Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lonely Heiress

“Do you know the time of death, Mason?” Niles asked.

Mason said, “I think it was around eleven-forty.”

“Well, we’ll find out from the police,” Niles said.

Palmer Endicott, sipping his drink, slowly nodded.

Mason said, “I notice on this check that when Rose Keeling signs her name, she uses a very soft pen. She writes with a vertical hand and there is a good deal of shading on the strokes.”

Niles nodded. “I’d noticed that.”

“But on this carbon copy of the letter, there is none of that.”

“Naturally not,” Lorraine Parsons said. “That was written with an entirely different pen. Kindly don’t try to confuse the issues, Mr. Mason.”

Mason smiled affably. “That’s the very point I was getting at, Mrs. Parsons. This note must have been written with a ballpoint fountain pen. Otherwise so clear a carbon copy would have been impossible.”

Mrs. Parsons said acidly, “That is the same handwriting, absolutely the same vertical penmanship as the signature on the check which the bank has certified.”

Mason grinned. “Don’t misunderstand me. I was merely raising a point.”

Ralph Endicott turned to Niles. “Well, what do you think of it?” he asked the lawyer.

Niles said, “I think you have been more than frank with Mr. Mason. I think you have gone out of your way to tell him things that you certainly did not need to tell him.”

“I want him to get the whole picture,” Ralph said.

“He certainly should have it now.”

Mason pushed back his chair. “I think I have it. Thank you.”

Niles shook hands. Palmer Endicott came around the table to shake hands. Lorraine Parsons bowed a cold good night, and Ralph Endicott merely bowed without offering to shake hands.

Mason left the place, got in his automobile, drove to the first pay-station he could find and called police headquarters.

Lieutenant Tragg was out.

“I want to leave a message for him,” Mason said.

“Okay, we’ll take it.”

“Can you get him on the phone?”

“I think so. We can put out a radio call for him. What’s on your mind?”

Mason said, “Tell him that Ralph Endicott presented a check to be certified at the Central Security Bank shortly after ten o’clock today. The check was dated today, was payable to him, and had been signed by Rose Keeling. Is that important?”

“If that’s true,” the voice at the other end of the line said, “it’s important as hell.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “it’s true.”

He hung up and dialed the number of Marilyn Marlow.

After a moment or two she came to the phone.

“Are you alone?” Mason asked.

“No.”

“Boy friend?”

“No.”

“Girl friend?”

“No.”

“Police?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “The wind’s going to blow! Within the next hour they’ll have a carbon copy of the letter you destroyed. Don’t deny you received it; say it made you so mad you...”

Mason heard a peculiar sound at the other end of the line, then a suppressed exclamation.

The lawyer hesitated a moment, then went on talking casually, “I think the murder case is as good as solved. I find that Ralph Endicott presented a check for certification shortly after ten o’clock. The check was dated today and was signed by Rose Keeling. That should put him in the position of being the last one to see Rose Keeling alive. My advice to you is to cooperate in every way you can with the police, and tell them everything, because I think the murder will be cleared up in a few hours.”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“Are you there?” Mason asked.

Lieutenant Tragg’s voice, coming over the wire, said, “Well, thank you very much, Counselor, for your advice. I thought perhaps I’d better see what was going on when Miss Marlow had such an attack of monosyllables. I just thought it might be you asking questions.”

“What the devil are you doing there?” Mason asked.

“Following my profession,” Tragg said.

“Well,” Mason told him, “that’s what I’m doing.”

“So it would seem.”

“You sound disappointed,” Mason said.

“Not disappointed. Only startled. It’s such a strange sensation to listen in on a conversation you’re having with a client and hear you suggest that the client should cooperate with the police.”

“Oh, I always do that,” Mason said breezily. “It’s not often that you hear me, that’s all. Have you been in touch with Headquarters lately?”

“Why?”

“I rang up and left a tip for you.”

“The hell you did!”

“That’s right. About this check.”

“Is that on the square?”

“Sure it is. Hang up and Headquarters will be calling you.”

Tragg said, “And just in case this is a grandstand, Mason, and you intend to call Headquarters as soon as I’ve hung up, I’ll dial Headquarters right from here and get them on the line and find out if the information is already in there.”

“It will be,” Mason said. “But what are you doing with Miss Marlow?”

“Questioning her.”

“Well, she’ll give you the answers,” Mason said.

“Yes,” Tragg commented dryly, “I had just about come to the conclusion that she knew all the answers. Remember now, don’t try to call Headquarters, because I’m going to beat you to it.”

And Tragg hung up.

Mason dialed his office. Gertie answered the phone.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Running a night shift?”

“Miss Street said things might be moving rather fast tonight, so we thought we’d wait around. She brought in some hot dogs and coffee and we’re just sitting here talking.”

“Della’s there?”

“Right here.”

“Put her on.”

Della Street came on the phone, said, “Yes, Chief.”

“Thank heavens you’re there!” Mason told her. “We’ve got to work fast. Get out your form book. Make an application for a writ of habeas corpus for Marilyn Marlow, state that she is being detained by the police without any charge whatever having been placed against her, that her detention is, therefore, unlawful and illegal. Then make out a writ of habeas corpus for a judge to sign and be sure that the writ provides that she can be admitted to bail, pending the hearing on the writ. Have you got that?”

“Okay, Chief. Gertie and I will hammer it out right away.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “We haven’t a second to waste.”

“The police have taken Marilyn Marlow?”

“They are going to,” Mason said.

“And then what?”

“Then,” he said, “we run up against a very ticklish, very delicate and personal problem. Ralph Endicott has a carbon copy of a letter which he claims Rose Keeling sent Marilyn Marlow yesterday.”

“Oh, oh!” Della exclaimed in dismay.

“Exactly,” Mason told her, and hung up.

Marilyn Marlow sat under the glare of a pitiless light which threw every fleeting expression on her face into sharp visibility.

The detectives and officers who sat in a circle around her were vague, indistinct, shadowy objects back of the glare of this light.

“Can’t you get that light out of my eyes?” she asked.

“What’s the matter?” Sergeant Holcomb’s sneering voice asked. “Are you afraid to let us see into your eyes?”

“I’m not afraid to let you see into my very mind,” she said indignantly, “but that thing gives me a headache. It’s wearing me out. The glare is like driving at night when you’re tired and meeting an endless string of headlights.”

“Come, come,” Sergeant Holcomb said, “let’s not talk about the light. Let’s talk about the case. The quicker you tell us about that, the quicker the light will go off.”