Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

Mabel Norge said, “Tell him that he gave it to me, that it was in my possession.”

“It wasn’t in your possession,” Mason said. “It was in your desk. Your employment has been terminated.”

“Oh, will you be quiet! I hate you!” she flared.

“You probably would,” Mason told her.

“And tell the district attorney that this woman here is taking down everything that’s said,” Mabel Norge said.

“Hush,” Boom told her. “Let me listen.”

Boom listened at the telephone for a while, then said, “This lawyer is Perry Mason…. Oh, you have heard of him? … Well, the name’s rather familiar…. That’s right…. He says he has no objection to the envelope being kept in a lockbox and kept in your custody until it’s opened in the presence of the court and an appraiser. He thinks there’s money in it.… Okay.”

Boom hung up.

Mason said, “We are, of course, going to hold you personally and officially responsible, Mr. Boom.”

“That’s right. I’m responsible.”

“You II take that box in to the district attorney.”

“I’ll see that it gets to the district attorney.”

“You’re taking it in at once?”

“Not at once. I’ve got a job to do out here. I’ll take it in to him tomorrow. He said tomorrow would be all right. But I’ll take care of it and see that nothing happens to it in the meantime.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “I object to your taking it, but if you insist upon taking it I shall expect you to see that the envelope is unopened.”

“Well, I’ll take it with me,” Boom said. “Now in order to get this thing straight I want to have one of your cards, and in case it should turn out that you’re not representing the widow—Well, you’re a lawyer. I don’t need to tell you your business.”

“That’s right, you don’t,” Mason said cheerfully. “Here’s one of my cards.”

Officer Boom, with the lockbox under his arm, started back toward his car.

“I’m going with you,” Mabel Norge said

Della Street waited until the front door had banged shut, then she looked up at Mason.

“Get that teakettle off the stove quick,” Mason said. “Incidentally you might run a rag over it to make sure there aren’t any fingerprints, and also polish off the controls on the stove. They may think of that before they’ve gone very far.”

Della Street dashed into the kitchen. A few moments later she was back. “Everything’s okay,” she said.

“All right,” Mason told her, “we’ll turn out the lights and let it go at that.”

“Chief, that secretary is going to talk Boom into opening that letter.”

“Not right away,” Mason said “Our main problem, Della, is to keep that letter intact until after the mucilage has had a chance to dry thoroughly. If they get to fooling around with it too soon they’ll realize that the envelope has been steamed open and sealed shut again.”

“Well, she’s going to talk him into opening it.”

“Not until after he’s gone to the district attorney.”

“You want to bet?” Della Street asked.

Abruptly the telephone bell shattered the silence.

Mason glanced across at Della Street.

The phone rang again.

“Do we answer it?” Della Street asked.

Mason nodded. “You take it, Della. Be noncommittal. Find out who is talking before you say anything.”

Della Street picked up the telephone, said, “Hello”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “Yes,” and, putting her hand over the mouthpiece, said to Perry Mason, “Bakersfield is calling from a pay station. They’re dropping coins.”

“Any name?” Mason asked.

“Just Bakersfield, calling station-to-station.”

Abruptly Della Street took her hand from the mouthpiece, said, “Hello.”

For a moment she seemed puzzled, then grabbed her pencil and made swift notations on a sheet of paper.

She glanced at Perry Mason, her eyes puzzled. “Hello,” she said. “Hello … hello … hello. … Operator, my party seems to have been disconnected. I was talking with Bakersfield…. You’re certain … ?”

Della Street gently replaced the receiver.

“What was it?” Mason asked.

“As soon as I said hello a man’s voice came on the line,” she said. “It was a station-to-station call from a pay telephone booth in Bakersfield. The man said, ‘Pacific Palisades Motor Court, San Bernardino, unit thirteen’ and then the connection broke. I thought we’d been disconnected. The operator says he hung up.”

“Now what the devil!” Mason said. “He didn’t give any name?”

“No, it was just a man’s voice.”

“And on a station-to-station call.”

“That’s right.”

Mason got up from his chair and started pacing the floor.

Della Street watched him anxiously.

“What will happen if and when Mabel Norge gets Boom to open that envelope?” she asked.

“Then,” Mason told her, “there’s going to be hell to pay. Whenever that envelope is opened the assumption will be that I took out the pages which contained evidence, statements relating suspicions, conclusions and accusations, destroyed them and substituted pages of blank paper.”

“Can anyone tell that the envelope was steamed open?” she asked.

“Sure. An analysis of the adhesive on the flap will show that it came from this mucilage container and was not the prepared substance that is used on the flap of an envelope to be moistened and sealed.”

“And then what will happen?’

“Once the accusation is made,” Mason said, “we’ll find ourselves in a county where we have no friends, where we are looked upon with suspicion and where the authorities may well take action predicated on suspicion.”

She smiled. “Which is a roundabout way of saying we may be arrested?”

“I may be.”

“Then wouldn’t it be advisable to … ?”

Again the phone rang.

Mason nodded to Della Street.

She picked up the receiver, said, “Hello…. Yes….”

She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said, “Can you take a call from Fresno, Chief?”

“Find out who’s talking.”

“Who’s calling?” Della Street asked.

She looked up. “Mrs. Davenport.”

Mason nodded and Della Street handed him the receiver.

“Hello,” Mason said.

“Is this Mr. Perry Mason, the attorney?”

“That’s right.”

“Just a moment. Mrs. Davenport is calling.”

A moment later Mason heard the flat, toneless monotone of Myrna Davenport’s voice.

“Mr. Mason, there’s been a terrible mistake. He’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?”

“My husband.”

“That’s what Sara Ansel told me. He died this afternoon and—wait a minute, is that what you meant?”

“No. I mean he’s gone. He’s really gone.”

“You mean he isn’t dead?”

“Yes, Mr. Mason, that’s what I mean. He isn’t dead. He wasn’t dead at all. He couldn’t have been He’s gone.”

“Where?” Mason asked

“I don’t know.”

“When did he go?”

“I don’t even know that. He got in a car and disappeared.”

Mason, fighting back anger, said. “What kind of a run around is this? What are you trying to put over? Sara Ansel told me distinctly that Ed Davenport was dead. That was around three o’clock this afternoon. She said he had died about fifteen minutes earlier.”

“That’s what we thought. That’s what the doctor told us. We all thought he’d passed away, but evidently he was only unconscious. We didn’t know where to catch you before you got to this number and by that time we were pretty much confused because—”

“Where are you now?”

“We’re at a drugstore, but we’re leaving right away. We’ll go back to Los Angeles.”