Эрл Гарднер - Case of the Cautious Coquette

“Oh, I just wanted Mr. Mason to know what you’re doing, how successful you’ve been with inventions. And I wanted you to understand the relationship, Mr. Mason. I’ve invested a little money in financing him, and I work with him from two to five, doing his typing and things like that. Not that I’m too hot as a typist, but I can get by. And Arthur couldn’t trust any regular stenographer with the things he’s doing. He’s so ingenious! This new invention is...”

“We haven’t translated that invention into money yet,” Colson warned. “It’s better not to discuss these things.”

Mason said, “I don’t want to pry into your business, Mr. Colson, but I am interested in knowing what happened on the afternoon of third. Now, as I understand it, you went to a cocktail lounge.”

“That’s right.”

“And how long were you there?”

“Oh, I’d say an hour or so. We sat and drank cocktails and talked about the picture.”

“And then we went to Murphy’s for dinner,” Lucille supplemented.

“And then?” Mason asked.

“Then we went home and — well, Arthur stopped up at the apartment for a drink or two — and we sat and talked some more.”

“Until how late?” Mason asked.

They exchanged glances. Neither answered the question.

Mason raised inquiring eyebrows.

Both suddenly answered the question at the same time.

“Eleven o’clock,” Lucille Barton said positively.

“Half past twelve,” Colson said, the two answers being almost simultaneous.

Lucille recovered her composure first. “What am I thinking about?” she said. “Of course, it was the week before that you had to leave early. It must have been just about half past twelve... You see, Mr. Mason, Arthur takes one day a week off. The rest of the time he limits himself to a rigid schedule.”

Mason said, “I’m very sorry to inconvenience you people, but this is very, very important. Would you mind dictating to my secretary a statement covering what you have just told me, and then waiting until she’s typed it, and after that affix your signatures?”

“But, Mr. Mason,” Lucille Barton protested, “if we weren’t there, what difference does it make if...”

“It’s a matter of form,” Mason interrupted. “Of course you don’t have to do it. If you have any objection...”

“Not at all,” Arthur Colson said. “We’ll be glad to. In fact, Mr. Mason, there’s a book I’ve been trying to get hold of, one which you probably have available here in your law library. I could be reading while your secretary is typing.”

“What’s the book?” Mason asked.

“Wellman, on the art of cross-examination.”

“Indeed, yes,” Mason said. “You may wait in the law library. How about you, Miss Barton?”

She surrendered reluctantly. “Very well, if Arthur wants to, I will. You might give me some of those magazines from the table in the outer office to look at while Arthur’s reading. How long will it take?”

Mason said, “I suppose about half an hour. It should take you about ten minutes to dictate a complete statement, and then about twenty minutes for Miss Street to have it typed and ready for your signature. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment which I simply must keep. I’m very pleased I met you, and I’m certainly sorry if I am causing you any trouble.”

“Not at all,” Colson said. “There’s something in that book I wanted to look up. Ill be very happy. After we’ve dictated the statement I take it that we may wait...”

“In the law library,” Mason interrupted. “Della, you’ll be as quick as you can, won’t you?”

She caught and held his eyes. Her own eyes were apprehensive.

“Yes,” she said.

Mason stopped his car in front of the apartment house on South Gondola Avenue. A near-by cigar stand gave him access to a public phone.

Mason dropped a nickel and dialed the number of his office.

He heard Gertie’s voice saying, “Hello, Mr. Mason’s office,” and said, “This is Mr. Mason. Go into my private office, tell Della Street she’s wanted for a moment and then put her on a phone where no one can hear her talk. Get it?”

“Just a minute,” Gertie said. “I’ll have you connected.”

A moment later Mason heard Della Street’s voice. “Okay,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“How’s everything coming?” Mason asked.

“Okay.”

“Are they getting impatient?”

“Not particularly. How much more time do you need?”

“I’d say ten minutes,” Mason said.

“I think I can safely promise you fifteen from here.”

“Okay,” Mason told her. “I just wanted to know the coast was clear.”

“Be careful,” she warned.

“I can’t. I’m going to have to break an egg to make an omelet,” Mason told her, and hung up.

He crossed the street, entered the apartment house, using the key he had received earlier in the day. This time he didn’t bother with the elevator but climbed the stairs and walked rapidly to “208.”

Mason took the precaution of sounding the buzzer some two or three times to make certain there was no one in the apartment. Then he tried the key. The lock clicked back.

Mason entered the apartment and closed the door behind him.

The place had been made tidy. The ash trays had been cleaned and polished. The bed was made. Dishes had been cleaned up in the kitchen and the sink was spotlessly white.

Mason called out, “Hello. Anyone home?”

His voice echoed back from the empty apartment.

The lawyer took the desk key from his pocket, crossed to the desk and fitted the key to the lock. He twisted his wrist and the bolt clicked back.

Mason lowered the lid of the writing desk.

The interior was a miscellaneous assortment of confusion. There were letters lying about in the lower partitions. The upper pigeonholes were crammed with canceled checks, bank statements, more correspondence and memos.

The upper right-hand corner pigeonhole contained a small leather-covered notebook and a revolver.

Mason thumbed through the notebook. On the next to the last page on which there was writing, the lawyer found the figure of a license number, apparently hastily scrawled in pencil.

For the rest, the various notations were models of neatness — names, dates, telephone numbers, and mysterious figures evidently relating to some form of cash accounting in a code which Mason had neither the time nor the inclination to figure out.

Swiftly he copied the license number from the book, started to replace the book, then on impulse decided to take a look at the revolver.

Using a handkerchief over his fingertips so that he would leave no prints on the gun, Mason eased it out of the receptacle.

It was, he noted, a businesslike Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver. On the tang across the handle appeared the number “S65088.”

Mason made a note of the number on the revolver, then replaced it, gently closed the desk, twisted the key in the lock, put the key back in his pocket and, using his handkerchief so that he would leave no fingerprints on the knob of the door, opened the apartment door.

The lawyer took the stairs, two at a time, hurried across to his automobile, jumped in, and drove rapidly away.

He drove half a dozen blocks before he stopped in front of a drugstore, entered a telephone booth, dropped a coin and dialed his office.

“Hello. Gertie,” he said, when he heard her voice on the line. “Get Della Street to come to the phone. Don’t ring her telephone. Get her...”

“I understand,” Gertie interrupted. “Just a minute.”

A few moments later, Mason heard Della Street’s anxious voice. “Hello, chief.”