Erle Gardner - The Case of the Borrowed Brunette

“I’m going to ask questions.”

“Suppose he doesn’t answer them?”

“Then I’ll have to guess at the answers from his manner and the way he handles himself.”

“And that may be hard,” Drake pointed out.

“It may be impossible,” Mason conceded, “but in any event we’ll have made a try... Any idea what time the guy was murdered, Paul?”

“Apparently early in the afternoon. But you know how the police are, Perry. They aren’t putting out too much along that line right now. They’ll have the autopsy surgeons making examinations, but they won’t stick their necks out with the answer until after they’ve found a suspect who fits into that particular schedule pretty accurately. You know how it is. The same way the police give out that someone has made a ‘tentative identification’ of a suspect — which means that they haven’t a case, but aren’t burning any bridges in case they can’t find a better bet.”

Mason nodded.

Drake piloted the car around a corner and found a parking place. “Looks like the only parking place in the block,” he said. “The apartment we want is that swanky one down there about half a block.”

He locked the car and put the keys in his pocket, and he and Mason walked down the sidewalk, past expensive residences, and turned in at the rather ornate front of a high-class apartment house.

The lobby had that subdued, deep-carpeted hush so frequently associated with the outward semblance of ultra-respectability. A quiet-voiced clerk on duty at the desk inquired the name of the tenant they wished to see.

“Orville Reedley,” Mason replied.

“Is he expecting you?”

“Probably not. The name is Mason.”

“Yes, sir — and the other gentleman’s name?”

“Drake,” Mason said. “Tell him I’m a lawyer.”

“Oh, you’re Perry Mason!”

“That’s right.”

“Yes, Mr. Mason, just a moment.”

The clerk scribbled a note, pushed it through the wicket to the telephone operator, waited a few seconds, then turned and nodded to Mason. “Mr. Reedley will see you,” he said. “The boy in the elevator will direct you to his apartment.”

Mason and Drake entered the elevator. The boy took them to the fifth floor. “It’s Apartment 5-B,” he said, “the third door down on the left.”

Here again in the corridor was an atmosphere of quiet seclusion. Drake turned to Mason with a grin. “It stinks of dough,” he said.

Mason nodded as he pressed the mother-of-pearl button at Apartment 5-B.

The man who opened the door answered the description that had been given to Drake’s operative. But, dominating the physical characteristics of age, height, weight, and complexion which would have appealed to a professional detective, was the surging, dynamic power emanating from the man even as he stood there on the threshold.

Hot, smoldering eyes regarded his two visitors. “Which one of you is Mason?”

“I am,” Mason said stepping forward and extending his hand.

Reedley hesitated a moment, took the hand, but turned almost at once to Drake. “Who’s the other one?”

“Paul Drake.”

“What does he do?”

“He assists me in some of my cases.”

“Lawyer?”

“No.”

“What?”

“Detective.”

Reedley thought that over, his eyes moving from one to the other. Abruptly he stepped back in the doorway and said, “Come in.”

Mason and Paul Drake crossed the threshold. Reedley’s powerful shoulders swung in a smooth pivot, pushing the door shut.

“Sit down.”

Mason and Drake found comfortable chairs in a living room whose Venetian blinds, Oriental rugs, and comfortable, well-chosen chairs bespoke taste and wealth.

“Well,” Reedley said, “what’s it all about?”

“Your wife’s living here in town?” Mason asked.

“What business is it of yours?”

“Frankly,” Mason said, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It may be important in a case I am handling.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“That’s right.”

“You have clients?”

“Exactly.”

“They pay you?”

“Yes.”

“You represent their interests?”

“Right.”

“And only their interests?”

“Naturally.”

“I am not your client. Somebody else is. Therefore you’re representing somebody else. Those interests may be adverse to mine. If they are, you’re my enemy. Why the hell should I answer your questions?”

“Any reason why you shouldn’t?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could any circumstances exist that would give you any possible reason for not telling me about where your wife is living now?”

“I don’t even know that. Why should I tell you about it?”

Mason said, “I’ll put it this way. Certain circumstances have caused me to take an interest in a Helen Reedley who is living at the Siglet Manor Apartments on Eighth Street. I’m wondering whether she is your wife?”

“Why?”

“I’m trying to find out something about her background.”

“ What about her background?”

“Oh, who her friends are, for instance.”

“Found out anything?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will?”

“I may.”

“I might be interested in that.”

“Then she is your wife?”

“Yes.”

“You’re separated?”

“Obviously.”

“How long have you been separated?”

“Six months.”

“You haven’t filed suit for divorce?”

“No.”

“She hasn’t?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Does she intend to?”

“Ask her.”

“Any chance of a reconciliation?”

“That also is none of your business.”

“You’re not being very cooperative.”

“Because I don’t propose to show ray hand without finding out what kind of game you want to play. What’s the object of this visit? What are you after?”

“You’ve been in communication with her recently?”

“No.”

“May I ask when was the last time you talked with her personally?”

“It was about three months ago. I’m telling you certain things that you can find out from other sources, Mason, but I certainly don’t intend to let you pump me for information, get up and say ‘Thank you,’ and walk out.”

“Of course,” Mason said, “you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“An obvious fact,” Reedley said dryly. “What’s the occasion of your interest in my wife?”

“Not so much in your wife as in her apartment.”

“What about her apartment?”

“A man was murdered there this afternoon.”

“Who?”

“A man by the name of Robert Hines.”

“You defend people who are accused of murder?”

“Sometimes.”

“I take it you’re defending someone in this case?”

“No one has been accused, so far as I know.”

“Someone who might be accused, then?”

Mason smiled. “Any person might be accused of murder. Records show that many innocent persons have been so accused.”

“You’re swapping words with me.”

“You’ve been swapping words with me,” Mason said. “When you get the best of the trade you seem to think that’s perfectly fair. When you break even, you crab about it.”

Reedley frowned.

“The murder,” Mason went on, “doesn’t seem to be a surprise to you.”

“It’s not always easy to tell when I’m surprised and when I’m not.”

“I said it didn’t seem to be a surprise to you.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Frankly, I wanted some information about your wife.”