Erle Gardner - The Case of the Postponed Murder

“Dough?” she asked.

“Exactly,” he said. “Mazuma, coin of the realm. How long’s he been waiting, Della?”

“About half an hour. He’s fit to be tied.”

“Bring him in,” Mason said.

Penn Wentworth was in his early fifties. He had apparently tried to hide the evidence of those years by devoting a great deal of careful attention to grooming. His clothes were faultlessly pressed. His girth, compared with his chest, the fit of his clothes, and his carriage, indicated that the natural sag of his stomach was held in check by an elastic belt.

His hands were well cared for, the nails carefully manicured. The face, pink and velvety from the ministrations of a barber, was in sharp contrast with the greyish green of his pale eyes. He wore a small, neatly trimmed moustache carefully waxed at the ends.

“Good morning, Mr. Mason,” he said.

“Hello,” Mason observed casually. “Sit down.”

Wentworth accepted the indicated chair. His eyes appraised Mason as the eyes of a skilful bridge player sweep over the cards when he first picks up his hand. “Nice weather,” he said.

Mason’s face became granite hard. “Think it’ll rain?” he asked.

“No,” Wentworth said. “Just a high fog. I received your letter, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “Personally, I think it’s going to rain. What about the letter?”

“I feel that an explanation is due you.”

Mason said gravely, “That’s fine. I always like to get everything that’s due me.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Mason.”

“I won’t,” the lawyer said.

“What I meant was that you have undoubtedly been tricked. A man of your standing, reputation, and ability certainly wouldn’t have agreed to represent Mae Farr if he had known all the facts.”

“Smoke?” Mason asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Wentworth’s hand came across to the humidor which Mason extended. His fingers picked out a cigarette. He seemed glad of the interruption.

Mason scraped a match into flame, lit the cigarette, tossed the match carelessly into the wastebasket, and said, “Go on.”

“It will perhaps come as a surprise to you to learn that Miss Farr is a fugitive from justice,” Wentworth said.

“Indeed,” Mason observed tonelessly.

“The police hold a warrant for her arrest.”

“What’s the charge?” Mason asked.

“Forgery.”

“Of what?”

“Of a cheque,” Wentworth said indignantly, “a cheque which constituted a base betrayal of a friendship. The girl is a gold digger, an ingrate, a selfish, scheming—”

“Just a moment,” Mason said, pressing a button.

“As I was saying,” Wentworth observed, “she—”

Mason held up his hand, palm outward. “Wait just a moment,” he said. “I’ve rung for my secretary.”

“Your secretary?”

“Yes. I want her to take down your comments about the moral integrity of my client.”

“Look here,” Wentworth said in sudden alarm, “you’re not going to try to use any of this.”

Della Street opened the door from the outer office. Mason said, “Della, I want you to take down Mr. Wentworth’s comments about Mae Farr.”

Della flashed a glance of calm appraisal at the uncomfortable visitor, then came across to the desk and slipped Mason a note.

The lawyer, unfolding the interoffice memo, read, “Harold Anders waiting in outer office. Wants to see Penn Wentworth about a personal matter which he refuses to disclose. His address is North Mesa, Calif. Said he was told Wentworth was here and said he will wait for Wentworth to come out.”

Mason slowly tore up the sheet of folded paper, dropped the pieces into the wastebasket.

Wentworth said, “What I was saying was just between us.”

“Surely,” Mason said, “you wouldn’t make such serious charges against a young woman unless you could prove them.”

Wentworth said, “Don’t try to trap me, Mason. I came here in good faith to warn you about the type of person with whom you’re dealing. I don’t intend to expose myself to a suit for defamation of character.”

“Rather late to think of that now, isn’t it?” Mason asked.

“What do you mean?”

Mason turned abruptly to Della. “Send Mr. Anders in,” he said. “Tell him Mr. Wentworth will talk with him right here.”

Wentworth half rose from his chair. He looked at Mason with eyes that held some measure of suspicion and alarm. “Who,” he asked, “is Anders?”

As Della Street slipped quietly through the door to the outer office, Mason said soothingly, “Just a chap who wanted to see you on a personal matter. He’s been trying to locate you, heard that you were here, and, followed you.”

“But I don’t know any Anders,” Wentworth said, “and I don’t think I want to see him. Can’t I leave through this exit door, and...”

“But you don’t understand,” Mason said. “He comes from North Mesa. I think he wants to see you about Miss Farr.”

Wentworth got to his feet. He had taken two steps when Della opened the door from the outer office and a tall, rawboned man in his early thirties came striding into the room.

“Which one of you is Wentworth?” he asked.

Mason waved his hand in an affable gesture. “The gentleman heading toward the exit door,” he said.

Anders strode across the room, moving with a deceptive swiftness which cut off Wentworth’s retreat. “Wentworth,” he said, “you’re going to talk with me.”

Wentworth tried to brush past him. Anders grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat. “You know who I am,” he said.

“I’ve never seen you in my life.”

“Well, you know of me.”

Wentworth said nothing.

Anders said, “Of all the slimy, contemptible tricks I ever heard of, this business of having Mae arrested takes the cake. A lousy eight hundred and fifty bucks. Here, here’s your eight hundred and fifty. I’m making the cheque good.”

He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and started peeling off twenties. “Come over to the desk where we can count this money. I want a witness, and I want a receipt.”

“You can’t pay off that cheque,” Wentworth said.

“Why not?”

“Because the entire matter is in the hands of the district attorney. I would be compounding a felony if I accepted this money. Mr. Mason is a lawyer. He can tell you that’s right. That’s true, isn’t it, Mr. Mason?”

“Consulting me professionally?” Mason inquired.

“Oh bosh! I’m merely commenting on what is general information.”

“Put your money away, Anders,” Mason said. “Sit down. You too, Wentworth. While you’re both here, I have something to say to you.”

“I have nothing further to say,” Wentworth said. “I came here in the utmost good faith, thinking that I could spare you an embarrassing experience, Mason. I didn’t come here to be trapped, tricked, or insulted. I suppose that you carefully arranged this meeting with Anders.”

Anders’ face showed surprise. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “I never heard of the man in my life.”

Wentworth looked longingly at the door.

“No, you don’t,” Anders said. “I’ve been chasing you all over town. We’re going to have a showdown right here and now. Try to get out that door, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“You can’t restrain me,” Wentworth said.

“Probably not,” Anders observed grimly, “but I can beat the living hell out of you.”

Mason grinned at Della Street, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his ankles on the corner of his desk. “Don’t mind me, gentlemen,” he said. “Go right ahead.”

“What kind of a trap is this?” Wentworth demanded.

“There’s no trap at all,” Anders said, quivering with indignation. “You’ve pulled a dirty, stinking trick. I’m here to tell you you can’t get away with it. Here’s your eight hundred and fifty dollars.”