Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lonely Heiress

“Well,” Mason said. “I rang the bell and then I thought I heard a buzzer. I can’t be absolutely certain of it. I pressed against the door, and the door opened, so I naturally assumed my ring had been answered.”

“You don’t know whether the door was ajar or not?”

“I acted rather mechanically. I heard what I thought was a buzzer, and pushed the door.”

“You don’t think it was a buzzer now?”

Mason said, “A dead woman can hardly push a buzzer button.”

“That’s right,” Tragg said, and then added after a moment, “You had Della Street with you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, Mason, you wouldn’t want to suppress any evidence.”

“What do you mean — evidence?”

“Just what I said.”

“I take it,” Mason said, “that you are referring to evidence concerning the murder. As far as any other evidence is concerned, I not only have a right to suppress it, but it becomes my duty to do so.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I’m supposed to protect the interests of my clients. I’m supposed to keep their confidences.”

“Their confidences, yes, but that doesn’t mean you can suppress any evidence.”

“I can suppress evidence of anything I damn please,” Mason said, “just so it isn’t evidence that points to a crime.”

“There might be a difference of opinion,” Tragg said, “as to what evidence points to a crime and what doesn’t.”

“Perhaps.”

“I wouldn’t want you to think you had the final decision in that matter.”

“You think I’m holding something back?”

Tragg said, “I’m interested in how you got in, that’s all.”

“I told you.”

“Obviously, you must have been mistaken when you say you thought you heard the buzzer.”

“That, of course, is a logical conclusion.”

“Do you know of any motive for the murder?” Tragg asked.

“I had never even met the woman.”

“Nurse, wasn’t she?”

“So I understand.”

Tragg said, “Well, sit down here, Mason. I’ll be finished with you in a few minutes. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve checked up on some stuff in here.”

Mason sat down in a chair in the living room and Tragg went back to the bedroom. Mason, from time to time, saw brief white flashes of light in the hall as the photographer in the bedroom shot off flash bulbs. The lawyer impatiently looked at his watch, nervously pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket, snapped it open, struck a match and started smoking.

The officer who was standing in the doorway on guard said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Mason, you can put that burnt match in your pocket. It might be confusing if you dropped it in an ashtray.”

Mason nodded, and pushed the burnt match down into his pocket.

The door from the south bedroom opened, and Tragg said, “All right, Mason, I don’t think there’s any need to detain you any longer. You have your car here?”

“Yes,” Mason said.

“We’ve got nothing more to ask you right at the present time. You can’t remember anything else?”

“I think I’ve told you all I can,” Mason said.

“Okay,” Tragg said breezily, “on your way,” and to the officer at the door, “Let Mr. Mason out.”

Mason said good afternoon to Tragg, walked past the officer, down the stairs, walked a half block to where he had parked his car, got in and drove until he saw a sign announcing a telephone pay station.

Mason dropped a coin, dialed his office, and in a matter of seconds had Gertie on the line.

“Quick, Gertie,” Mason said, “I want to get the address of Ethel Furlong, the other witness to that will, and...”

Gertie’s voice was sharp with excitement. “Della Street’s already got it. She went tearing out there in a taxi. It’s way out on South Montet Avenue — number 6920.”

“Thanks,” Mason said. “Don’t let anyone know where I am. In case the police should telephone, simply tell them I haven’t showed up at the office yet but that you’re expecting me. You say Della went out in a taxi?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago did she leave?”

“About three or four minutes ago. The police brought her to the office. She said they certainly gave her one wild ride. That big cop goes like mad, and, of course, with the siren...”

“I understand,” Mason said, “I presume I can get there about as soon as she does.”

“Mr. Mason, can you tell me what’s happened? Della Street was in too much of a hurry...”

“I am, too,” Mason said. “It’ll keep. Just close up the office at five, Gertie, and go on home.”

“Aw gee, Mr. Mason, I’d like to stay if there’s anything I can do.”

“I don’t think there is. I’ll phone you if I need you. Good-by.”

Mason jumped in his car and made time out to the cross-town boulevard. It was a twenty-minute drive to where South Montet Avenue crossed the boulevard in the fifty-two-hundred block.

Mason turned right, and had only gone two blocks when he overtook the taxicab in which Della Street was riding.

Mason drew alongside and pressed the button of his horn.

Della looked up, first with apprehension, then with glad surprise. She tapped on the glass, signaling the driver to stop.

When the driver had brought his cab to a stop, Della Street paid him off and climbed in with Mason.

“How did you do?” Mason asked her.

“Swell, but my gosh, I had a wild ride up to the office!”

“The cop try to pump you?”

“No.”

“Not a word?”

“No.”

“Try to date you?”

“No.”

Mason said, “There’s something funny about that chap, but I don’t know what it is. Now let’s go to see what Ethel Furlong has to say.”

They found the number to be an apartment house on the west side of the street. Della Street ran her hand down the list of cards and said, “Here she is — apartment 926.”

She pressed the bell repeatedly.

There was no answer.

Mason frowned. “Just our luck not to have her home, Della. Press one of the other buttons. We’ll see if we can’t get someone to let us in.”

Della Street pressed two or three buttons at random, and, after a moment, someone buzzed the catch on the outer door.

Della Street and Mason entered the building and took the elevator to the ninth floor.

As they approached the door of 926, Della Street said, “There’s an envelope pinned to the door.”

“Probably a note saying when she’ll be back,” Mason said.

They walked rapidly down the corridor. Della Street, in the lead, said, “It’s an envelope addressed to you, Chief.”

Mason said incredulously, “It has my name on it?”

“That’s right.”

Della Street handed him the envelope, which had on the outside the words, “Mr. Perry Mason,” written in the even, regular strokes of a literate hand.

Mason pulled back the flap on the envelope. “Still damp,” he said. “It was sealed only a minute or two ago.”

He unfolded the note, read the message and then suddenly broke into laughter.

“What is it?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “I’ll read it to you:

“Dear Mr. Mason:

“ ‘Thanks very much for the tip which enabled us to get Ethel Furlong’s story before you had a chance to foul it up for us. Tragg had called the office of the Probate Clerk and had her name and address. Thanks to your erudite conversation with the estimable Miss Street, I was able to anticipate your plans. You may be interested to know that I had high marks in forensic debate and was on the college debating team which won the 1929 conference championship. My physiognomy became badly marred because of a mistaken impression that I was possessed of the necessary pugilistic ability to carve a career for myself in that profession. Don’t worry about Ethel Furlong. She’s in nice safe hands, and by the time we get done with her, we’ll have her story all down in black and white, with her signature at the end of it. After that, it won’t do much good to have you try to change it. Best wishes.