Erle Gardner - The Case of the Postponed Murder

The manuscript for The Case of the Postponed Murder was one of two full-length Perry Mason novels left in Erle Stanley Gardner’s pending file at the time of his death in 1970. Although the work was written earlier and set aside, the publishers believe it was ready for publication. But it should be noted that the author had not done his usual final-draft polishing and checking.

Perry Mason pushed himself slightly back from the desk and turned so that he was facing the young woman who had seated herself in the client’s big overstuffed leather chair. Della Street, his secretary, handed him the confidential information card on which had been typed:

NAME — Sylvia Farr

AGE — Twenty-six

ADDRESS — North Mesa, Calif., 694 Chestnut St.

Temporarily located at Palmcrest Rooms.

Telephone number Hillview 6-9390.

NATURE OF BUSINESS — About sister.

COMMENTS — When she opened her purse for compact, noticed a wad of folded bills and several pawn tickets. — DS

Mason turned the card face down on the desk and said, “You wanted to see me about your sister, Miss Farr?”

“Yes.”

“Smoke?” Mason asked, raising the cover of his office humidor.

“Thanks. I have my own brand.” She took a new package from her purse, tore open a corner, extracted a cigarette, and leaned forward for his match.

“All right,” Mason said, settling back in his chair. “What about your sister?”

“She’s disappeared.”

“Ever do it before?”

“No.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mae.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“What about the disappearance?”

Sylvia Farr gave a quick, nervous laugh and said, “It’s hard for me when you shoot questions at me. Could I tell you in my own way?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, we live in North Mesa, and—”

“Just where is North Mesa?” Mason interrupted. “I don’t recall the place.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said. “It’s in the northern part of the state, off the main highways. It’s awfully rural. There hasn’t been any building activity for years. We did manage a new post office, but that doesn’t mean anything in particular.”

“So much for North Mesa,” Mason said with a smile. “Now how about Mae?”

“Mae,” she said, “left North Mesa over a year ago. It was the opposite of the conventional, short-story situation. She was the household drudge. I was the— Well, I was considered prettier, not,” she added quickly, with a deprecating smile, “that that means much in North Mesa.

“But you know the conventional setup. I should have been the one to get impatient at the small town stuffiness and head for the big city, try to crash the movies, wind up making a living waiting on tables in a cheap restaurant, then marry a prince charming — or go broke and return home, disillusioned, bitter, and cynical, to find that my homely sister had married the local undertaker, had three children, and was known all over the countryside for her wonderful disposition and fine apple pies.”

Mason’s eyes twinkled. “Mae,” he asked, “didn’t run true to form?”

“I’ll say she didn’t. She got fed up with North Mesa and decided she was going to see the world.”

“Where is she now?”

The laughter faded from Sylvia Farr’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Where was she when you heard from her last?”

“Here.”

“Was she working?”

“She’d had several jobs,” Sylvia Farr said guardedly. “I think she tried to make up for some of the things she had lost in North Mesa. She formed a few friendships and enjoyed them immensely. She became quite a playgirl.”

“Older than you or younger?” Mason asked.

“A year and a half older. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Mason. She knew what she was doing... But what I mean is that her attitude changed. In North Mesa, there was no animation about her. She seldom laughed. She felt she was just marking time there while life was slipping through her fingers, and her actions showed it. After she came to the city, she apparently had an entirely different outlook. Her letters really sparkled. They were quite clever, and... Well, I didn’t dare show all of them to Moms. I remember that Mae said that in the city a girl had to play with fire and that the art of keeping fingers from getting burnt was not to try to control the fire but to control the fingers.”

“When did you hear from her last?”

“A little over two months ago.”

“What was she doing then?”

“She was working as secretary to a man in the stationery business, but she didn’t give me the address of the firm. She was staying at the Pixley Court Apartments, and she seemed to be having a wonderful time.”

“You have a letter?” Mason asked.

“No. I destroyed all of her letters — that is, nearly all of them. She used to write me things in confidence. Occasionally, she’d write a letter for Moms to read, but they were mostly little notes.”

“Did she ever come back to North Mesa after she left?” Mason asked.

“Yes, she was back about six months ago, and I was never so flabbergasted in my life. I’ve never seen such a complete change in any human being. Her complexion was never good, and her hair was inclined to be coarse and dry. Her features aren’t what you’d call beautiful, but, my heavens, to see what she’d done to herself! Her clothes were smart. Her complexion was a lot better. Her eyes danced. She’d been taking care of her hair and her hands, and she was full of wisecracks and all the latest slang. She made us North Mesa girls feel hopelessly out of things.

“You know, Mr. Mason, I’m not the moody type. I take things as they come and live life as I find it, but I never felt as blue as when Mae had left and we settled back into the old rut. Things weren’t so bad while she was there. Just being around her made all of the girls feel sort of urban and sophisticated, but after Mae left, the steam was all out of the boiler, and we couldn’t carry on...”

“I think I understand,” Mason said. “I think we’ve covered the preliminaries fairly well, Miss Farr.”

“Well,” Sylvia Farr went on hastily, “a month or so ago I wrote Sis, and she didn’t answer. Then I sent her another letter about two weeks ago, and the letter was returned with a note from the apartment house saying that she’d moved and had left no forwarding address.”

“She sounds as though she’d developed an ability to take care of herself,” Mason said. “I would hardly think there was any cause for worry.”

“In her last letter,” Sylvia Farr explained, “she mentioned a Mr. Wentworth who had a yacht. I understand he’s a gambler, and rather wealthy. She’d been out on the yacht with him and wound up the letter by saying something like this: ‘Good Heavens, Sis, if you come to the city, lay off of people like Penn Wentworth. What I’ve told you about playing with fire doesn’t fit him. He goes through life taking what he wants, not asking for it. You can’t control either the fingers or the fire with men like that.’”

Mason said, somewhat impatiently, “Your sister isn’t the first girl in the world to find that you can’t make hard and fast rules about playing with fire, as she called it. You don’t need a lawyer, Miss Farr. You need a private detective if you need anyone. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll return to North Mesa and forget all about it. Your sister is able to take care of herself, and the reason she has failed to communicate with you is undoubtedly because she doesn’t want you to know where she is. The police can tell you that this frequently happens. If you want a good detective, the Drake Detective Agency in this same building has several very skilful operatives, and you can absolutely trust the discretion and honesty of Mr. Paul Drake, the head of the agency. He does my work.”