Эрл Гарднер: The Case of the Lonely Heiress

Perry Mason — crack criminal lawyer, whose methods of solving cases might be termed “a little unorthodox”

Della Street — Mason’s Gal Friday — and all the other days of the week

Robert Caddo — publisher of “Lonely Hearts Are Calling” — self-styled psychologist who capitalizes on the diffidence of friendless people

Paul Drake — head of Drake Detective Agency — long-time, long-suffering friend of Perry Mason

Marilyn Marlow — an heiress with no flair for it — her ad in Caddo’s magazine brings some startling results

Rose Keeling — the nurses who witnessed the signing of the late George Endicott’s will

Ethel Furlong — the nurses who witnessed the signing of the late George Endicott’s will

Kenneth Barstow — one of Drake’s most attractive operatives — especially adept at portraying young men fresh from the farm

Dolores Caddo — Robert Caddo’s outraged wife, who vents her wrath on the other woman in her husband’s life

Lieutenant Tragg — of Homicide — who has devised new and ingenious methods of producing mental anguish

Ralph Endicott — brother of the late George P. Endicott — his thumbprint stars in a major role

Palmer Endicott — who seems unduly suspicious of brother Ralph

Lorraine Endicott Parsons — frosty sister, full of family feelings (including avarice) and fear of publicity

Paddington C. Niles — the Endicotts’ lawyer, eager to help his clients contest their brother’s will and dismayed to find them way ahead of him

Sergeant Holcomb — of the police — suspects find it a sheer delight to have nothing whatever to do with him

Deputy District Attorney Hanover — skillful prosecutor, and more than a match for Mason

Perry Mason extended his hand for the oblong business card which Della Street was carrying as she entered the lawyer’s private office.

“Who is it, Della?”

“Robert Caddo.”

Perry Mason studied the card, then smiled. “Lonely Lovers Publications, Inc.” he read. “And what seem to be Mr. Caddo’s troubles, Della?”

She said laughingly: “They are what he described as ‘complications’ arising from an ad which he has been running.”

She handed Mason a copy of a cheaply printed magazine entitled Lonely Hearts Are Calling.

“It looks like a cheap edition of a mail-order catalogue,” Mason said.

“That’s what it is.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“At any rate, that’s almost what it is,” Della qualified. “You see, there are stories in the front part, and then in the back there are classified ads, and there is a blank on the back inside cover that can be torn along the perforated lines and turned into a mailing envelope with a message folded on the inside.”

Mason nodded.

“I gather from Mr. Caddo that all such messages received at the office, properly addressed, will be forwarded to the advertiser to whose box they are addressed.”

“Very interesting,” Mason said.

“For instance,” Della went on, opening the magazine at random, “here’s Box Number 256. Would you perhaps like to communicate with Box 256, Mr. Mason? All you have to do is to tear off the back cover, cut it along the perforated lines, write your message, then fold it, place a seal on it, and deliver it by any means you may select to the office of Lonely Lovers Publications, Inc.”

“Tell me more about Box 256,” Mason grinned. “I think we’re going to enjoy Mr. Caddo.”

Della Street read the classified ad:

Refined woman of forty, with rural background wishes to contact man who is fond of animals.

Mason threw back his head and laughed. Then suddenly he quit laughing.

“What’s the matter, Chief?”

“After all,” Mason said, “it’s ludicrous and yet it’s tragic. An unmarried woman of forty, with rural background, finds herself in the city with no friends. She probably has a cat or two. And she... What does Caddo look like?”

“He’s about thirty-eight, high cheekbones, big ears, large blue eyes, partially bald, big Adam’s apple, tall, has big feet, and sits rigidly erect in the chair. He won’t lean back and relax. He makes me nervous just watching him.”

“And his trouble?”

“He said he could only tell me that it was due to peculiar complications which he’d have to explain to you personally.”

“Let’s have a look at him,” Mason said.

Della Street said, “Don’t throw the magazine away. Big-hearted Gertie out at the switchboard is all worked up about it. She wants to write letters to all of them and cheer ’em up.”

Mason thumbed through the pages of the magazine, musing half to himself.

“Looks like a racket,” he muttered. “Take this first story — ‘A Kiss in the Dark’, by Arthur Ansell Ashland — ‘Never Too Late for Cupid’, by George Cartright Dawson... Let’s have a look at our friend Caddo, Della. He may be someone we want to take apart.”

Della Street nodded, slipped back through the door into the outer office, and returned with a man who was tall in a gangling, loose-jointed way, with a static, vacuous grin seeming to betoken a continuous attempt to placate and mollify a world which somehow kept him on the defensive.

"Good morning, Mr. Caddo,” Mason said.

“You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer?”

Mason nodded.

Caddo’s thick, sinewy fingers squeezed the lawyer’s hand. “I’m mighty glad to meet you, Mr. Mason.”

“Sit down,” Mason invited. “My secretary says you’re publishing this magazine.” He indicated the magazine on the desk.

Caddo’s head nodded in eager assent. “That’s right, Mr. Mason, that’s very true.”

The light from the window glinted on the smooth, shiny expanse of his high forehead as he bowed. The big ears seemed to dominate the face. One almost looked for them to flap in accord, much as the reflex wagging of a dog’s tail helps to communicate his emotions.

“Just what is the object of the magazine?” Mason asked.

“It’s a means of communication, a means by which lonely people are brought together, Mr. Mason.”

“It has a news-stand circulation?”

“Not exactly. It’s sold through certain outlets. And then I have a small subscription list. You see, Mr. Mason, nothing is quite as cruel and impersonal as the solitude of a big city.”

“I believe the theme has been the subject of poetic expression,” Mason said dryly.

Caddo flashed him a quick glance from his big eyes, then grinned vaguely. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“We were talking about the magazine,” Mason prompted.

“Well, you see, this has the sort of stories that appeal to people who are hungry for companionship, people who are alone in the city, alone in life. We cater largely to women who have arrived at an age when they are afraid love may be about to pass them by permanently, an age of loneliness, an age of panic.”

And Caddo’s head once more embarked upon a series of regular, rhythmic nods, as though some inner clockwork mechanism had started him mechanically agreeing with himself.

Mason opened the magazine, said, “Your stories seem rather romantic, at least the titles.”

“They are.”

Mason skimmed through the story entitled “A Kiss in the Dark."

“Don’t read that stuff,” Caddo said.

“I just wanted to see what sort of stories you were publishing. Who’s Arthur Ansell Ashland? I can’t remember ever having heard of him.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t ever have heard of anyone whose stuff appears in my magazine, Mr. Mason.”