Erle Gardner - Case of the Beautiful Beggar

“Had a wonderful nights sleep,” Mason said, grinning, “a good breakfast, and — Hang it, Della, just the way Dr. Alma talked over the telephone made me feel that he knows what he’s doing. The minute a doctor of that caliber who knows what he’s doing enters a case of this kind he strikes confusion into the other side.

“If the so called sanitarium and rest home is in danger of losing its license or thinks it is, they’re very apt to swing right around to the other extreme.”

Della said into the telephone, “Miss Daphne Shelby, please. She’s in Room 718.”

She held the phone for a while, then frowned looked at her watch and said to Mason, “There’s no answer.”

“All right,” Mason said, as Della waited, “leave a message for her. Tell her to call Mr. Mason when she comes in.”

Della duly transmitted the message, then hung up the telephone.

“I have an idea she slept late and is in the dining room eating breakfast,” Mason said.

“Or perhaps out shopping,” Della said. “After all, she came into quite a windfall, thanks to your financial skulduggery.”

“No skulduggery about it,” Mason said, grinning. “Darwin Melrose is the kind of attorney who goes into so darned much detail he sometimes lets the general issue slip through his fingers.

“Melrose was so specific about the fact that the exact amount of the balance which was in the account that day was to be turned over to Borden Finchley, as the conservator, that he entirely forgot to mention that the Court had appointed Finchley as conservator of all of Horace Shelby’s property and that any accounts, credits, or other tangibles which the bank held in its possession or which might come into its possession were to be turned over to the conservator. He simply made a specific demand for that one account and then had Finchley check the account out to the last penny, opening a new account at another bank in the name of Borden Finchley, conservator.”

Mason chuckled. “If the guy wants to get technical with me, I’ll get technical with him.”

“What will Judge Ballinger say about it?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I think the judge is rather broadminded and I think he has a pretty shrewd suspicion there’s something in this case that won’t stand scrutiny. Of course, the fact that Daphne is no blood relative is the thing that puts us behind the eight ball. If it weren’t for that, I’d walk into court and start shooting off fire works. As it is now, I have no official standing the Court can recognize.”

The telephone rang. Della Street picked up the instrument, said, “Yes, Gertie,” and to Mason said, “that’s probably Daphne calling now.”

Mason nodded, started to reach for the telephone, then paused at the expression on Della’s face.

She turned and said, “It’s Dr. Alma and he says its very important that he talk to you immediately.”

Mason nodded, picked up the phone, said, “Yes, Mason talking.”

Dr. Alma’s heavy masculine voice came over the wire.

“Mr. Mason,” he said, “I’m down here at the so called Goodwill Sanitarium and Rest Home. As you know, I came here under court order to examine Horace Shelby.”

“What about him?” Mason asked. “Nothing’s happened to him, has it?”

“A good deal has happened to him,” Alma said.

“Good heavens, he isn’t dead!”

“We don’t know,” Alma said. “He isn’t here.”

“He isn’t there?”

“That’s right.”

“What happened? Did they let Finchley take him out somewhere?”

“I don’t know and I’d like very much to find out,” Dr. Alma said. “The man is gone. They say he’s ‘escaped’.

“Before anyone has a chance to clutter up the evidence any more, I’d like to find out... You have a private detective who works with you, who has quite a bit of experience in investigation, I believe.”

“That’s right,” Mason said.

“And you yourself are a legendary figure. I wonder if you and your detective could get out here?”

“Will they let us in?” Mason asked, winking at Della Street.

“Let you in?” Dr. Alma exploded. “ I’ll let you in! I’ll turn this place wrong side out if they don’t put all of their cards on the table and play ball right down the line!”

“I’ll be right out,” Mason said.

Mason slammed up the telephone receiver, grabbed his hat, said to Della Street, “Call Paul Drake. Tell him to take his car and join me at the Goodwill Sanitarium in El Mirar. Call Daphne Shelby again. Get her alerted to what has happened. Tell her to sit tight and wait for word from us — not to leave the hotel room.”

“If she doesn’t answer?” Della Street asked.

“Have her paged,” Mason said. “I’m on my way.”

The lawyer dashed out of the door and sprinted down the corridor.

It took Mason thirty four minutes’ fast driving to reach El Mirar.

He slammed his car to a stop at the parking place near the gate and noticed, without attaching any significance to the fact, that the signs asking for help had now been removed and that the door to the office was standing wide open. The woman who had been so curt the afternoon before was now effusive in her greeting.

“Doctor is expecting you, Mr. Mason. They’re down in Unit 17. It’s right down this walk to the right.”

“Thank you,” Mason said. “A private detective by the name of Paul Drake will be out here any minute. When he comes, send him down to Unit 17.”

“Yes, indeed,” she said, and her hard mouth twisted into what was intended as a cordial smile. Her eyes, however, were cold, blue and hostile.

Mason hurried down the walk to Unit 17, a small cottage standing in a row of similar cottages.

The lawyer heard angry voices from inside.

He walked up to the porch and jerked the door open.

The tall man who whirled to face the lawyer as he entered the room was somewhere in his forties — alert, slightly stooped, almost as tall as Mason, and, quite obviously, very indignant.

The other and older man was a head shorter — an apologetic, cowed individual who was very much on the defensive.

Mason sized up the situation at a glance.

“Dr. Alma?” the lawyer asked of the tall man.

Dr. Alma’s indignant smoldering eyes focused on Perry Mason, then softened. “You’re Perry Mason,” he said.

“Right.”

The two men shook hands.

“And this is ‘Dr.’ Tillman Baxter.”

Mason didn’t offer to shake hands with Dr. Baxter.

“ Dr . Baxter,” Dr. Alma went on, “is licensed as a naturopathic physician in another state. He has theories about diet.”

“I’m licensed to run this rest home,” Baxter said.

“Doubtless you are,” Dr. Alma said, “but how much longer that condition is going to exist is anyone’s guess. Now, I want to know everything there is to know about Horace Shelby. You say you don’t keep charts.”

“This isn’t a regular hospital,” Baxter protested. “This is a rest home.”

“And you don’t keep records of treatment?”

“We keep records of the important things.”

“What do you consider important?”

“Anything which indicates a change in the physical or mental condition of the patient.”

“You’ve told me you don’t keep a record of drugs that are administered?”

“We do not administer drugs. That is, as a rule.”

“What do you do?” Dr. Alma asked.

“We give our patients rest, privacy, and healthful food. We—”

“I was told that Horace Shelby was under heavy sedation,” Mason said. “Who gave it to him?”

“Heavy sedation?” Dr. Baxter asked lamely.

“That was my understanding,” Mason said.