Erie Gardner: The Case of the Lazy Lover

“You can see the effect such a letter would have. It made the stockholders feel they could get their money back if they took concerted action. You sell a man stock in a mining company and then go and try to buy the stock back, and he wants at least ten times what he paid for it. You offer him exactly what he paid for it, and he laughs in your face; but if you tell him there’s a possibility, that by taking prompt action, he can ‘get his money back,’ those words are music to his ears. He wants his money back.

“Well, the upshot of it was that Allred bought back nearly all of the stock at exactly what he’d sold it for. Later on, when some of the stockholders claimed they’d been whipsawed, Allred simply produced the letter he’d written them stating that in his opinion the mine was fabulously rich, that there had been recent discoveries which enhanced his faith in the mine. In other words, he had written them this letter telling them the entire truth, begging them and imploring them not to ask him to refund their money. Of course, the moral effect of the letter was to make them fall all over themselves trying to get the money back, but the legal effect was that Allred had made a complete disclosure of all of the facts in the case.”

“He must be clever,” Della Street said.

“He’s slick,” Mason told her. “Are there any other Allreds?”

“No Allreds who seem to have a street address that fits in with twenty-five hundred dollar checks.”

Mason said, “Just on the off-chance, Della, get Allred’s residence on the wire.”

“For whom shall I ask?”

Mason hesitated a moment, then said, “I’ll do the talking. Dial the number for me, Della, then I’ll take over.”

Della Street got an outside line. Her trained fingers whirled the dial with swift precision. She nodded to Mason and said, “I’ve dialed.”

Mason picked up his telephone, waited.

A moment later, a feminine voice said, “Hello. Mr. Allred’s residence.”

“Is Mrs. Allred there?” Mason asked.

“Who wishes to speak with her, please?”

“Mr. Perry Mason, the lawyer.”

“Was she expecting you to call, Mr. Mason?”

Mason laughed and said, “That depends. Tell me, is her full name Lola Faxon Allred?”

“That’s right,” the voice at the other end of the line said.

“I think, then,” Mason said, “you may say that she’s expecting me to call.”

“Hold the line a moment, please.”

Mason held the line for some ten seconds, then a masculine voice said, “Hello, Mr. Mason.”

“Yes.”

“This is Bertrand C. Allred. You wish to talk with my wife?”

“Yes.”

“She isn’t here at the moment.”

“I see.”

“Could you tell me what it was that — that is, the general nature of what you wish to discuss with her? I may be able to get in touch with her a little later on.”

“Nothing important,” Mason said. “Just tell her I called, if you will.”

“I’ll do that, but if you could perhaps tell me...”

“I’m just checking up on something,” Mason said. “That’s all. You might convey that message to your wife, if you will, that I was checking — just checking, and that I’d like to have her call me in connection with that check. Got that? Thanks very much.”

“On what,” Allred asked, “are you checking?”

“A routine matter,” Mason said. “And thank you very much indeed, Mr. Allred. Good-by.”

He hung up the telephone and glanced at Della Street. “I may have put my foot in it. Her husband got on the phone. He’s curious. I wish I knew what was in the letter that had originally been clipped to that check.”

“Did he show too much interest?” Della Street asked.

“Yes. We’ll now play a waiting game for a while.”

“And the check?”

“We’ll just hold it and see what happens.”

“And the mail?”

Mason said with a note of surrender in his voice, “Oh, all right, I suppose I’ll have to wade through it. Get your notebook, Della, and let’s start.”

At nine-forty a special delivery letter was relayed to Della Street’s desk through the hands of Gertie, the receptionist in the outer office. Della Street opened it. The thin envelope contained only a single sheet of paper, a tinted oblong of paper.

This check was folded squarely in the middle, just as Mason had said a check would have been folded if there had been no letter accompanying it, and was drawn on the First National Bank at Las Olitas. The check was payable to Perry Mason, was in an amount of twenty-five hundred dollars and was signed Lola Faxon Allred.

The letter had been postmarked early that morning.

Della Street said, “Your girl friend has a strange idea of confetti. I wonder how long this is going to keep up.”

“Both checks dated Saturday?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“Do we have an account at the Farmers, Merchants & Mechanics Bank ourselves?” Mason mused.

“Of course.”

Mason said, “Go down to the bank, deposit both checks. Ask the cashier to pay particular attention to them, and when he sends the check through for collection on the First National Bank at Las Olitas, to ask the bank there to check carefully.”

“Will you be under any obligation to Mrs. Allred if you accept these checks without knowing what they’re for?”

“I can always give her back the money, if I decide not to represent her in whatever matter it is she wants me to handle. Go down to the bank personally, Della, and put the checks through. There’s something about this that I definitely don’t like.”

“I like it,” Della said, smiling. “As the one who handles the finances of this office, I’ll be only too pleased to have Mrs. Allred pelt us with checks by every mail. Why don’t you like it, Chief?”

“I don’t know. Call it a hunch if you like, but I have an idea that when I deposit these checks, things are going to start happening — and that that’s the reason the checks are being sent. Let’s co-operate and see what happens after that.”

Della Street had a report for Mason by ten-twenty.

“We gave the cashier at the Farmers, Merchants & Mechanics Bank a jolt,” she said.

“How come?”

“He couldn’t understand why we would be depositing a check and at the same time asking him to examine it carefully.”

“But he scrutinized it carefully?”

“Yes.”

“And passed it?”

“Said the check was unquestionably good, that it was signed by Mrs. Allred and that Mrs. Allred had ample funds to cover it. He didn’t even bother about checking balances. He only checked signatures. Mrs. Allred must have a pretty big account there.”

Mason said, “The thing interests me. Mrs. Allred certainly should be getting in touch with me — unless the checks are phony.”

“Probably,” Della Street said, “she folded that first check in a letter explaining what she wanted you to do, then she remembered something else she wanted to add to the letter, took it out to put a postscript on it and then overlooked putting it back in the envelope. The check remained in the envelope and came through all right.”

“I suppose so,” Mason admitted, “but the darn thing irritates me. I...”

The phone on Della Street’s desk sounded in a single short, quick ring, indicating that the receptionist in the outer office had a matter which she wished to take up directly with Mason’s secretary.

Della Street picked up the phone, said, “Hello, Gertie. What is it... I see... Yes, I think so. Ask him to be seated for just a moment.”

Della Street cupped her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, said to Mason, “Mr. Bertrand C. Allred is out there. He seems to be quite worked up about something. He wants to see you, but won’t say why.”