Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Spurious Spinster

“You call up Miss Corning in an hour and you’ll find out your client wasn’t as smart as she thought she was. I’ve managed to get enough evidence in my hands to establish her duplicity.”

Miss Corning said, “You folks have all had a chance to let off steam. I’ve heard Susan Fisher’s side of the case. Now I’ll hear yours, Mr. Campbell. The rest of you, clear out!”

Out in the corridor Mason, Della Street, and Susan Fisher walked slowly towards the elevator.

Midway to the elevator Sue Fisher said, “Mr. Mason, can’t we do something to find Carleton? He’s had that English governess of his take the boy and go somewhere.”

Mason said nothing until they had reached the elevator and the lawyer had punched the button. “The boy,” he said, “didn’t know what was in the shoe box, did he?”

“No, he just knew it was Daddy’s treasure.”

“And his daddy,” Mason said, “insists the treasure was a pair of dress shoes. So that isn’t going to help us very much... Even if we recover the shoe box full of money you can’t prove anything, because Endicott Campbell will swear that there was a pair of dress shoes in it when he let his son take the box. He can’t help it if you threw the dress shoes into the trash and filled the box full of hundred-dollar bills, the result of your embezzlement.”

Sue Fisher looked at him in dismay as the full significance of the situation dawned upon her. “Well,” she asked, “what can we do?”

“That,” Mason said, “will depend very largely upon certain developments in the situation and on what kind of woman Miss Corning is.”

“She looks to me like someone who would be hard to fool,” Susan Fisher said.

“In that case,” Mason pointed out, “Endicott Campbell is probably having a handful of problems right now.”

“So we wait for something to... to turn up?”

Mason gave her one of his warm smiles. “You do, Sue,” he said, “but we are going to take steps which will encourage things to turn up. There’s a saying in the newspaper business that a good reporter makes his own luck and I think we are going out to make some luck.”

“Where?”

“Oh, various places.”

“Mojave?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t be too surprised,” Mason said.

“Oh, Mr. Mason, can I go with you, please? Can I...?”

The lawyer shook his head. “We don’t want you to do anything which could even be remotely considered as flight or avoiding questioning. You go right to your apartment and stay there. Stay by the telephone. If anything out of the ordinary happens, telephone Paul Drake at once.”

The elevator cage slid into position and the door glided open.

Mason patted her shoulder. “Remember,” he said, “that we’re playing a game and we’ve got to play our cards just right... just — exactly — right .”

Sunday traffic made for delays in the first part of the drive. Mason, his face granite hard, said little.

Then as the traffic began to thin out, the lawyer put the car into speed.

Knowing Mason’s feelings about safe driving and his conviction that an automobile driven at high speed was a deadly missile which should be operated only by one who was in full possession of his faculties and concentrating on the driving, Della Street made no effort to discuss the case until after they came up over the little hill, crossed the railroad tracks and saw the town of Mojave spread out along the main street.

The desert air was crystal clear. The buildings seemed etched in the afternoon sunlight.

Mason pulled in to a filling station, said to the attendant, “Fill it up,” then after the hose had been placed in the tank, Mason said casually, “Do you happen to know a man named Lowry? Ken Lowry?”

“Sure,” the attendant said. “He’s— There he is, right across the street, getting in that pickup!”

Mason followed the direction of the other man’s pointing finger and saw a somewhat battered pickup with the name MOJAVE MONARCH MINE on the side door.

The lawyer started hurrying across the street but Lowry pulled out when Mason was still half-way to the car.

The attendant at the service station gave a shrill whistle and the man at the wheel of the pickup jerked his head, saw Mason waving at him, and slowed the car to a stop.

Mason approached the car. “You’re Lowry of the Mojave Monarch?”

“Right.”

“I’m Perry Mason, an attorney from Los Angeles, and I’d like very much to talk with you.”

“What about?”

“About the mining business.”

Lowry smiled and shook his head. “I don’t talk business with strangers,” he said. “Leastwise, not mining business.”

“All right,” Mason said, “if you don’t talk, will you listen?”

Della Street, hurrying across the road, came up to the car.

Mason said, “This is my secretary, Miss Street, Mr. Lowry.”

Lowry, a grizzled, leathery-faced, grey-eyed individual in the early forties, surveyed Della appreciatively. A gust of desert wind whipped her skirts and Lowry promptly lowered his eyes to take in the scenery. “How do you do, ma’am? Very pleased to meet you,” he said.

Della Street gave him her most winning smile and her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Lowry?”

“I know you’re busy,” Mason said, “but we drove out here just to see you. Could we have a few minutes of your time?”

“I can’t talk.”

“Will you give us a few minutes?”

“I’ll listen for a few minutes.”

“Where can we talk?” Mason asked.

“Right here’s as good a place as any,” Lowry said.

Della caught Mason’s eye, said, “Why can’t we get in the car with Mr. Lowry and talk there? That way we won’t attract so much attention and won’t have to raise our voices.”

Lowry hesitated and Mason said, “Good idea, Della.”

The lawyer walked around the front of the automobile, held the door open for Della Street.

Della jumped in with a quick flash of generously displayed nylon which, for the moment, held Lowry’s undivided attention. Then Mason got in beside her and closed the door.

“I’m listening,” Lowry said.

He swung half-way around in the seat so that he could be facing Perry Mason and as he caught the full dazzling effect of Della Street’s eyes he settled back against the cushion, slid his right arm along the back of the seat and indicated by his manner that despite his words he wasn’t going to be in too great a hurry to terminate the interview.

“I suppose Endicott Campbell has been here and warned you against talking to anyone,” Mason said.

Lowry merely grinned.

“And perhaps he even mentioned my name,” Mason went on.

Lowry said, “I’m listening.”

“All right,” Mason told him, “I’m talking. I’d like to know something about the Mojave Monarch mine. I’d like to know how the thing is set up, how it operated, how long the mine’s been shut down.”

Lowry sat silent.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“Not talking,” Lowry said. “What’s more, I’m not going to talk.”

Della Street said, “Mr. Lowry, would you listen to me?”

“I’m listening.”

Della Street said, “A young woman, a most attractive young woman, is being charged with a crime. Mr. Mason is trying to represent her. He isn’t doing this for money. She hasn’t paid him as much as a nickel. She can’t afford to pay him even a fraction of what his services are worth. She’s a young secretary who has her whole life in front of her. That life can be ruined if the facts are distorted. We’re trying to get the true facts, that’s all we want. There’s no reason why anyone should be afraid of the truth, is there, Mr. Lowry?... Or is there any reason for being afraid of the truth?”