Erle Gardner - The Case of the Rolling Bones

“The doctor in charge,” Dr. Londonberry repeated.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Did he mention my name?”

“No, he just said the doctor in charge. He seemed quite positive about it, so I took him to the door of thirty-five, and showed him that there was a ‘No Visitors’ sign on it. I said that the patient was psychopathic, and under no circumstances were visitors permitted without direct orders from you. Shortly after that, the patient in fifteen had a sinking spell. That’s a post-operative case, and I carried on the best I could. There was evidence of internal hemorrhage. I had my hands full until just a few moments ago when she rested easier. The last time I looked in here the patient seemed cheerful and quite relaxed.”

“Can you describe this man who called as a visitor?” Judge Treadwell asked.

“He was wiry,” the nurse said, “around fifty-five or sixty, I should judge, with gray eyes, and a weather-beaten face. He wore a tweed suit, and was smoking a pipe. He wore his hair rather long. It was brownish in color, faded somewhat, with streaks of gray at the temples, and...”

“Ned Barkler,” Phyllis Leeds exclaimed, and then clapped her hand to her lips as though wishing to recall the words.

Judge Treadwell turned to her. “You know him?” he asked.

“One of Uncle’s friends answers that description,” Phyllis Leeds said.

“One who has been co-operating with the other relatives?” Judge Treadwell asked, significantly.

“No, Your Honor— Of course, I can’t be sure that’s the man, but the description fits. — He’s an old prospecting pal of Uncle’s.”

“Where does he live?” Judge Treadwell asked.

“He’s been living in the house with Uncle Alden.”

Judge Treadwell’s face relaxed slightly. “Evidently,” he said, “the patient wasn’t quite as incompetent as you thought, Doctor.”

He turned to Phyllis Leeds and said, “I think you’ll find that your uncle is now at home. I suggest that you go there at once— As for you, Doctor, I feel that your refusal to produce Alden Leeds in court was an act in defiance of the court’s order. You will be ordered to appear and show cause why you should not be found guilty of contempt of court. I think that is all.”

He nodded to Phyllis Leeds and said, “Simply for my own satisfaction, I’d be glad to know if you find your uncle at home. The deputy sheriff will drive you there at once.”

Perry Mason, with Della Street at his side, drove rapidly toward the city.

“What happened in the sanitarium?” Della asked. “Everyone came out in a hurry, and they hustled Phyllis Leeds off in the sheriff’s car.”

Mason sketched the highlights of what had taken place.

“What’ll happen next?” Della Street asked.

“We’ll go to the office,” he said. “Phyllis Leeds will probably telephone us that her uncle is at home. The court will want him brought in when the habeas corpus hearing is reopened. That’ll be all there is to it.”

“Where will that leave us?” Della asked.

“All finished,” Mason said, “unless Leeds wants us to do something about that twenty thousand dollar check.”

“Do you think he will?”

“No,” Mason admitted, “I think he’ll be sore we’ve done as much as we have. — And I can’t get over my hunch that John Milicant is really L. C. Conway.”

“Has Paul Drake found out anything?”

“I haven’t been in touch with him for a while,” Mason said. “He telephoned he had some routine stuff to report. I told him to let it wait until after the habeas corpus . I’ll step on it and get back to the office in time to hear what he has to say before we go back to court.”

“You’re stepping on it now, Chief,” she said, glancing at the speedometer.

Mason grinned. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Look at this .”

“I’m looking,” she observed, “—and you missed that boulevard stop entirely.”

“I didn’t miss it,” Mason said. “I took it in my stride.”

“Stride is right. You...” She broke off as the low wail of a siren directly behind them signaled them over to the curb.

In stolid silence, Mason sat at the wheel while the officers pulled alongside. One of them, leaving the prowl car, started to make out a ticket. The other stood with an arrogant foot on the running board and bawled, “Where’s the fire?”

“Central and Clark,” Mason said.

The officer seemed taken aback. “What’s burning?” he asked.

“My office.”

“Say, are you kidding me, or on the square?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “All I know is what I heard on the telephone. My important papers are in danger. Naturally, I want to get there.”

“Let’s see your card, buddy.”

Mason handed him a card. “Perry Mason, eh? Okay, let that ticket go, Jim. Let’s take this guy up to his office. If it’s a stall, we’ll see that he gets the limit. You follow me.”

The prowl car took the lead, siren screaming. Mason fell in behind.

“As I was observing,” he said to Della, as they flashed through an intersection where traffic was frozen into inactivity by the screaming siren of the police car, “I take ’em in my stride.”

“You’ll get the limit for this,” she warned.

“At any rate, we’ll get to the office,” he said.

“And waste time explaining to a lot of cops.”

“No,” Mason said, deftly dodging a truck, “you can’t explain to these birds. This is one thing you can’t explain.”

“Chief, what are you going to do about it?”

“Darned if I know,” he admitted, with a grin, “but it’s a swell ride, isn’t it, Della?”

“Listen, Chief, you can be as goofy as you want, but count me out.”

He risked flashing her a swift glance. “Kidding?” he asked.

“No, I mean it.”

“Getting chicken, Della?”

“You can call it that if you want,” she said indignantly. “I’m going to get out.”

“How? I can’t stop now.”

“No, but there’ll be an opportunity... Here, they’re slowing down for that traffic jam. Chief, let me out!”

Mason slammed on the brakes. His profile was granite-hard. “Okay, baby,” he said. “Write your own ticket.”

“I’d rather do that than take the one the cops will write,” she said, opening the door and jumping to the street just as the traffic jam ahead resolved itself, and Mason speeded up, following the siren of the police car.

They cut speed somewhat as they turned into the main artery. The officers ceased using the siren, worked their way through a traffic signal and parked in front of a reserved zone. Mason slid his car to a stop behind them.

“No sign of a fire here,” one of the officers said belligerently.

“It’s up in my office, I tell you, just a small fire. My God, you didn’t think the building was afire, did you?”

The officers exchanged glances and sized Mason up. “Okay, Jim,” the leader said, “you go up with this bird; I’ll stay here. If this thing is a stall, pinch him for reckless driving. We can take him to headquarters on that. Perry Mason, attorney-at-law, eh? — Well, brother, you’re like a lot of these wise guys. There’s a little law you don’t know.”

Mason shrugged his shoulders. A boyish, carefree grin was on his face. “Wasn’t that a swell ride?” he asked.

“Come on,” the officer announced, grabbing Mason’s elbow and half pushing him through the doorway and into the elevator.

Mason lit a nonchalant cigarette while the elevator deposited him at his floor. “Okay, buddy,” the officer said, “you find the fire.”

Mason strode down the corridor, jerked open the door to the entrance room of his office. A blast of pungent smoke met his nostrils. The girl who customarily occupied the information desk was dashing madly about with a cup of water. The stenographers were staring with startled eyes.