Erle Gardner - The Case of the Half-Wakened Wife

“You think she... Yes, I guess so. She did seem pretty — possessive, just her manner.”

Mason said, “Remember, she’s in the real estate business. Remember that Shelby has found out all about this deal, all about the escrow, all about the fact that the escrow is about ready to be closed, and knows the amount of the purchase price. Put one two together with the other two and tell me what the total is.”

Della Street smiled at him. “Four.”

“Four,” Mason said, “is right.”

The elevator came gliding up the shaft, stopped at the floor, the door slid back. A man got out, started across toward the door of Shelby’s office, then abruptly whirled to regard Mason with surprise.

“Well, well,” Mason said. “Sergeant Dorset of Homicide. What brings you here, Sergeant? Looking for a body?”

Dorset abruptly wheeled, walked back to the elevators, said to the operator, “Go on down. You can pick him up in a minute or two. Mason, I want to talk with you.”

Mason smiled affably. “Go right ahead. I just had a very interesting visit with the district attorney this afternoon. Anything you can add will be in the nature of an anticlimax.”

Dorset paid no attention to Mason’s statement. “Who’re you calling on up here?” he asked.

Mason smiled, and said nothing.

“All right, all right,” Dorset said. “Go ahead. Be smart if you want to, but I was just wondering.”

“I gathered you were.”

Dorset jerked his thumb toward Shelby’s office. “Know anything about that poison angle?”

Mason’s foot pressed against Della’s shoe. He said, “What do you suppose I’m up here for?”

“That’s what bothers me,” Dorset said. “I’ll tell you one thing, Mason. If you’re representing the person that poisoned him and are trying to get the thing all hushed up, you’re out on a limb, because the doctor saved the stomach contents and had them analyzed. There was enough arsenic to have killed a horse. That’s why I’m here. Now why are you here?”

Mason said, “Let’s say that any resemblance between the reason I’m here and the reason you’re here is purely coincidental.”

Dorset frowned. “All right. Be smart. Remember, I’ve warned you. Good evening.”

“Good-by,” Mason said, and jabbed the elevator button once more as Sergeant Dorset pounded his aggressive way toward Scott Shelby’s office.

“Do you gather that Mr. Scott Shelby has been on the receiving end of an attempted murder?” Della asked.

Mason was frowning as the red elevator light came on. “I’m darned if I know,” he said, and then as he entered the elevator muttered almost musingly to himself, “Poison, huh? Now isn’t that something?”

Promptly at eight-forty the next morning Mason entered his office, met the surprised eyes of Della Street, said, “I know I’m early, but I want to talk with that Mrs. Keller when she comes in. I’m going to see if I can’t find some grounds for going after that crook.”

Della Street said, “I haven’t even got your desk all dusted yet.”

“That’s all right. I’m going out to the law library and prowl around a bit. I’m getting as bad as Jackson. Looking for precedents. I wonder if those women left the oil lease last night?”

“I haven’t looked in the outer office. I just got here myself.”

“Take a look,” Mason said.

Della Street went to the outer office and returned carrying an envelope. “They left it all right.”

Mason opened the envelope, took out the lease, walked over to his desk, pushed back the swivel chair, sat down, and tilted back to put his feet up on the desk, all without taking his eyes from the printed contract.

“What time does Jackson come in, Della?” he asked.

“Right on the dot at nine o’clock. You can set your watch by it. I presume he catches a certain car, and has established a precedent which he can’t break. Sometimes he’ll stay at the office until ten or eleven o’clock at night, but he always comes to work at that same time every morning.”

Mason said, “See if Gertie is in. I want to be certain that I see Mrs. Keller as soon as she comes to the office.”

Della Street picked up the telephone. She waited a moment then said, “Oh, hello, Gertie. I was just wondering if you were here. Mr. Mason is in the office and he’s going to see Mrs. Keller when she comes in. You might tell Jackson and... What’s that?... Just a minute.”

Della Street turned to Mason, said, “Gertie didn’t know you were in. There was a man in the office to see you. Gertie told him that you didn’t ever get in before nine-thirty and he says he’s coming back.”

“What’s his name?” Mason asked.

“Just a minute, I’ll ask her.”

“What’s his name, Gertie?”

Della Street turned to Perry Mason, said, “It was Parker Benton.”

“He’s in the office now?”

“He just left. He started for the elevator.”

“Catch him,” Mason ordered.

Della Street dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle, dashed across the office, jerked open the door, and sprinted down the corridor.

The door from the outer office opened. The receptionist and switchboard operator said contritely, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mason. I didn’t know you were in the office. I didn’t even know Miss Street was here. I...”

“That’s all right, Gertie,” Mason said. “It just happens I’m anxious to see this man, that’s all.”

A moment later Della Street tapped on the door of Mason’s office. Mason opened the door and looked over Della’s shoulder to meet steely-gray eyes which probed out from under bushy eyebrows.

Mason said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Benton. My receptionist didn’t know I was in. I’m a little early this morning. Won’t you come in?”

Benton shook hands.

He was a muscular, broad shouldered, well fed individual somewhere around fifty-five. Dark hair flecked with gray was combed straight back from his forehead. He wore no hat and the deep even tan of his face indicated that he spent much of his time out of doors. He was, perhaps, some twenty pounds overweight but he carried it well and the grip of his hand was muscular and cordial.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I heard that a Mr. Jackson in your office was handling the matter I’m interested in. But it’s quite important to me, and I wanted to talk to you personally about it.”

“Sit down,” Mason invited. “Who told you about Mr. Jackson?”

“Jane Keller.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Talked with her over the telephone.”

“Would you mind telling me just what happened?”

“Well, I think you know the general background.”

Mason said with a smile, “I prefer that you tell me.”

Benton laughed. “There’s no need beating around the bush, Mr. Mason, and no need to be cautious. The cat’s out of the bag.”

Mason offered his visitor a cigarette. “But under the circumstances it will help if you describe the cat so we’ll be perfectly certain we’re talking about the same animal.”

Benton laughed outright, said, “Last night a man by the name of Shelby got in touch with me, said that he understood I was buying an island from Jane Keller, that if I wanted to get a good title to the island I’d have to make some arrangements with him because he had an oil lease and was intending to start drilling. He said he took it for granted that I wouldn’t care to buy an island for residential purposes and then have him put some oil derricks in my front yard.”

“What,” Mason asked, “did you tell him?”

“Well, I asked him a few questions in order to get the picture.”