Erle Gardner: The Case Of The Dangerous Dowager

E S Gardner - Perry Mason 10 - Dangerous Dowager

CHAPTER 1

PERRY MASON studied the white-haired woman with that interest which new clients always aroused. She returned the lawyer's gaze with bright gray eyes in which a hard glitter gradually softened to a twinkle.

"No," she said, "I haven't killed anyone - not yet, I haven't. But don't think I'm a peaceful old lady who sits by the fire and knits, because I'm not. I'm a hard-bitten old hellion."

The lawyer laughed. "Perhaps," he said, "this gambling girl you wanted to see me about may be overshadowed by a..."

"Dowager," she said, as he hesitated. "Go on and say it - a dangerous dowager. I saw you in court when you were trying that howling dog case, Mr. Mason. I liked you because you fought every inch of the way. I'm something of a fighter myself."

Della Street, catching Mason's eye, said to the woman, "I'd like to have your name, age, and address for our office records."

"The name's Matilda Benson," the dowager said. "The address is 1090 Wedgewood Drive. The age is none of your business."

"How long have you been smoking cigars?" Mason asked curiously.

Her eyes flicked back to his. "Ever since I kicked loose from the conventional traces."

"When was that?"

"After my husband died and I realized what spineless hypocrites my relatives were... do you have to go into all that?"

Mason said, "I'd like to know something about your background. Go ahead. You're doing fine - So you kicked over the traces?"

"Yes. And I'm getting worse every year. My husband's relatives think I'm a brand for the burning - and I don't give a damn what they think! You hear a lot about people who are afraid to die. Well, they're nothing compared to the ones who are afraid to live - people who go through life just making motions - and conventional motions at that. My relatives think I've started Sylvia on the downward path and..."

"Who's Sylvia?" Mason interrupted.

"My granddaughter."

"Married?"

"Yes. To Frank Oxman. And they have a daughter, Virginia. She's six now."

"So," Mason said, "you're a great-grandmother?"

She puffed contentedly at the big cigar. "Yes," she admitted, "I'm a great-grandmother."

"Tell me some more about your husband's relatives," the lawyer invited. "Have you been fighting with them?"

"Not particularly. I got fed up with them, with what they stood for. I just revolted, that's all."

"Revolted at what?"

She frowned impatiently, "Why worry so much about my ideas of life?"

"Because they're interesting. I want to get your mental background before I decide whether I can take your case."

"Well," she said, "I'm making up some of my lost life. I was brought up according to rigid, puritanic standards. None of the people around me took time out to enjoy life. They couldn't enjoy youth because they were preparing to take a part in life. They couldn't enjoy themselves after that because they were saving money for their old age. And they put in their old age making peace with God. I was brought up on that philosophy. Then my husband died and I was left alone. There was some insurance money. I invested that and did well with it. I started to travel, looked around me, and decided I might as well enjoy life. I was past sixty and I'd never really lived.

"Now I drink, swear, smoke cigars, and do as I damn please. I'm tired of living a treadmill existence. I have enough money to allow me to do things the way I want."

"And you need a lawyer?" Mason asked.

She nodded, suddenly serious.

"Why? Are you in some trouble?"

"Not yet."

"But you expect to be?"

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, regarded the tip of her cigar, flicked the ash from it with a deftly expert little finger, and said, "I hope it won't come to that."

"Exactly what is it," Mason asked, "that you want me to do?"

"Do you know a man by the name of Sam Grieb?"

"No. Who is he?"

"He's a gambler He and a man by the name of Duncan run The Horn of Plenty. That's the gambling ship that's anchored out beyond the twelve-mile limit."

"What about Grieb?" Mason asked.

"He's put Sylvia in a spot."

"How?"

"He has her IOU's."

"For how much?"

"Somewhere around seven thousand dollars."

"What were they given for?" Mason asked.

"Gambling debts."

"And you want me to get those without paying..."

"Certainly not," she interrupted. "I want you to pay every cent that's due on them. But I don't want to be held up for a bonus. I'll pay debts, but I won't pay blackmail."

"Do you mean to say," Mason asked, puzzled, "that Grieb won't surrender the IOU's for their face value? Why, he'd have to. He'd be..."

"Don't jump at conclusions, young man," she snapped. "There's a lot more to this than you know about. There's a lot more to it than I'm going to tell you. But Grieb has heard in a roundabout way that Sylvia's husband, Frank Oxman, might be willing to pay more than face value for those IOU's."

"Why?" Mason asked.

"Evidence," she snapped.

"Evidence of what?"

"Evidence that Sylvia is a chronic gambler and can't be trusted with money."

"Why does Frank want to get evidence of that?"

"Because he does."

"Why does he?"

"I don't think," she said, "I'm going into that right now. All I want you to do is get those IOU's. I'll give you the money to take them up. If you have to pay a bonus, pay a bonus, but don't pay a big one. I hate blackmail and I hate blackmailers."

"But," Mason objected, "you don't need me. Simply give your granddaughter the money and tell her to go to the gambling ship and take up the IOU's. They'd have to surrender them if she offered to redeem them."

Matilda Benson shook her head. "I don't want to make it that easy for her. I'm going to teach my granddaughter a lesson by scaring the hell out of her. I want you to get those IOU's and give them to me as soon as you get them. I don't care how you get them."

"I'm afraid," Mason said, "I wouldn't care to handle it. After all, this isn't a legal matter. It's something a detective can handle to better advantage. Now, Paul Drake, of the Drake Detective Agency, handles my work. He's thoroughly competent and trustworthy. I'll put you in touch with him and..."

"I don't want a detective," she interrupted. "I want you."

"But if you hired me," Mason protested, "I'd turn around and hire Drake. He does all my leg work."

"I don't care what you do, nor whom you hire," Matilda Benson said. "That's up to you. And don't think this is going to be an easy job. You're going up against a crook who is smart as a steel trap and absolutely ruthless."

Mason said, "I'm afraid you're making a mountain out of a molehill."

"No," she said, "you're the one who's making a molehill out of a mountain. I'll pay you a retainer of twenty-five hundred dollars. I'll pay you another twenty-five hundred when you get those IOU's, if you can get them in such a way that my name doesn't figure in it. And I'll pay all your expenses, including whatever you have to pay out for detectives and whatever you have to pay to get those IOU's. That's fair, isn't it?"

Mason watched her with a puzzled frown.

"Could I," he asked, "go out to call on Grieb and tell him I was acting as Sylvia's attorney and..."

"No, because he'd tell Sylvia, and Sylvia mustn't know anything about it."

"And you don't want Grieb to know that you're interested in it?"

"No. Aside from that, the sky's the limit. You can work any scheme on him you want to. But don't let him know you're willing to pay a bonus, because the minute you do he'll stall you off until he can get to Frank Oxman for a bigger bid and start playing you, one against the other."

"That," Mason admitted, "complicates matters."