Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Spurious Spinster

“Go ahead,” Mason said, as she paused.

“Or,” she said, “Endicott Campbell went back to the safe and got it... Of course he did, Chief.”

“He had the opportunity,” Mason said, “and undoubtedly he went back to the office and opened the safe. But remember, if the woman impersonating Miss Corning had taken the box, it wasn’t there by the time Campbell arrived.”

“But, Chief, I don’t see what difference it makes. They were working hand in glove. He deliberately planted this impostor and set the stage so that Susan Fisher would fall for it. She gave this woman all of the documentary proof that would indicate irregularities and—”

“That, of course,” Mason interposed, “was the reason she was sent up there. But a shoe box full of hundred-dollar bills is something different.”

“You mean she may have double-crossed Campbell?”

Mason said, “Campbell is acting in a most peculiar way. You know, there’s just a possibility, Della, that someone double-crossed him and he doesn’t know for sure whether it was Susan Fisher who got the money and secreted it after telling him the story about leaving the shoe box in the safe, or whether his accomplice, the woman he got to pose as Amelia Corning, decided she might just as well look at the side of the bread that had the butter.”

“In other words, you feel, from the way he’s acting, that he doesn’t have the money?” Della Street asked.

“It’s a possibility,” Mason said. “Let’s let it go at that.”

Mason eased the car up to the legal limit of speed and concentrated on his driving.

As they neared Los Angeles, Della Street consulted her wristwatch several times, glanced apprehensively at Mason. “Are you going to try to call on Paul Drake first?” she asked.

“We won’t have time,” Mason said. “The road was a little slower than I thought it would be and we’re going to have to go right to the Arthenium in order to keep our appointment.”

“Do you want me to drop you off there and then go to check with Paul and have him call you?”

“No,” Mason said. “I want you to go up with me. Incidentally, Miss Corning asked for you particularly. She wanted me to be sure and bring you along. You’ve evidently made quite an impression with her... in fact, Della, you’ve been invaluable today.”

“You make me blush,” she said demurely.

“And you make me very, very proud,” Mason said. “You really did a job working out that approach with Lowry. I think we have some information now that will prove of the greatest interest to Amelia Corning. I wouldn’t be too surprised if she didn’t want to swear out a warrant for Campbell’s arrest. There is, however, one thing that bothers me.”

“What’s that?”

“I think Campbell must realize that we dashed out to Mojave to look up that mine.”

“Well?” she asked.

“In that event,” Mason said, “he’ll wonder what we’ve found out.”

“Does that make any difference?” she asked.

“It makes this difference,” Mason told her. “If he wanted to find out just how much we had discovered, what would he do?”

“Why, he’d... I guess he’d call Lowry.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “And when Lowry talks with him on the telephone now, Lowry isn’t going to be the same cooperative conspirator that he was earlier in the day. So Campbell is going to ask him if he told us the story of what had happened, and Lowry would make a poor liar.”

“He wouldn’t even try to lie,” Della Street said. “He’d tell the truth.”

Mason nodded. “So then try thinking what a desperate Endicott Campbell would be doing all this time before we can get back.”

Della Street became thoughtful. “That isn’t a reassuring thought.”

Mason nodded, gave the Sunday-evening traffic his frowning concentration, arrived in front of the Arthenium Hotel at seven twenty-seven.

Mason handed the doorman a couple of dollars. “You’ve got to take care of that car for me,” he said. “I haven’t time to park it.”

“I’ll take care of it. It’ll be all right, right there for a while,” the doorman said. “Will you be long?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll let you know if we’re detained beyond ten or fifteen minutes.”

Mason and Della Street hurried across the lobby to the elevators, then up to the Presidential Suite.

As Mason and Della Street walked down the corridor towards the Presidential Suite, Della Street said, “It looks as if the door is open.”

Mason observed the oblong of bright light which was corning from the door of the suite and quickened his pace.

The door of the Presidential Suite was standing wide open. All of the lights inside were turned on. There was no sign of the wheelchair, no sign of Amelia Corning.

“Now what?” Della Street asked.

Mason, standing in the doorway, said, “I would presume, Della, that, knowing she had an appointment with us, she left the door open so we could come in and be seated.”

They entered the room. Mason gestured towards the half-open door to the bedroom. “Better see if she’s in there, Della,” he said.

Della Street flashed him a quick apprehensive glance, started to say something, then checked herself, moved towards the half-open door, knocked on it and called out, “Hello, Miss Corning. We’re here.”

There was no answer.

Della Street pushed the door all the way open, walked into the bedroom.

“Anybody home?” she called.

She heard quick steps and Mason was standing behind her.

The room gave evidence of feminine occupancy; an open closet door, dresses on hangers, creams on the dressing table.

Mason, beating a hasty retreat, said, “Look around, Della. Just be sure there’s no one here. Try the closets — even under the bed.”

“Chief,” Della Street exclaimed apprehensively, “you don’t think that—?” She checked herself and hurried towards the closet.

Mason returned to the parlor and seated himself.

Some two minutes later, Della Street returned and shook her head.

“Look everyplace?” Mason asked.

“Everywhere.”

“The bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Mason said, indicating a door at the other side of the parlor. “There’s another bedroom there. Try that.”

Della Street hurriedly opened the door, this time without knocking, again made an exploration and returned. “No one,” she said.

“No wheelchair?”

She shook her head.

“How many suitcases?” Mason asked.

“I didn’t notice particularly. I think there are... wait a minute, let me think. That’s right, two suitcases and a bag.”

Mason said, “I guess we wait.”

Della Street seated herself. “Couldn’t we ask the elevator operators?” she asked.

“We could,” Mason said, “but we won’t. Not right at the moment.”

“One would have thought she’d have left a note,” Della Street said.

“Well,” Mason said, “she left the door open and—” He broke off as they heard the sound of voices.

“Someone corning down the corridor now,” Mason said.

A rather portly woman in the middle forties appeared in the doorway. Behind her was a dapper individual with dark hair, dark eyes, and a short mustache. Behind them were two bellboys with bags.

Mason got to his feet.

“I beg your pardon,” the woman said. “I thought this was Amelia Corning’s suite.”

“It is,” Mason said. “We are waiting for her.”

“She isn’t here?”

“Not at the moment,” Mason said. “We had an appointment and found the door open. We assumed it was an invitation to come in and be seated. Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Perry Mason, an attorney, and this is Miss Street, my secretary. And you are...?”