Erle Gardner - Case of the Beautiful Beggar

“Then, when she had the stage all set, she simply showed up with the uncle.

“I was interested in the statement she made to me about being late for court. She said that traffic on the freeway was terrible and it had taken her longer than she had anticipated.

“At the time, I didn’t know she was driving a car and I wondered just what she meant.

“I think it was a case of blurting out the simple truth before she realized what a statement of that sort would mean.”

Drake nodded. “Okay, Perry,” he said. “Let me go down to my place. I can get better action on the men I want to put out down there.”

Mason said, “Cover the motels at El Mirar. See if you can’t find Daphne Shelby’s new car parked in front of one of the units.”

It was just as Perry Mason and Della Street were closing the office that Paul Drake’s code knock sounded on the door.

Della opened the door and Mason said, “Hi, Paul, we’ve been waiting to hear from you but had decided to go out and have a cocktail and a little dinner — thought we’d drop by your office and give you an invitation. Since you’re here, we’ll give you the invitation in person.”

Drake grinned. “You’re dangling temptation in front of my nose,” he said, “but I’ll probably be sending out for hamburger sandwiches and drinking coffee out of a paper cup.”

“What gives?” Mason asked. “Have you struck pay dirt?”

“We’ve not only struck pay dirt, we’ve got Daphne Shelby.”

“The deuce,” Mason said. “Where?”

“Your hunch paid off,” Drake told him. “I started men looking for automobiles parked in motels around El Mirar, and we finally located the car at the Serene Slumber Motel. She’s in Unit 12 and she’s all alone”

“Alone?” Mason asked.

Drake nodded.

Mason walked back to the desk, sat down in the big swivel chair and started drumming softly on the edge of the desk with the tips of his fingers.

“And what has happened to Horace Shelby?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “She may have him hidden out. He’s probably in another unit and—”

“Not in the Serene Slumber,” Drake interrupted. “My men are thorough enough for that. They checked every unit and quizzed the people who are running the place. There’s no single, unattached elderly man in the place, and Daphne Shelby has just the one unit and she’s alone in there.”

“What name is she registered under?” Mason asked.

Drake grinned. “Her own name.”

“Thank heavens for that,” Mason said. “It will give us something to work on when they catch her.”

“They’ll catch her?” Drake asked.

“Probably,” Mason said. “But the person we’re interested in right at the moment is Horace Shelby. They’ll certainly be trying to corral him, and if the Finchley crowd get him before Dr. Alma can have a chance to examine him, you can’t tell what’s going to happen.

“I’ll tell you what you do, Paul, keep a tail on Daphne and let’s see if she isn’t keeping him hidden in some other motel.”

“What would be the object of that?” Drake asked.

“Darned if I know,” Mason said, “but I have a hunch she’s trying to cover her trail so that if anyone locates her they can’t automatically put their hands on Horace Shelby.

“Come on, Paul, put your me ou on the job and leave word where you can be reached Have a cocktail and then a nice thick steak, a baked potato filled with butter, some French fried onion rings and—

“Don’t, you’re killing me,” Drake said.

“Those hamburgers will be soggy by the time you get them sent up to the office,” Della Street said. “The coffee will taste of the paper cup, and—”

“Sold!” Drake exclaimed.

“Come on,” Mason told him. “We’ll stop by your office and leave word where they can catch you on the telephone.”

Drake said, “Something seems to tell me the case is going to get hot all at once and I should be where I can get on the phone and put out men.”

“We’ll go someplace reasonably close,” Mason promised.

“I’ve already succumbed to the temptation,” Drake told him, “so you can ease off on the sales talk. Let’s go.”

They stopped by Drake’s office on their way to the elevator. Drake left minute instructions with the switchboard operator in charge, said to Mason, “All right, let’s hurry. I’ll bet you that I get my appetite sharpened with a cocktail, that we order our steaks and just as they are put on the table the phone will ring with an emergency that will send me scampering and I’ll wind up with—”

“A steak sandwich,” Della Street said. “We’ll get the waiter to bring you a bowser bag as soon as you order and you can have some French bread all buttered and waiting.”

“You may think you’re kidding,” Drake said, “but as a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. You’ve got an idea.”

They went to the Purple Lion Restaurant which was one of Mason’s favorites and was within easy cab distance of the office.

They had a cocktail and ordered their dinners at the same time they ordered the cocktail.

“Now then,” Mason told the waitress, “bring a bowser bag, bring the freshest sourdough French bread you have in the place, and lots and lots of butter, both for the baked potato and for the steak sandwich.”

“Steak sandwich?” the waitress said. “Why, I have orders for three extra thick steaks, but—”

“This man may have to make his into a steak sandwich and leave in a rush,” Mason told her.

“Oh, I see,” she said, smiling. “All right, we’ll have the cocktails immediately. I’ll have the steaks put on the fire and the bread and the bowser bag will come while you’re drinking the cocktails.”

Drake grinned and said, “Not a bad idea. If necessary I could eat a steak sandwich in the taxicab on my way to the office— What the deuce do you suppose she’s doing sitting out there all by herself?”

“She’s awaiting developments of some sort,” Mason said. “But you can gamble on one thing she isn’t going to let Horace Shelby go wandering around unchaperoned, even if he’s in a fit condition to do so.”

“So?” Drake asked.

“So,” Mason said, “somewhere along she’s going to see that he has dinner. After all, the guy has to eat, you know.”

“Well, let’s hope she didn’t give him a hamburger,” Drake said. “Those things are fine when you eat them while they’re fresh, but when you put them in a paper bag the bread gets soggy and— Oh, I guess they’re all right, but I’ve eaten so darned many of them sitting up there in the office with a telephone at my ear that I just don’t like the idea.”

“Why don’t you get something else?” Mason asked.

“What else can you have sent in?” Drake asked. “What takes place of a good old hamburger sandwich with lots of onions?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Mason said, “you make it sound appetizing.”

The waitress brought their cocktails and the French bread, butter and the bowser bag for Paul Drake.

Drake made a ceremony out of buttering two thick slices of French bread.

They finished the cocktails and after a few minutes the waitress brought the steaks.

Della Street waived her feminine prerogative pointing at Paul Drake she said, “Serve him first. He’s apt to be called out.”

The headwaiter approached the table. “One of you is Mr. Paul Drake?” he asked. “I have a call for you. Shall I plug the phone in here?”

Paul Drake groaned.

Mason nodded. “Bring the phone,” he said.

Drake picked the steak off the plate with a fork, put it between the two slices of French bread.