Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Duplicate Daughter

“Now you, Glamis, got in your car after you left me, drove to the airport and went to Las Vegas.”

“So you were having me shadowed! I wondered about it. As it happens, I go to Las Vegas every so often.”

“And what did you do in Las Vegas?”

“I gambled, I saw my father, Steven Barlow, and I came home. I had some drinks, I lost some money and I minded my own business — a most commendable habit, Mr. Mason. I would suggest that you try it sometime.”

The door chimes sounded. Muriell started for the front door.

“Just a minute,” Mason said. He held Glamis Barlow with his eyes. “Vera Martel had an office in Las Vegas. Did you call on her or try to call on her at that office? Did you go near the place?”

“Mr. Mason, don’t be silly. I tell you, I don’t know any Vera Martel, so why should I go to her office?”

The door chimes sounded again and then there was a knock on the door.

“That,” Mason said, “sounds very much like my friend, Lieutenant Arthur Tragg of Homicide. May I suggest that when you talk with him you either keep very, very quiet or you answer questions truthfully. Don’t try lying. That’s going to get you in all sorts of trouble.

“Now, then, I want all three of you to tell me you are, and each of you is, giving me all of your right, title and interest to any and all money that was in the workshop yesterday.”

“Why should we give it to you?” Glamis asked.

“Not the money,” Mason said, “only your title to the money. If it wasn’t yours you wouldn’t be giving me anything.”

Again the door chimes sounded and peremptory knuckles banged on the door, alternating with the door chimes.

“All right,” Nancy said. “We’re all agreed, girls?”

The two girls nodded.

“Have any of you pawned any diamonds, jewelry or raised any cash by any emergency loans?” Mason asked. “Remember, that’s one thing the police can trace just as surely as—”

Angry knuckles pounded on the front door and simultaneously there was the sound of knuckles on the back door, then the back door opened and a police officer pushed his way through the kitchen into the dining room. “Why don’t you folks answer the doorbell?” he asked.

He strode across the dining room to the living room, opened the door and said, “Come on in, Lieutenant.”

Mason lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone anything about any money. Don’t tell anyone I was asking about any money.”

Mason looked from one to the other, let his eyes rest for a long moment on Muriell.

Lt. Tragg entered the room, said, “Pardon me, ladies, but I’m after some information and... I see that Mr. Perry Mason has been briefing you on what happened... I noted your car was parked in the driveway, Perry.

“After all, this is a free country and we don’t try to keep an attorney from conferring with his clients or even briefing friendly witnesses. But we don’t like to be left cooling our heels out on the front porch while the session is unduly protracted.

“Now, Mr. Mason, since you’ve had ample opportunity to talk to these witnesses, I think that it’s only fair that I be given an opportunity to discuss things with them privately. We’re going to excuse you.”

“And if I don’t choose to go?” Mason asked. “Are you going to put me out?”

“Good heavens, no, nothing like that,” Tragg said. “I’m simply going to put a police guard at the door of one of these rooms and question these women in the room with a police guard seeing that we’re not disturbed— Or I can, of course, take the witnesses to Headquarters for examination, which will cause a certain amount of newspaper publicity which your client might find objectionable.”

Glamis reached over to pick up the coffee cup which Muriell had deposited on the dining-room table. She smiled provocatively at Lt. Tragg and said, “I like men who use direct action, Lieutenant.”

“Good,” Lt. Tragg said, appraising her unsmilingly. “Then I’ll talk with you first, before you’ve had your coffee.”

Tragg took the coffee.

Glamis became white-faced. “You beast!” she spat.

The officer took Mason’s arm. “I’ll escort you to the door, Mr. Mason. I’m quite certain Lieutenant Tragg doesn’t feel your presence would by of any help.”

Mason jerked himself free, swung around and said, “Just a minute. You may have the right to examine these witnesses in private and you may not. I’m not certain that I’m going to let you get away with it, and I’m not certain that I won’t tell all of these witnesses not to answer any questions.”

“On what grounds?” Tragg asked. “On the grounds that to do so might incriminate them?”

“They don’t have to give any grounds,” Mason said. “They don’t have to answer questions, period.”

“That’s right, they don’t,” Tragg said. “Of course, when they’re subpoenaed in front of a grand jury they either have to answer questions or take refuge in the fact that the answers might incriminate them.”

Mason turned to the women. “I’ve talked with you,” he said. “I’ve told you the circumstances. I’m going to warn you — don’t tell any lies to Lieutenant Tragg. Either tell him the truth or tell him nothing.”

“A very, very commendable attitude,” Lt. Tragg said. And then added somewhat wistfully, “I do wish I knew what had taken place before we got here. You see, Perry, we were running down another angle of the case which we considered of prime importance; even of more importance then questioning the members of Mr. Gilman’s family.

“I’m sorry that I can’t tell you what that angle is, but you’ll doubtless discover it by the time you get to court. I can assure you of one thing, Perry. It’s a dilly.”

“It must have been,” Mason said, “to cause you to postpone a trip out here.”

Mason walked to the door, turned, said, “Remember what I told you. Either tell him the truth or keep silent, and don’t volunteer any information. Answer his questions and then quit.”

Mason stopped at the first telephone booth, called his office, and when he had Della Street on the line, asked, “What do you hear from Paul Drake? Has he dug up anything?”

“He’s located Glamis’ boy friend, Hartley Elliott,” Della Street said, “and has been calling frantically. He says he’s sitting on the lid and that you’ll have to get out there just as fast as you can.”

“What’s the address?” Mason asked.

“The Rossiter Apartments on Blendon Street.”

“What’s the number, Della?”

“7211. The apartment is 6-B, and Paul seems terribly concerned.”

“If he calls in again,” Mason said, “tell him I’m on my way. Also, tell him that Tragg and a uniformed officer have just descended on the Gilman family at their home on Vauxman Avenue, and it looks as though the party is going to get rough.”

“I’ll tell him. Did you have a chance to get anything worth while before Tragg moved in on you?” Della Street asked.

“There’s something peculiar about the case,” Mason said. “I can’t put my finger on it yet — I had a chance to ask questions and get some negative answers. I’m not certain the negatives mean anything. I’ll be on my way to join Paul. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything new.”

Mason hung up the telephone, jumped in his car and drove to the Rossiter Apartments, went at once to Apartment 6-B and knocked on the door.

Paul Drake opened the door.

There was no mistaking the expression of relief on Paul Drake’s face when he saw Mason in the doorway.

Drake said, “Come in and take over, Perry.”

A tall, slim-waisted man, about twenty-eight years old, with high cheekbones, steady gray eyes, a determined jaw and the build of an athlete was standing by the window.