Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lonely Heiress

“No?”

Lieutenant Tragg raised his eyebrows with just the right expression of polite incredulity.

There was an apologetic knock at the door. Tragg frowned, said, “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

The door opened a crack.

“Skip it,” Tragg said over his shoulder. “I’m busy. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

A man’s voice said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I’m a deputy sheriff and these papers have to be served right now.”

“I don’t want to have any... oh, all right, I’ll take them.”

The deputy sheriff walked into the room, holding papers in his hand. He said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. You understand it’s all in the nature of a duty. We have to do it and this lawyer is burning my tail.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Writ of habeas corpus for Marilyn Marlow,” the deputy sheriff said, “ordering that she be brought into court day after tomorrow at two o’clock and in the meantime that, unless there is some charge filed against her, she be released in the sum of twenty-five hundred dollars bail. Perry Mason is downstairs depositing twenty-five hundred dollars in cash with the bail clerk. He’ll be up here with a receipt in a matter of seconds.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Tragg said. “Get out.”

The deputy sheriff left the room, pulled the door shut behind him.

“This isn’t going to get you anywhere,” Tragg said irritably. “These are the tactics lawyers use when they have guilty clients.”

Marilyn Marlow said nothing.

“Now then,” Tragg said, “suppose you tell me a little more about why you really went to see Rose Keeling, and...”

Knuckles sounded on the door and then the door opened and Perry Mason said, “I’m sorry, Tragg. That’s all.”

“You get the hell out of here,” Tragg said. “This is my private office. I...”

“Stay here till you rot!” Mason said. “Come on, Miss Marlow, you’re leaving.”

“The hell she is,” Tragg said.

“The hell she isn’t,” Mason told him. “She’s released on bail on habeas corpus. Here’s the bail receipt and you have a writ of habeas corpus served on you, stating that she is to be released on bail.”

“Unless she’s charged with something,” Tragg said.

“Go ahead and charge her,” Mason said. “Put any charge against her and I’ll have bail.”

“Suppose I charge her with murder?”

“Then I won’t have bail,” Mason said, “because I can’t get it.”

“All right, you crowd my hand and I’ll charge her with murder.”

“Phooey!” Mason said. “If you charge her with murder, then you’ve laid an egg that you can’t hatch.”

Tragg said, “You push me and I will.”

“Go ahead. I’m pushing you. I’m representing Miss Marlow. She’s been released on habeas corpus. She’s going with me. There’s an officer here to see that the court order is carried out. The order specifically states that she is to be released from custody, pending a hearing on the habeas corpus, upon giving bail in the sum of twenty-five hundred dollars. That bail has been put up in cash and I have here a receipt from the bail clerk. Come on, Miss Marlow.”

Marilyn arose from the chair. She thought for a moment that her knees would buckle and she would pitch forward on her face. But she took a deep breath and started walking, expecting every moment to hear a blast from Lieutenant Tragg.

Tragg, however, sat there, stiff in hostile silence, while Mason held out his hand to take her arm. The deputy sheriff took the other arm.

“You’re going to regret this, Mason!” Tragg said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Incidentally, I have some questions to ask you .”

“Come to my office any time,” Mason said.

“I might have you come here.”

“Not without a warrant, Tragg.”

“I might get a warrant.”

“That’s your privilege.”

The door closed. The deputy sheriff said, “Well, I guess that’s all, Mr. Mason.”

“Just see us out of the building, if you will,” Mason said.

He helped Marilyn Marlow down the stairs.

“You’re trembling,” he said.

“I’m a wreck,” she admitted. “I just want to get somewhere where I can cry. I think I’m going to have hysterics.”

“Was it bad?” Mason asked.

“It was terrible.”

Mason shook hands with the deputy sheriff. “Thanks a lot.”

“Okay, Mr. Mason. I was just doing my duty. You had the papers. I was ordered to serve them, and I served them.”

“Thanks again,” Mason said.

She heard the rustle of paper, caught a glimpse of green currency, then Mason was helping her into his automobile and the car was purring away through the city streets.

“What happened?” Mason asked.

“It was terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible...”

She felt her voice rising higher and higher. The word “terrible” was wedged in her mind. Her tongue kept repeating it without any conscious volition on her part.

Mason suddenly slammed the car to a stop. “Forget it!” he said. “Seconds are precious. They may charge you with murder at that. Go ahead and tell me what happened. Start crying after you’ve told me what happened. And save the hysterics until we’re out in the clear.”

There was something in the granite-hard eyes of the lawyer that brought back a measure of her self-control.

She said, “Lieutenant Tragg asked me to come to his office. He asked me to show him some of the jewelry that my mother had been given by George Endicott. Then Lieutenant Tragg suggested very tactfully that I’d better wear as much of it as possible, because if I left the place alone, it just might be that some sneak thief might get in and...”

“Did they photograph you?” Mason asked.

“The police? No.”

“Anyone take pictures?”

“Yes. The newspaper men came in.”

Mason swore under his breath.

“What’s the matter?”

Mason said angrily, “It’s the way the police play ball with the newspapers.”

“What do you mean?”

“A nice bit of publicity for the police,” Mason said. “They got you all dolled up in the jewelry that your mother had received from Endicott. Then the newspaper men are permitted to photograph you. They’ll have pictures all over the morning papers with the caption, ‘Heiress Being Quizzed at Office of Lieutenant Tragg of Homicide Squad, Wears Fortune in Jewelry Mother Received from Dead Benefactor.’ ”

“Oh!” Marilyn said, and the word was an exclamation of dismay.

“Go ahead,” Mason said. “What happened after that?”

“Lieutenant Tragg, it seems, was delayed, and I was sent up to meet Sergeant Holcomb and three or four other officers.”

Mason said, “And then, I suppose Sergeant Holcomb started questioning you.”

“Yes.”

“And,” Mason went on, “they put you in a chair with a bright light beating on your face. They formed a circle around you and a lot of other people came in, and they started yelling at you and throwing questions at you before you had a chance to answer, making all kinds of nasty insinuations and accusations and...”

“Yes,” she said.

“And then Lieutenant Tragg suddenly showed up and was very fatherly and gentlemanly and apologetic and took you into his office, and the relief was so great that you felt he was the most wonderful gentleman.”

“Why, yes! How did you know what happened?”

Mason said, “It’s police routine, just part of the psychological third-degree. One man pounds a witness until she’s almost crazy, gets everything he can out of her, and then when she gets to the point where she won’t talk, a signal is flashed and another man comes in and takes the part of a perfect gentleman and...”