Erle Gardner - Case of the Beautiful Beggar

“All right,” Mason said, “that’s circumstantial evidence, but we haven’t got all the evidence yet, Paul. Daphne didn’t have any motive for killing Ralph Exeter.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Drake said. “She was more resentful of Ralph than of anyone in the crowd. She regarded Borden Finchley as her uncle and Borden’s wife as her aunt. Exeter was the one who was making the trouble, putting on all the pressure, and she knew it.”

“What about Borden Finchley?” Mason asked. “Where was he while all this was going on?”

“Borden Finchley has an alibi. So does his wife, Elinor.”

“You’ve checked?”

“I’ve checked. Of course, it’s a husband and wife affair in part, but there’s some independent corroboration. The Finchley’s were moving all of Daphne’s things out of her room, taking an inventory of every garment, every jar of toilet preparations, every paper. They were at it for three hours.

“The housekeeper was downstairs most of the time, crying over what was happening. Mrs. Finchley came downstairs for something and gave the housekeeper a tongue-lashing and sent her home.”

Mason said, “There were men from Las Vegas who were interested, Paul. When I made my first visit to the Goodwill Sanitarium, a man came up to the car and asked me if I was the doctor the Court had appointed to examine Horace Shelby. I told him I wasn’t. The man hurriedly walked away, got into a car which was parked some distance ahead and drove off.

“I couldn’t make out the license number but I could see it was a Nevada license plate. I could tell by the colors. I didn’t want to be too obvious about trying to follow him, because I felt they might be watching in the rear-view mirror, so I made a play of starting to go to the sanitarium then changing my mind. I took out after them to try and get the license number. I never did find them. I must have lost them at an intersection.”

“Could be, all right,” Drake said, “but at the time your client was in Unit 21 at the Northern Lights Motel apparently taking food to Horace Shelby, Horace Shelby had been long gone.”

“No question about the time element?”

Drake shook his head. “No question.”

Mason said, “All right, Paul, we’re going to have a showdown with Daphne. She’s held out on me too often and too much.”

Mason nodded to Della Street. “Get her on the phone,” he said.

Della Street checked the number on the card she had, sent her fingers spinning over the dial, gave the number of Daphne’s room and said, “I’d like to speak with Miss Shelby, please.”

She waited a moment, then said, “The poor kid’s probably asleep. She’s certainly had a day.”

“Poor kid, my eye,” Drake said. “That girl is probably up to some skulduggery right now.”

The three of them sat waiting in tense expectancy.

After a while, Della Street said, “Are you certain, you’re ringing the right room, Operator? Would you mind trying it again just to make sure?”

Again there was a period of silence and Della Street said, “Thank you, we’ll call later. No message.”

She hung up the telephone and said, “No answer. She’s either not in her room or...”

Her voice trailed away into silence.

Perry Mason got up from his chair, nodded to Drake. “Okay, folks,” he said, “let’s go.”

“One car?” Drake asked, as they descended in the elevator.

“Taxicab,” Mason said tersely. “I don’t want a parking problem when we get there, and we can get plenty of cabs in front of the hotel when we want to come back.”

They emerged from Mason’s office building, found a cab parked at the cabstand a few steps from the entrance and the three of them piled in.

Mason gave the driver the name of Daphne’s hotel, and the driver made a quick run, getting there within a matter of seven or eight minutes.

The lawyer gave him a liberal tip, entered the hotel and with complete assurance walked to the elevator, said, “Seventh floor,” to the elevator operator, and when they left the elevator the lawyer turned to the left, strode down the corridor.

The elevator doors closed.

Mason waited until the operator had moved the cage from the seventh floor before looking at the numbers on the rooms, then turned abruptly. “Wrong direction,” he said. “I didn’t want the elevator boy to know we weren’t oriented.”

“What’s the number?” Drake asked.

“Seven eighteen,” Mason said.

They retraced their steps, found 718.

There was a sign on the door, DO NOT DISTURB.

Della Street said, “Let’s take one thing into consideration. The poor kid was up all last night, working in that sanitarium. She’s gone for thirty-six hours without sleep. It’s only natural she should put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door and go to bed.”

“Also it’s only natural that she should wake up to answer the telephone,” Mason said.

“Perhaps not if she’s sleeping the sleep of exhaustion,” Della Street said.

Mason’s knuckles banged on the door.

The lawyer waited for a moment then knocked loudly for a second time. There was no answer.

Mason said, “Della, I hate to ask you to do this, but I want to see the inside of that room.

“Go down on the elevator, leave the hotel then re-enter, walking boldly up to the clerk’s desk and ask him for the key to 718.

“If you have just the right amount of assurance, just the right poise, he’ll hand the key to you. If he asks you your name, tell him Daphne Shelby. If he goes any further and asks for identification, tell him who you are, tell him I’m waiting up here that Daphne is my client that I’m afraid she’s been drugged or perhaps murdered and is not answering the door because she can’t answer the door.

“If it comes to that, ask the house detective to accompany you up here.”

“Chief, do you really think she’s—”

“How do I know?” Mason said. “We’ve had one murder. We could have two. What I’m telling you now is the attitude you’re to adopt with the house detective if necessary. Tell him I’m waiting up here with a private detective. That will take you off the spot for trying to get the key to another person’s room.”

Della Street nodded.

“Think you can do it?” Mason asked.

“I can make one of the best attempts that you ever saw,” she said, smiling.

“Try to leave the lobby unostentatiously so the clerk won’t notice you going out. When you come in, just ask for the key.”

“But suppose Daphne has the key with her?”

“These hotels nearly always have two keys to a room in the pigeonhole, and a third key in a drawer that they can open in case the other keys are lost.”

Della Street said, “You’ll be here?”

“We’ll be here,” Mason said.

Della Street walked to the elevator, rang the button, and a moment later was taken down.

Mason, simply as a matter of precaution, tapped on the door again. When he had no answer, he turned, leaned against the wall with his shoulders and hips, elevated his right foot so that it was flat against the wall and said to the detective, “We have more damned complications.”

“Depending, of course, on what has happened,” Drake said.

“No matter what’s happened,” Mason said, “we’ve got complications. If she’s in and doesn’t answer the door or the telephone, we’ve probably got a corpse — or perhaps someone who has been drugged with a barbiturate. In that case our only hope is that we can rush her to the hospital and save her life.

“If she isn’t in her room, we’ve got real problems.”

“Such as what?”

“Suppose Lieutenant Tragg wants to question her. He told her not to leave town, to keep herself available for questions. If she’s not in her room, Tragg will regard that as flight, and in this state, flight is evidence of guilt.”