The Case of the Sulky Girl пм-2

by Эрл Стенли Гарднер

  "Sit down," he said.

  His visitor hesitated, then sat down on the edge of one of the straightbacked chairs.

  "Now, what did you want?" asked Perry Mason.

  "I want to find out whether Frances Celane called on you today."

  Perry Mason's face was patiently appraising.

  "This is a law office and not an information bureau, Mr. Gleason," he said.

  Gleason jumped nervously to his feet, made three swift strides to the window, stood against the light for a moment, then whirled to stare at the lawyer.

  His eyes were dark and smouldering. He seemed to be fighting some overpowering emotion.

  "Never mind the wisecracks," he said. "I've got to know whether or not Fran Celane was here talking with you."

  Perry Mason's voice did not change its expression in the least. The other man's impatience dropped from his calm manner as easily as butter slips from a hot knife.

  "Let's not have any misunderstanding about this," said Perry Mason. "You're talking about a Miss Frances Celane?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know Miss Celane personally?"

  "Of course I do."

  Perry Mason made a frank, disarming gesture with his right hand as though the entire matter were dismissed as of no importance.

  "That simplifies it," he said.

  "What does?" asked Gleason, suspiciously.

  "The fact that you know Miss Celane," said Perry Mason. "Under the circumstances, all you have to do is to ask her if she has consulted me. If she has not, there will be no necessity for you to return. If she has and doesn't want you to know it, she will doubtless find some way of concealing the fact. If she has consulted me and doesn't care if you know the fact, she will tell you."

  He got to his feet and smiled at his visitor as though the interview were terminated.

  Robert Gleason remained standing by the window. His face showed that he was laboring under a great strain.

  "You can't talk that way to me," he said.

  "But," explained Mason, patiently, "I have already talked that way to you."

  "But you can't do it."

  "Why not?"

  "It would be all right to talk that way to a stranger," he said, "but I'm not a stranger. I'm close to Fran Celane. I've got a right to know. She's being blackmailed, and I want to know what you propose to do about it."

  Perry Mason raised his eyebrows in polite interrogation.

  "Who is being blackmailed?" he asked. "And by whom?"

  Gleason made an impatient gesture.

  "What's the use of all that hooey?" he asked. "I know she was here, and you know she was here. You know she's being blackmailed, and I want to know what you propose to do about it."

  "I think," said Mason, "that under the circumstances I'm going to ask you to step out of the office. You see, when I asked you to come in, I thought that you had some matter of legal business to take up with me. As it happens, I am rather busy today, and I really haven't time to discuss with you the only matter which seems to interest you."

  Gleason kept his position.

  "At least," he said, "you can tell me who is doing the blackmailing. That's all I want to know. If you'll give me that information I'll arrange to take care of it myself."

  The lawyer walked to the door, standing there very efficient and gravely dignified.

  "Goodby, Mr. Gleason," he said. "I'm sorry that I can be of no assistance to you."

  "That's final?" asked Gleason, his lips twisting with emotion, until he seemed to be snarling.

  "That's all," said Perry Mason, in a tone of finality.

  "Very well," said Gleason, and strode across the room and through the door without another word.

  Perry Mason closed the door gently, hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, dropped his head forward and started pacing the floor.

  After a few moments, he went to his desk, and took out the typewritten paper containing the copy of the clause in the will of Carl Celane, setting forth the terms of the trust to Frances Celane.

  He was still studying this typewritten document when Della Street opened the door once more.

  "Miss Celane," she said.

  Mason looked at her speculatively for a moment, then beckoned to her.

  She interpreted the gesture, and stepped fully into the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

  "Did Gleason go out of the office as soon as he left here?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said, "in just about nothing flat. He acted as though he was trying to win a walking race."

  "And Miss Celane just came in?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't think they met in the elevator?"

  Della Street pursed her lips thoughtfully.

  "They might have, Chief," she said, "but I don't think they did."

  "How does Miss Celane seem?" he asked. "Excited?"

  "No," she said, "cool as a cucumber, and she's trying to look her best when she comes in. She took out her compact and is making her face all pretty. She's got her hair arranged just so."

  "All right," said Mason, "send her in."

  The secretary opened the door. "Come in, Miss Celane," she said.

  As Frances Celane walked into the room, the secretary slipped out through the door, and noiselessly closed it behind her.

  "Sit down," said Perry Mason.

  Frances Celane walked over to the same leather chair which she had occupied earlier in the day, sat down, crossed her knees and regarded the attorney from limpid black eyes in wordless interrogation.

  "A Robert Gleason called on me a few minutes ago," said Mason, "and insisted on my telling him whether or not you had been here."

  "Bob's so impulsive," she said.

  "You know him then?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Did you tell him you were going here?" he asked.

  "I mentioned your name to him," she said. "Did you tell him that I had been here?"

  "Certainly not. I told him to get in touch with you if he wanted to ask any questions about your affairs."

  She smiled faintly.

  "Bob Gleason wouldn't appreciate your talking to him like that," she said.

  "He didn't," Mason told her.

  "I'll see him," she said, "and tell him."

  "Gleason," went on the attorney, "said that you were being blackmailed."

  For just a fraction of a second there was a look of startled terror in the eyes of the young woman. Then she regarded the attorney with a placid and impassive face.

  "Rob is so impulsive," she said, for the second time.

  Mason waited for her to tell him more if she wished to take advantage of the opportunity, but she sat calmly placid, waiting.

  Mason turned to the papers on his desk.

  "I have copies of the trust provisions of the will, and the decree of distribution," he said. "I also find that there have been annual accounts submitted by the trustee. I'm afraid that I can't give you very much hope, Miss Celane, as far as the decree of distribution itself is concerned. The administration of the trust seems to be largely discretionary.

  "You see, even if I should be able to get the provision in regard to marriage set aside, as being in violation of public policy, we would still be confronted with the fact that the distribution of the trust estate remains largely in the discretion of the trustee. I am afraid that your uncle would consider our attack upon the will in the light of an interference with the wishes of your father, and with his authority as trustee. Even if we should win our point in court, he would have it in his discretion to nullify our victory."

  She took the blow without flinching, and said, after a moment: "That's what I was afraid of."

  "There is another peculiar provision in the trust," said Mason, "to the effect that the discretion vested in the trustee is a personal discretion, due to the confidence which your father had in his judgment. The will and decree of distribution provide that in the event the trust should terminate because of the death, inability or refusal on
the part of the trustee to continue to act, that then and in such event, the entire trust fund is to be vested in you unconditionally."

  "Yes," she said, "I know that."

  "There is therefore," said Mason, "some possibility that your uncle might be placed in a position where he could no longer act to advantage. In other words, we might make some legal attack upon his capacity to act as trustee—perhaps show a commingling of trust funds with his own accounts, or something of that sort. It's rather sketchy, and I'm mentioning it to you simply because it seems to be the only possible plan of campaign open to us."

  She smiled at him and said: "You don't know my uncle."

  "Just what do you mean by that?" asked Mason.

  "I mean," she said, "that my uncle is meticulously careful, and is so obstinate that no power on earth can swerve him from anything he wants to do, or decides that he doesn't want to do. He is entirely selfsufficient."

  For the first time during the interview, there was some feeling in her voice—a certain bitterness which colored her tone, though her eyes remained calm.

  "Have you any suggestions?" asked Mason, watching her closely.

  "Yes," she said, "I think that something might be done through Arthur Crinston."

  "And who," asked Perry Mason, "is Arthur Crinston?"

  "Arthur Crinston," she said, "is my uncle's partner. They are engaged in business together, buying, selling and mortgaging real estate, and buying and selling stocks and bonds. Arthur Crinston has more influence with uncle than any other living person."

  "And how does he feel toward you?" asked Mason.

  "Very kindly," she said, and smiled as she said it.

  "Would there be any chance," asked Mason, slowly, "that Crinston could persuade your uncle to give up the administration of the trust and let you have the entire trust fund?"

  "There's always a chance of anything," she said, abruptly, getting to her feet. "I'm going to have Mr. Crinston come in and see you."

  "Sometime tomorrow?" asked Mason.

  "Sometime this afternoon," she said.

  He regarded his watch. "It's twenty minutes past four. I close the office at five. Of course I could wait a few minutes."

  "He'll be here at quarter of five," she said.

  "Do you want to telephone from here?" he asked.

  "No, it won't be necessary."

  "What," asked Perry Mason, snapping the question at her without warning, as she stood in the doorway of the office, "did Rob Gleason mean when he said that you were being blackmailed?"

  She regarded him with wide, tranquil eyes.

  "I'm sure," she said, "I haven't the faintest idea," — and closed the door.

  Chapter 3

  Arthur Crinston was fortyfive, broadshouldered, and affable. He strode across Mason's private office, with his hand outstretched, and said in a booming voice of ready cordiality:

  "Mighty glad to meet you, Mr. Mason. Fran told me that I must come in right away, so I dropped everything to run up."

  Perry Mason shook hands and surveyed Crinston with his steady, appraising stare.

  "Sit down," he said.

  Arthur Crinston dropped into the same black leather chair which Frances Celane had occupied, fished a cigar from his pocket, scraped a match across the sole of his shoe, lit the cigar and grinned through the smoke at the lawyer.

  "Wants to get married pretty badly, doesn't she?" he said.

  "You know about that?" asked Perry Mason.

  "Sure," said Crinston heartily, "I know everything about Fran. In fact, she's nearer being my niece than Edward's niece. That is, we get along together and understand each other."

  "Do you think," asked Mason, "that anything could be done by a talk with Edward Norton?"

  "Talk by whom?" asked Crinston.

  "By you," Mason suggested.

  Crinston shook his head.

  "By Miss Celane then?" ventured Mason.

  Again Crinston shook his head.

  "No," he said, "there's only one person who could talk with Norton and do any good."

  "And who is that?" asked Mason.

  "You," said Crinston emphatically.

  The lawyer's face did not change expression, only his eyes betrayed surprise. "From all I can hear of Mr. Norton's character," he said, "I would think my interference would be exactly the thing that he would resent."

  "No it wouldn't," said Crinston. "Edward Norton is a peculiar chap. He doesn't want any sentiment to influence his business judgment. He's perfectly coldblooded. He'd be far more apt to listen to you making him a purely business and legal proposition, than to either Fran or myself, who would have to talk with him on the around of sentiment."

  "You'll pardon me," said Perry Mason, "but that hardly seems logical."

  "It doesn't make any difference how it seems," said Crinston, grinning, "and I don't know as it makes any difference whether it's logical or not. It's a fact. It's just the character of the man. You'd have to see Norton and talk with him in order to appreciate it."

  Della Street opened the door from the outer office. "The young lady who was here this afternoon is on the telephone and would like to speak with you," she said.

  Mason nodded and picked up the French telephone on his desk.

  "Hello," he said.

  He heard Miss Celane's voice speaking rapidly.

  "Did Mr. Crinston come there?"

  "Yes. He's here now."

  "What does he say?"

  "He suggests that I should interview your uncle.

  "Well, will you please do so then?"

  "You think I should?"

  "If Arthur Crinston thinks so, yes."

  "Very well. Sometime tomorrow?"

  "No. Please do it tonight."

  Mason frowned. "On a matter of this importance," he said, "I'd prefer to take some time to figure out the best method of approach."

  "Oh that's all right," said the girl. "Arthur Crinston will tell you just what to say. I'll make an appointment with my uncle for eightthirty this evening. I'll pick you up at your office and drive you out there. I'll meet you at eight o'clock. Will that be all right?"

  "Hold the line a moment please," Mason said, and turned to Arthur Crinston.

  "Miss Celane is on the line and thinks I should see her uncle this evening. She says she'll make an appointment."

  "That's fine," boomed Crinston, "a splendid idea. I don't know of anything that could be better."

  Mason said into the receiver: "Very well, Miss Celane, I'll meet you at my office at eight o'clock, and you can drive me out."

  He hung up the telephone and stared thoughtfully at Crinston.

  "There's something strange about this affair," he commented. "There seems to be a frantic haste on the part of everyone concerned."

  Arthur Crinston laughed.

  "You don't know Fran Celane very well," he said.

  "She seems to be a very calm and very poised young lady," Mason remarked tonelessly.

  Crinston took the cigar out of his mouth to laugh explosively.

  "You should be enough of a judge of human nature, Mason," he boomed, "to know that you can't tell a damned thing about these modern young ladies from the way they appear. Don't ever let her get her temper up. When she gets mad she's a hellcat."

  Mason regarded his visitor unsmilingly.

  "Indeed," he said, in that same toneless voice.

  "I didn't mean any offense," Crinston said, "but you certainly have missed it on Fran Celane. That girl is just plain dynamite.

  "Now, I'll tell you what I'll do. If you're going to see Norton tonight, I'll run out a little bit in advance of your appointment, and try and soften him up a trifle. He's a peculiar chap. You'll understand when you see him. He's all coldblooded business efficiency."

  "Will Miss Celane have any difficulty making an appointment for this evening?" asked Mason, watching Crinston shrewdly.

  "Oh no," said Crinston, "he's one of these fellows who likes to work nights. He has a regular office fixed
up in the house, and he likes to do a lot of night work. He makes most of his appointments for afternoons and evenings."

  He pulled himself to his feet, strode across to the attorney, and extended his hand.

  "Mighty glad I met you," he said, "and I'll see if I can soften up Edward Norton a bit before you talk to him."

  "Have you any suggestions," asked Mason, "as to the line of argument I should use with him?"

  "None at all," said Crinston, "except that I would advise you not to make any particular plan of approach. You'll find that Edward Norton is very much of a law unto himself."

  When Crinston had left, Mason paced back and forth for a few moments, then opened the door of his office, and stepped out into the outer room.

  His private office was in the corner of a suite of offices which included two reception rooms, a law library, a stenographic room, and two private offices.

  Perry Mason employed a typist, Della Street, combination stenographer and secretary, and Frank Everly, a young lawyer who was getting practical experience in Mason's office.

  Perry Mason strode across the office to the law library, opened the door and nodded to Frank Everly.

  "Frank," he said, "I want you to do something for me, and do it quickly."

  Everly pushed back a calfskin book which he had been reading, and got to his feet.

  "Yes sir," he said.

  "I think," said Perry Mason, "that a certain Robert Gleason has married a certain Frances Celane. I don't know just when the marriage took place, but probably it was several weeks ago. They've tried to cover it up. You've got to chase through the licenses to find what you want. Ring up some clerk in the license bureau, arrange to have him wait over after hours. They'll be closing in a few minutes, and you've got to work quickly."

  "Yes, Chief," said Everly, "when I get the information where do I reach you?"

  "When you get the information," said Mason, "write out whatever you find, seal it in an envelope, mark it personal and confidential, and put it under the blotter on the desk in my private office."

  "Okay, Chief," said Everly, and started for the telephone.

  Mason walked back to his private office, hooked his thumbs through the armholes of his vest, and started slowly and rhythmically pacing the floor.