Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Reluctant Model

In these days we hear much of conflicting ideologies. Perhaps, just as we take the air we breathe for granted, many of us fail to realize the advantages we enjoy under the concept of justice which is so much a part of our traditional background.

And so I salute the military code in which ultimate justice takes precedence over technicalities, and I dedicate this book to those men who gave so unselfishly of their time to investigate the case of a penniless Indian.

Erle Stanley Gardner

Perry Mason, opening the door of his private office, grinned at Della Street, his confidential secretary, and said, “All right, so I’m late.”

Della Street, glancing at her wrist watch, smiled indulgently. “Okay, so you’re late! And if you want to sleep late I don’t know anyone who’s more entitled to do so — only I’m afraid we’re going to have to buy a new carpet for the reception room.”

Mason’s eyes were puzzled. “A new carpet?”

“This one’s getting worn out.”

“What do you mean, Della?”

“You have a client who has been waiting since one minute before nine o’clock when Gertie opened up the office. The trouble is he won’t sit still. He’s pacing the office at the rate of five miles an hour, looking at his watch every fifteen or twenty seconds and demanding to know where you are.”

“Who is it?” Mason asked.

“Lattimer Rankin.”

Mason frowned. “Rankin,” he said, “Rankin... Isn’t he the one who has something to do with pictures?”

“The big art dealer,” Della Street said.

“Oh, yes, I place him now,” Mason told her. “He’s the one who testified as to the value of the painting in that civil suit — and he gave us a picture. What the devil did we do with that picture, Della?”

“It’s gathering dust in the storeroom off the law library. That is, it was until five minutes past nine this morning.”

“And then what?” Mason asked.

“Then,” Della Street said, “I got it and hung it just to the right of the door where a client will see it when he sits in the client’s chair.”

Della Street indicated the painting.

“Good girl,” Mason said approvingly. “I wonder if you’ve hung it upside down.”

“It’s all upside down if you ask me,” she said, “but at least we’ve got it there, and there’s a label on the back of the picture that has the name of Lattimer Rankin and the address of his place of business. If the label’s right side up, the picture is right side up.

“So if he looks at you disapprovingly and says, ‘Mr. Mason, you’ve got the picture upside down,’ you can look right back at him and say, ‘Mr. Rankin, you’ve got your label upside down.’ ”

“Fair enough,” Mason said. “Let’s get him off the tenterhooks. Bring him in, Della. I knew I didn’t have any early morning appointments so I was cheating a little bit on office hours.”

“I told him you were on your way,” Della Street said, “that you’d been detained in a traffic jam.”

“How did you know?” Mason asked, grinning.

“Telepathy,” she said.

“Do you plan to read my mind all the time?” he asked.

“I’d be afraid to all the time,” she said archly. “I’ll get Mr. Rankin in before the carpet is entirely threadbare.”

A few moments later Della Street opened the door and Lattimer Rankin, a tall, dark, grim-faced individual, with piercing gray eyes, came striding into the room as though he had been walking in a marathon contest and didn’t want to break his stride. He moved across to Mason’s desk, gripped the lawyer’s hand with his own huge, bony hand, swept the office in a brief survey, said, “I see you’ve hung my picture. A lot of people didn’t appreciate that artist’s work but I’m glad to tell you it’s going across very nicely now. I knew it would. He has power, harmony. — Mason, I want to sue a man for libel and slander.”

“No, you don’t,” Mason said.

Mason’s comment caused Rankin to straighten up. “I think you failed to understand me,” he said with cold emphasis. “I have been slandered. I wish to retain you to file suit immediately. I want to sue Collin M. Durant for half a million dollars.”

“Sit down,” Mason said.

Rankin settled himself in the client’s chair with the stiffness of a carpenter’s rule being folded up. The man seemed absolutely rigid except at the joints.

“I want the suit to get all the publicity we can give it,” he said. “I want to drive Collin M. Durant out of town. The man is incompetent, he’s a four-flusher, a publicity-seeker, an unethical competitor, and he has none of the instincts of a gentleman.”

“You want to sue him for half a million dollars,” Mason said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you want lots of publicity.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want to claim that he damaged your professional reputation.”

“That’s right.”

“To the tune of half a million dollars.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will,” Mason pointed out, “have to specify the manner in which he did this.”

“He did it by intimating that I am incompetent, that my judgment is unsound, that I have victimized one of my customers.”

“And to whom did he make these statements? How many people?” Mason asked.

“I have long suspected that he has made them by innuendo to anyone who would listen, but now I have a very definite witness — a young woman named Maxine Lindsay.”

“And what did he say to Maxine Lindsay?”

“He said that a painting I had sold Otto Olney was a rank imitation and that any art dealer worthy of the name would have recognized it as such as soon as he saw it.”

“He made that statement only to Maxine Lindsay?”

“Yes.”

“In the presence of witnesses?”

“There were no other witnesses except Maxine. Under the circumstances you would hardly have expected any.”

“What circumstances?” Mason asked.

“He was engaged in trying to promote his own stock with the young lady — making a pass, I believe is the popular expression.”

“Has she repeated the statement?” Mason asked. “That is, has she spread it around any?”

“She has not. Maxine Lindsay is an art student. I was able to help her two or three times. I have given her some bargains on painting materials and she is grateful. She came to me at once and told me she thought I should know what Durant was doing. I knew, all right, but this was the first time I had had an opportunity to prove it.”

“All right,” Mason said, “I will now repeat my statement. You don’t want to sue.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” Rankin said with formality. “My credit certainly is good. My checkbook is here. I am prepared to give you a retainer. I want suit filed at once. I want to file suit for half a million dollars. Surely the courts are open to me, and if you don’t wish to take my case—”

“Come on down to earth,” Mason said. “Let’s talk facts.”

“Very well, go ahead and talk facts.”

Mason said, “So far, Maxine Lindsay knows that Collin Durant said you sold Otto Olney a picture which wasn’t genuine... By the way, how much did you get for the picture?”

“Thirty-five hundred dollars.”

“All right,” Mason said, “Maxine Lindsay knows what Durant said. You file suit for half a million dollars. The newspapers publish the story of the suit. Tomorrow morning a million readers will know that an art dealer named Lattimer Rankin has been accused of peddling a phony picture. That’s all they’ll remember.”

“Nonsense!” Rankin stormed. “They will know that I am suing Collin Durant, that at last someone has had the courage to bring that bounder to account.”