Erle Gardner - The Case of the Baited Hook

Della Street said, “Probably because of things we’ll find out later on. I’m just offering to bet that that Hastings girl holds the other half of your ten-thousand-dollar bill.”

Mason was reaching for a cigarette when Paul Drake’s knock sounded on the door which opened from Mason’s private office to the corridor.

“That’ll be Paul, Della,” he said. “Let him in… By George, the more I think of it, the more I believe you’re right. That, of course, would mean that there’d be no objection on Peltham’s part to our taking that Gailord case… But I have ideas about Mrs. Tump.”

“What sort of ideas?” she asked, opening the door to Paul Drake.

“I’ll tell you later,” Mason said. “Hello, Paul.”

Paul Drake was tall and languid. He spoke with a drawl, walked with a long, slow-paced stride. He was thinner than Mason, seldom stood fully erect, but had a habit of slouching against a desk, a filing cabinet, or slumping to a languid seat on the arm of a chair. He gave the impression of having but little energy to waste and wishing to conserve that which he had.

“Hi, Perry. Hi, Della,” Drake said, and walked over to the big leather chair. He dropped down with a contented sigh into the deep cushions, then after a moment raised his feet and twisted around so that his back was propped against one arm of the chair while his knees dangled over the other. “Well, Perry,” he said, “I’ve got to hand it to you.”

“What is it this time?” Mason asked.

“You sure can pick goofy cases. Did you know all this business about Tidings was going to break?”

Mason glanced at Della Street, then shook his head.

Drake said, “How’d you like to get some dope on Tidings’ love-life, Perry?”

“On the trail of something?” Mason asked.

“Uh huh. May be on the trail of Tidings himself. If he’s missing, I think I can put my finger on the person who saw him last.”

Mason sat up in his chair to drum nervously with the tips of his fingers on the edge of his desk. “Darned if I know whether I want to try to capitalize on that or not, Paul,” he said.

“How soon would you know?”

“After two o’clock this afternoon.”

Drake said, “I don’t think it’ll keep that long, Perry. There’s too much pressure being brought to bear. Some newspaper chap or some detective will stumble onto it.”

“What have you got?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “Tidings told an intimate friend three days ago that he was going to spring a trap on his wife. He said he was going to move in on her and let her forcibly eject him. Seemed to think there was some legal point in that which would give him an advantage. He said his wife had been waiting to get a cause of action on desertion. He was going to move in on her just before the year was up.

“I looked her up through the records of the Bureau of Light and Power. It’s a place up on one of those steep hillside subdivisions where there’s a swell view and privacy. I have a hunch Tidings went there Tuesday after he left his office. Want to go find out?”

Mason said, “I guess so… Della, get Byrl Gailord on the phone for me. If I’m going to mix into this now, I’d better know exactly where I stand.”

“Where does she fit into the picture?” Drake asked, as Della Street noiselessly glided from the office.

“It’s a long story,” Mason said. “Apparently, she’s the daughter of Tidings’ first wife. In reality she isn’t. There’s a question of adoption mixed into it… What else is new, Paul?”

“Oh, a lot of routine stuff,” Drake said. “I can’t find out anything about Peltham’s girl friend.”

“Is he married?”

“No. He’s a bachelor, pretty much of a businessman, rather austere, something of an ascetic, and referred to by his friends as a cold, calm, reasoning machine… Are you sure he has a heart-throb, Perry?”

Mason laughed. “You,” he said, “are giving me the information. I’m a lawyer protecting the confidence of a client… You give, and I take.”

Della Street opened the door of her secretarial office, holding a telephone in her hand. “She’s on your line, Chief,” she said.

Mason picked up the telephone on his desk. “Hello. Miss Gailord?”

A rich, well-modulated voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Mason. Thank you for calling. I believe I have an appointment with you for two o’clock this afternoon.”

“You have,” Mason said. “In the meantime, events are moving rather rapidly. I suppose you’ve seen the newspapers?”

“Yes. What does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “But I have a hot tip I’m going out to investigate now. The only information I have at present is that contained in the newspaper account… I take it you’re familiar with what Mrs. Tump has been doing in your behalf?”

“Yes.”

“And that meets with your approval?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You want me to represent you?”

“Certainly. Mrs. Tump is acting for me.”

“Do you know Mr. Peltham?”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “He’s Mrs. Tump’s friend. I believe he’s the one who sent her to you.”

“So I understand. Now you must be pretty well acquainted with Mr. Tidings?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How do you get along?”

“We were always friendly. It never entered my head to doubt him until I started checking up recently. I tried to find out where I stood and Uncle Albert — I’ve always called him that — became furious. He said Mrs. Tump was poisoning my mind, that she was trying to get control of my property — but she isn’t. I trust her absolutely. I know some things I can’t tell even you, Mr. Mason, but she is empowered to act for me in every way.”

“Thank you,” Mason said. “That was what I wanted to find out. I’ll see you at two o’clock, then.”

He hung up and said to Della, “Get me that Journal on the phone, Della. Let’s see if there’s been an answer sent in to that ad of mine.”

Della Street nodded, put through the call, and a few moments later signified to Mason that his party was on the line. Mason said, “Perry Mason talking. I put a personal ad in your paper to make the morning edition. I wonder if there’s been any answer to it.”

“Just a moment. I’ll check it up with the classified ad department,” the man said. Mason could hear steps retreating from the telephone, and a moment later returning; and the man’s voice said, “Yes, Mr. Mason. A young woman left a reply at the counter not over an hour ago. It says simply, ‘Okay. Go ahead. R.P.,’ and it’s headed, ‘Answer to M.’ — which, I take it, means your ad… Anyway, we’re going to publish the ad in tomorrow’s edition so there’s no reason to keep it confidential.”

“Thank you very much,” Mason said, hung up, and nodded to Paul Drake. “Okay, Paul,” he said. “Let’s go drop in on the thwarted wife.”

Mason shifted into second at the foot of the grade. The road wound upward, twisting and turning around the steep sides of typical Southern California mountains. The subdivision was relatively new, and there were many vacant lots, some marked with a red placard bearing the word, SOLD. Here and there were scattered bungalows, obviously new. Up nearer the top of the grade, where a ridge offered more level building sites, half a dozen small homes were clustered.

“It’ll be one of those,” Drake said.

Mason looked at the house numbers and said, “Probably the last one in the row… Yes, here it is.”

The bungalow faced to the south and east. Above it, on the west, towered the slopes of the hill, covered with a thick growth of chaparral. Below, to the east, the city stretched in glistening brilliance, the white buildings reflecting the brilliant sunlight, spotless gems of intense white below the red patches of tiled roofs.