Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lonely Heiress

“Now, Mr. Mason. Mr. Mason, please!”

“Please what?”

“I can explain.”

“Well, go ahead and start explaining.”

“It’s something I prefer not to go into here, not at the present time. Not while you’re in your present frame of mind. I... I’d like. to see you later, Mr. Mason, when you’ve had an opportunity to regain your composure and get your office cleaned up. I–I’m sorry this happened, but Dolores will throw inkwells when she gets worked up. Mr. Mason, you didn’t tell her anything about Marilyn Marlow, did you? No, you couldn’t have. You’re a lawyer. You have to preserve the confidences of a client.”

“Certainly,” Mason said.

Caddo’s face showed relief. “I knew I could count on you, Mr. Mason. I’m going to come in and see you in a day or two. You get things straightened out and cleaned up, and we’ll assess the damages and...”

“I didn’t tell her about Marilyn Marlow,” Mason said, “and I didn’t tell her about Rose Keeling. I didn’t need to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that since you had so thoughtfully placed their names and addresses in the little red book you habitually carry in your inside breast pocket, and since your wife had taken possession of that book, she knew...”

Caddo clapped a hand to the breast of his coat, then plunged the other hand down into the pocket. An expression of almost ludicrous panic twisted his features.

“She has that book?”

“She has it,” Mason said.

“Oh, my God!” Caddo said, and, turning on his heel, dashed out of the office.

Gertie, inclined to avoirdupois, good nature, and a highly developed sense of humor, pushed a handkerchief into her mouth, making inarticulate sounds of merriment.

Mason returned to his private office, washed the ink and lipstick from his face, grinned at Della Street and said, “I think now we’re beginning to get even with Mr. Robert Caddo. We don’t have Rose Keeling’s address, do we, Della?”

She shook her head.

“Well, see if we can get Marilyn Marlow on the phone and warn her of what is due to happen.”

Della Street found Marilyn Marlow’s number, called half a dozen times without getting an answer, then finally said, “Here she is on the line, Chief.”

Mason said, “Good morning, Miss Marlow. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”

“What is it?”

Mason said, “It seems that your friend, the responsible business man who has been giving you such fatherly advice in such a disinterested manner, is a married man. His wife apparently is named Dolores and she has a passion for throwing inkwells. Her husband, it seems, has what might be classified as a philandering complex, and the wife has a nasty little habit of throwing tantrums and ink all over the recipients of his affections and...”

“Mr. Mason, are you kidding me?”

“I’m kidding you on the square,” Mason said. “Mrs. Caddo left my office a half or three-quarters of an hour ago and she was very much on the warpath. It seems that your friend, the magazine publisher, had very carelessly made some notes in a leather-backed memo book he carries, jotting down names and addresses, not in alphabetical, but in chronological order. Therefore, when Mrs. Caddo made an informal and surreptitious search, the last names in the book were those of Marilyn Marlow and Rose Keeling, in that order. And I believe your esteemed friend had placed the addresses opposite the names.”

“Good heavens!” Marilyn Marlow said. “She mustn’t, she simply mustn’t call on Rose Keeling. That would be the last straw.”

“When last seen,” Mason said, “she was looking for new worlds to conquer.”

“And Rose Keeling’s name would have been the last in the book,” Marilyn Marlow said in dismay. “That means she’d go to Rose Keeling first.”

Mason said, “I don’t have Rose Keeling’s address or telephone number. I thought perhaps it would be advisable for you to let her know.”

“I can’t do that. I can’t tell her anything like that.”

“Then you’d better get her out of the way for a while,” Mason said.

“I’ll have to do that. I’ll go to her at once and make some excuse to get her out of the way. We’ll play tennis, I guess.”

“By the way,” Mason said, “you never did give me her address. Perhaps I should have it, since I’m going to be involved in this, both directly and indirectly. I’ve decided to represent you, since you manage to stir up such pleasant asides to vary the routine of a law practice that might otherwise become monotonous.”

“You mean you’ll help me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s fine! I’m so glad.”

“When things quiet down a bit to the point of stability on the domestic front,” Mason said, “I’m going out to see Rose Keeling and have a heart-to-heart talk with her. If she’s attempting to sell her testimony to the highest bidder, I may dampen her enthusiasm for a sell-out. What’s her address?”

“2240 Nantucket Drive. The telephone is Westland 6-3928.”

“Will you telephone her about Mrs. Caddo?”

“I–I think I’d better run over there, Mr. Mason. I’ll invite her to run out for some tennis.”

“You may not have time,” Perry Mason said; “better telephone her to meet you some place.”

“I’ll... all right, I’ll work out something. Thanks for calling, Mr. Mason.”

“Remember,” Mason said, “that there’s a certain method in Mrs. Caddo’s madness. It’s not merely the indignation of an outraged wife; it’s a method she uses. Her system is to make such a terrific scene every time she catches her husband in a philandering expedition that...”

“But this wasn’t philandering.”

“I think that Mrs. Caddo resorts to disciplinary measures purely for the purpose of keeping her husband in line,” Mason said. “It isn’t so much what he has done, as it is a means of keeping his feet on the straight and narrow path in the future.”

“All right, I’ll get in touch with Rose. Thanks for calling, Mr. Mason. Of all the goofy women! Why in the world did I ever let that man Caddo horn in on my business?”

“I’ve wondered that, myself,” Mason said. “And you will doubtless have occasion to ask yourself the question again and again in the near future. Good-by, Miss Marlow.”

“Good-by,” she said, and slammed up the telephone.

Mason glanced at his watch, then frowned. “The trouble with these divertissements,” he said to Della Street, “is that they are so fascinating they take my mind off the other problems that should be uppermost. What about that brief in the Miller case, Della?”

“I have the citations you gave me all arranged in order, and the points you wanted to raise all blocked out.”

“All right,” Mason said, “I’ll take a look at it.”

For a half hour he busied himself with the brief, then, abruptly pushing his swivel chair away from the desk, said irritably, “I can’t get that woman out of my mind.”

“Marilyn Marlow?” Della Street asked.

Mason shook his head. “Not Marilyn Marlow, Della, Dolores Caddo. There’s a lusty, two-fisted woman for you. She’s teamed up with a heel but she doesn’t intend to have anyone impair the value of her investment in him. She has her own unique methods — and there’s something about her that impresses one.”

“She certainly leaves her mark wherever she goes,” Della Street said.

“Yes. With an inkwell,” Mason commented dryly. “Let’s give Rose Keeling a ring and get acquainted with her over the telephone. Tell you what you do, Della, ring her phone and ask if Marilyn Marlow is there. You can do the talking. Don’t say who you are — simply that you’re a friend of Marilyn’s.”