Erle Gardner - The Case Of The Dangerous Dowager

"I was lying on the bed, reading, when someone tossed something through the open transom. It fell on the floor... It... it's a gun - a .38 automatic."

"Did you," Mason asked, "pick it up?"

"Yes. I was frightened."

"Where is it now?"

"Right here on my dresser. Shall I try to dispose of it? Or..."

"Get ready," Mason said, "for the police. The officers will be there within a matter of seconds. Don't make any statement to anyone. And..."

"Someone's knocking at the door now," she said.

"Hang up your telephone!" Mason commanded.

He slammed the receiver back on its hook, turned to Della Street and said, "Sylvia's been framed. Someone tossed a gun into her room. The cops are pounding at the door. She got frightened and put through a call to this number. They'll trace that call as quickly as they can, then call the radio cars, and start sewing this place up. Let's go!"

He began to fling things helter-skelter into his suitcase. Matilda Benson pulled them out, folded them neatly and packed the suitcase with a swift efficiency.

"Don't wait, Chief," Della Street told him. "You get started. Never mind the suitcase."

"Don't you understand," he said, "if they find the suitcase here, they'll pinch you as an accessory after the fact, for aiding and abetting, compounding a felony, and a few other charges. We can't afford to let the officers ever suspect that you know I was here. This thing is getting too hot to handle, and..."

He broke off as a peremptory knock sounded on the door of Della Street's apartment. For a moment the lawyer and his secretary stared at each other in startled consternation. Matilda Benson calmly put the finishing touches to the packing. The knock was repeated, and a voice shouted, "Open up! This is the law. We have a search warrant for this apartment."

"It's all right," Della Street said in a quick whisper. "I'll go in there and let them search. You keep this door locked and..."

"Nothing doing," Mason said. "They'll search until they find me. There's only one way to keep you out of it. You leave it to me. Come on, Della."

Matilda Benson snapped the suitcase shut and said, "Do they need to know I'm here?"

"Not if you can get away," Mason told her, "but I don't think you can."

The knock was repeated for the third time, a thundering summons which made the door rattle.

"We've got to lock the connecting door from this side," Mason pointed out. "There's no legitimate explanation you can make for having that door unlocked, Della."

Matilda Benson pushed them toward the door. "Go on in," she said. "I'll lock the door of this apartment."

Mason picked up his suitcase, stepped into Della Street's apartment, flung his overcoat over the back of a chair, perched his hat on the back of his head, and called out, "Just a minute, boys. Don't make so much noise."

He heard the bolt click in the door of the connecting apartment, opened the door of Della Street's apartment, and bowed to the three men who were standing in the corridor.

"This," he said, "is an unexpected pleasure."

One of the men stepped forward and said, "You're Perry Mason?"

"Yes."

He handed Mason a folded oblong of paper. "A subpoena to appear forthwith before the Federal Grand Jury," he said, "and I might also tell you that you're under arrest."

"On what charge?"

"Compounding a felony, being an accessory after the fact, and on suspicion of murder."

The men pushed their way into the room. Della Street stood by the window, her eyes wide with alarm.

One of the men walked toward her and said, "All right, we'll hear from you now. Did you know your boss was a fugitive from justice while you were shielding him? You..."

Mason interrupted, "Don't be silly, she wasn't shielding me. I was on my way to take a plane. I dropped in to give her some last-minute instructions."

"Says you," the man sneered.

Mason gestured toward his overcoat on the back of the chair and the suitcase. "See for yourself," he said.

The men exchanged glances. The man in charge said, "Take a look through the suitcase, Bill."

They tossed the suitcase to an overstuffed chair, unfastened the buckles on the straps, flung back the lid. "Okay," one of the men said, "he's got his stuff in here."

"He did his packing after we started pounding on the door," the man in charge said, his voice showing his irritation.

Mason grinned at them. "Rather a neat job of packing to be done in five seconds, don't you think?"

"You were long enough about getting the door open."

"I was giving my secretary some last-minute instructions," Mason told him, casually lighting a cigarette.

"The stuff is sure packed, all right," Bill said. "All neatly folded and..."

"Never mind the comments, Bill," the leader interrupted. "How about the adjoining apartment? We hear you've rented that."

"Adjoining apartment?" Della Street asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Shut up, Della," Mason warned.

The leader glowered at him. "Like that, eh?" he asked.

"Like that," Mason said easily.

The leader nodded to his men. "If that door's locked smash it down."

"Got a search warrant?" Mason asked.

No one paid any attention to the question. Two of the men charged the door. The bolt-seat ripped out. The door banged open.

Matilda Benson, her clothes draped over the back of a chair, was sprawled out in bed, pillows under her head, a cigar in her mouth. She looked up and said, "Why the hell don't you knock?"

The officers fell back in surprise. The man who had assumed charge stepped forward. "I beg your pardon. We have a warrant to search this apartment. We had every reason to believe it had been rented for the purpose of concealing Perry Mason."

Matilda Benson exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and said acidly, "You had no reason to believe anything of the sort. This is my apartment. Perry Mason is my lawyer. I wanted to be close to his secretary, so she got me this apartment. I'm quite comfortable here. And, while I have no false modesty, young man, I do object to having my morning smoke interrupted."

For a moment the leader paused uncertainly, then said, "Take a look around, boys."

"In case you don't know it," Mrs. Benson remarked, "this is a damned outrage." She pulled the sheet up around her neck, punched the pillows into a more comfortable position, and calmly resumed smoking her cigar.

The officers made a swift, hurried search of her apartment. "So," the leader said, "you've been up and had breakfast, eh?"

Matilda Benson raised her eyebrows. "What was the name?" she asked. "Dr. Watson... or is it Holmes himself?" Someone tittered.

"Where are your personal belongings?" the leader demanded.

"I haven't moved them in yet."

"And is it your custom to burn the toast, to leave bacon in the oven, and hard-boil your eggs?" the officer asked suspiciously.

Mrs. Benson sighed and said meekly, "None of my husbands cared much for my cooking." She meditatively inspected the end of her cigar, raised steady gray eyes to encounter those of the officer, and added with a smile, "But that's the only complaint they ever made, young man."

The officer stared at her in nonplused silence, then said with sudden determination, "Get up and dress. I'm going to see this thing through. You're going to the district attorney's office for questioning. You too, Miss Street. Bill, telephone the D.A. and tell him we're on our way up. Get him to round up the others."

CHAPTER 15

BASIL WILSON, the Federal District Attorney, entered the room and nodded a perfunctory greeting. Two deputy United States marshals stood at the door.

Wilson, a man in his middle fifties, with a close-cropped, iron-gray mustache and deep pouches under tired-looking eyes, said in a deep-timbred voice which filled the room with musical resonance, "Let's see if we're all here: Sylvia Oxman, Paul Drake, Arthur Manning, Matilda Benson, Dick Perkins, George Belgrade, Della Street, Perry Mason, Charlie Duncan, Frank Oxman."