attorney could be made to testify as to conversations which he had with the defendants in the presence of third persons.

“A much later case was that of People versus Hall 55 C.A. 2d, 343, wherein it was held that communications between an attorney and client in the presence of a third person were not privileged. I’ve been kicking myself for letting Sara Ansel sit in on that conversation.”

“But, Chief, you couldn’t have been expected to anticipate any development such as this.”

“Why not?” Mason asked. “An attorney is supposed to anticipate not only the things that may happen but the things that can happen. It’s not at all unreasonable that two women are going to have a falling-out, and when there’s no real reason for a third person to be present an attorney shouldn’t—”

“But, good Lord, Chief, she had to do all the talking. Myrna Davenport never would have told you the story.”

Mason said, “She could speak English. She didn’t need an interpreter. Of course, Sara Ansel stepped into the dominant role.”

The plane skimmed over the city of Oroville, flying low so that it was possible to see the big, roomy houses occupying strategic positions under towering shade trees.

“What beautiful trees,” Della Street said. “You can see how large they are, flying over them like this.”

“It gets hot here in the summer,” Mason said. “Nature compensates for it by making it a paradise for shade trees. Fig trees grow to enormous heights and give dense shade. Well, here we are, Della. Brace yourself for a barrage.”

The plane banked sharply, circled into a landing, and taxied up to the airport.

A group of men came hurrying toward the plane. In the vanguard were newspaper photographers with cameras and flashlights held in readiness. Behind them, moving at a more dignified pace but nevertheless hurrying, was a group of purposeful men.

Alighting from the plane, Mason and Della Street were most considerate in their posing so as to give the photographers plenty of coverage.

Newspaper reporters produced folded newsprint and pencils, ready to report the interview.

One of the reporters hustled forward. “May I have your name please?” he asked.

“Perry Mason,” Mason said, smiling.

“Your full name?”

“Perry Mason.”

“And you?” he asked, turning to Della Street.

“Miss Della Street.”

“You’re Mr. Mason’s confidential secretary?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” the reporter said, and shook hands with Mason.

“Quite all right,” Mason said, and then suddenly the smile froze momentarily on his face as he realized that the reporter had slipped a piece of folded paper into his hand. Mason hastily shoved his right hand into his coat pocket and smiled at the youngish, rather fleshy individual who pushed his way forward.

“Mr. Halder?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. I ‘m the district attorney, and this is the sheriff of the county. I also have one of my deputies present. I ‘d like to drive at once to my office if you don’t mind, Mr.Mason.”

“I’m glad to do anything I can to accommodate,” Mason said.

“We have a county car here and we’ll get you to the office and terminate the interview just as rapidly as possible.”

Mason said, “It’s all right. My pilot is authorized to do instrument flying so he tells me we can go back any time tonight.”

“I’m sorry that it was necessary for you to go to the expense of chartering a plane, Mr. Mason, but—well, there wasn’t much I could do about it. We try to keep the expenses of administering the office down to a minimum.”

“I can readily understand,” Mason said breezily. “Think nothing of it.”

Halder turned to the newspaper reporters. “Now I ‘m sorry to disappoint you boys, but I don’t want you to stand here and throw questions at Mr. Mason. I’d like to conduct the inquiry in my own way. After that I’ll issue a statement to the press, or the reporters can be called in—unless Mr. Mason has some objection.”

“I never have any objection to the press,” Mason said, smiling genially. “I share all of my information with them—except, of course, that which is confidential or which for strategic reasons I feel cannot be divulged.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Halder said, “and we certainly appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Mason. I can’t begin to tell you how much we appreciate it. Now if you and Miss Street will just get right in the car. And please, boys, no questions until after the interview at my office.”

Mason said, “Just a minute. I may have a wire I want to send.”

He pulled a billfold from his breast pocket, opened it, studied the interior for a moment, then dropped his right hand to his side pocket, brought out the folded slip of paper the newspaper reporter had placed in his hand, and managed to spread that slip over the interior of the billfold so that he could read the message which had been typed on the paper. It read:

I am Pete Ingram, reporter for The Oroville Mercury . Mabel Norge, secretary to Ed Davenport, is missing. I’ve been unable to find her all day. No one knows where she is. Yesterday afternoon she drew out nearly all the money in Davenport’s account in the Paradise bank. Don’t ask me how I know because it’s a confidential tip. I’m slipping this to you because I’m hoping the information may be of some value to you. You can reciprocate by giving me a break.

Mason folded the billfold, tucking the message inside, put it back in his pocket, and looked over the heads of the little group of men until he encountered the questioning eyes of Pete Ingram.

Mason gave an all but imperceptible nod.

“Well, if you want to send a telegram,” Halder said, “we can—”

“Oh, I guess it can wait,” Mason told him. “After all, we won’t be here very long I take it.”

“I hope not,” Halder said fervently.

Mason and Della Street entered the automobile. The sheriff sat up front with Halder, who did the driving. The deputy district attorney, whose name was Oscar Glencoe, an older man than Halder, sat quietly, uncommunicative, on the left rear seat. Della Street occupied the center, and Mason sat on the right.

The county car roared into speed and Halder drove directly to the courthouse.

“If you don’t mind,” he told Mason, “we’ll hold the interview in the sheriff’s private office.”

“Anyplace suits me,” Mason said cheerfully.

They disembarked and the sheriff led the way into his private office where chairs had been carefully arranged around the desk. Mason, looking the place over, felt certain that there was a concealed microphone and a tape recorder.

“Well, sit down,” the sheriff invited. “Jon, do you want to sit there at the desk and ask the questions?”

“Thank you,” Jonathan Halder said and seated himself in the swivel chair at the desk.