Erle Gardner: The Case of the Borrowed Brunette

Mason’s nod was not one of agreement, but much the gesture of a man who doesn’t want to waste time in profitless argument and so yields the point, leaving his mind free to concentrate.

Adelle Winters was going on. “I’m not so dumb — I wasn’t born yesterday. That man has a key to the apartment, and he has the run of the whole place. He knows where everything in it is, right down to the smallest pair of silk panties. He knows his way around the apartment like nobody’s business. I tell you he’s lived there! He’s got rid of this Reedley woman and needs time to dispose of the body and build up his scheme. That’s why he’s got us there — so that he can get out from under.”

“Of course,” Mason pointed out, frowning, “there are some points that don’t check with that theory. In the first place, why would he leave so much evidence around? He could be traced through that ad looking for a brunette actress. In the second place, the story that you and Eva Martell would be able to tell would absolutely convict him. If he’s gone that far, then he must intend to see that something happens to you — to both of you — just as soon as you’ve given him the alibi or whatever it is he wants. It would seem to be that he’d be more apt to be planning to kill her, and then to give himself an alibi by showing she was in her apartment at the very time police claim he was doing the killing... But how would he show that?”

“You listen to me, young man! You can bet your bottom dollar there’s a murder wrapped up in this. Why, even her purse is there!”

Mason raised skeptical eyebrows. “Probably an old purse she’s stopped using and—”

“No such thing. It’s her purse, her very own purse!”

“How do you know?”

“Why, it’s got her things in it.”

“What things?”

“Lipstick, compact, handkerchief, visiting cards, a coin purse with three dollars in silver and thirty-two dollars in currency, a pair of dark kid gloves, and a leather key-container with half a dozen keys in it.”

“Keys to the apartment?” Mason asked.

“One of them is.”

“What are the others to?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do they look like?”

“I don’t think they’re safety-deposit keys, if that’s what you mean. They look just like ordinary door keys. Not the old-fashioned kind, but the kind with the indentations that slips right into the lock and then turns.”

“Social Security number?” Mason asked.

“No. No Social Security card.”

“Driver’s license?”

“No. No driver’s license.”

“That purse sounds like a plant to me, Mrs. Winters.”

“Well, it could be, but I don’t think it is. I tell you, that Reedley woman has been murdered. I know it just as well as I know I’m sitting here. You surely must have heard of feminine intuition?”

“I have,” Mason replied with a grin, “but the police haven’t!”

“Well, I’ve had that feeling ever since I walked into the apartment. It’s a murder apartment, and Eva Martell and I are acting as cover-ups for a murder. Now, you’re a lawyer and you’re responsible. If you tell me that what we’re doing isn’t illegal and that we’re to go right ahead with it, why, then, young man, you can assume the responsibility—”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mason laughed. “In the first place, you’re approaching me simply because I talked with Cora Felton on the street. You haven’t any money to pay lawyers and don’t intend to pay me. I’m not a public official. If you want to be sure that you’re in the clear, my advice to you is to go to the police.”

She snorted again. “I’d cut a pretty figure going to the police and trying to tell them about my suspicions. I don’t know what a lawyer’s for if it isn’t to advise people.”

Della Street’s telephone rang. She glanced questioningly at Mason, and, at his nod, picked up the receiver. “Yes, this is Mr. Mason’s confidential secretary talking... Who?... Oh, yes... How are you this morning?... Why, yes... Well, nothing definite yet... Just hold the line, please.”

Della placed the receiver on the desk, drew a memorandum pad to her, and wrote on it: “Cora Felton is on the line. She seems very much worked up and would like to have you talk with her. She knows that Mrs. Winters is here.”

She passed the message across the desk to Mason. He read it, nodded to her, picked up his own telephone, and said, “Gertie, connect me with that call on Della’s desk... Hello.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Mason.” Cora Felton’s voice was apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you. I suppose this is a pretty small matter for a man of your standing, but since you already know about the case and have had a sort of unofficial connection with it, I thought... Well, Mr. Mason, I don’t know how much we are going to make out of it — how much Eva is going to, I mean — but would it cost an awful lot to have you investigate it, at least to the point of making sure that Eva is not doing anything illegal?”

“I presume that could be arranged,” Mason replied, “as far as the financial details are concerned.”

“Oh, Mr. Mason, I’d be so relieved if you would take an interest in it. I have a great deal of confidence in Aunt Adelle’s ability to take care of herself, but I think that the situation may be sufficiently out of the usual so that perhaps the police should be notified. Though I don’t want to do that except as a last resort. Could you look into it at least enough to decide whether the police ought to be notified? And about how much would that cost?”

“The charge will be nominal,” Mason said. “Am I at liberty to tell the party you mention about this call?”

“You mean Aunt Adelle?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I wish you would, Mr. Mason. She’s worried and—”

“It’s all right,” Mason said. “I’ll explain the situation to her. If you’ll give me your number, I’ll call back and let you know.”

Mason scribbled the number on a pad, hung up the telephone, and turned to Adelle Winters. “That was Cora Felton on the line. She has asked me to make an investigation. Well, I’ll have to talk with this man Hines. Now follow my instructions very carefully. Go back to the apartment. Don’t tell Hines you have been here — let him think that you went right home in the taxi. Is it waiting down on the street, or did you discharge it?”

“No, it’s waiting. You see, I thought perhaps Mr. Hines might be there by the time I arrived, and if he saw me show up with another cab driver... ”

“Good!” Mason commented. “Now you go on back there. Go up to the apartment. Start living just the same as usual. In about an hour I’ll telephone. I’ll tell you that I’m Perry Mason, the attorney, and that I want to talk with Miss Reedley. I’ll say that I’m coming out in fifteen minutes to see Miss Reedley, that I won’t take no for an answer, and that if I don’t see her I’ll call the police. You can then ring up Hines at the number he gave you and tell him of the conversation and ask him what you are to do about it. You won’t let on you know me or that you have any idea why I’m calling.”

“You think Mr. Hines will be there when you arrive?” she asked.

“He’ll either be there,” Mason said, “or he’ll be hightailing it out of the country, depending on what sort of flimflam he’s working.”

“Well,” she said, “ that’s a load off my mind. I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Mason, that it takes a good deal to get me worried. I’ve been in some pretty tight spots. But there’s something about this — that sinister feeling in the place... You just feel as though somebody had been killed in there. It gives you the creeps... ”