The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece пм-9

by Эрл Стенли Гарднер

  “Of course, she’d have to swear she recognized Maddox’s voice and apparently it was the first time she’d heard from him.”

  “Technically, yes, practically, no. All I need to do is to put Harris on the stand, let him tell his story, call her to the stand and let it appear she’s a hostile witness. I’ll ask her if Maddox didn’t telephone her at that time. They’ll object. Then I’ll ask her if some man didn’t telephone at that time who said he was Maddox. They’ll probably object to that. The court may sustain them, unless she can testify she recognized Maddox’s voice. I’ll pretend to be very exasperated then suddenly ask her, ‘Madam, what were you doing at the time the murder was committed, on the morning of the fourteenth—were you, or were you not, at that time holding a telephone in your hand and talking with some person over long distance?’ She’ll give a very faint and apparently reluctant ‘yes’ and that’ll be just about all the jury needs. I’ll dismiss her from the witness stand. The district attorney will be afraid to crossexamine her. Then I’ll introduce photostatic copies of the telephone company records.”

  “How much is a settlement going to cost Peter Kent?” she asked.

  “He’s told me to go up to a hundredandfifty thousand dollars, if I have to.”

  “Will you have to?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope not, but she’s greedy. I’ll stall around a while before I make her any offer.”

  “You’ll deal through her attorney?”

  “Yes.”

  “Won’t that make it more expensive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not deal directly with her?”

  “It wouldn’t be ethical.”

  “Somehow,” Della Street said, “she doesn’t impress me as being a woman who would want to pay a big slice of what she receives to an attorney.”

  Mason was about to say something when the telephone bell rang and Della Street, picking up the receiver, cupped her hand over the transmitter and said, “It’s Mrs. Doris Sully Kent. She’s in the office now. She wants to see you, and says to tell you that she has discharged her attorneys, so that at present she has no one representing her.” Mason gave a low whistle. “So what do we do?” Della Street asked.

  Mason made an exaggerated bow in the direction of the outer office. “The little woman is clever,” he said; “we see her.”

  “You want me to take down everything she says?”

  “Yes. Through the interoffice loudspeaking arrangement, however. You wait in the law library and keep a line open to this office. Take down everything that’s said. By the way, Della, have you ever seen her?”

  “No.”

  “Well, manage to get a look at her when she comes in, but keep out of sight yourself.”

  Della Street nodded, scooped up notebook and pencils, and headed for the outer office. Mason snapped the switch which operated the interoffice loudspeaking arrangement and said in a conversational tone of voice, “Tell Mrs. Kent I can give her just about five minutes.” He lit a cigarette and was apparently concentrating on the contents of a law book so that he didn’t hear her when she stepped into the room.

  She coughed, Mason raised his eyes, said, “Good morning,” waved his hand in the general direction of a chair, and returned to a perusal of the book.

  She hesitated for a moment, then walked toward his desk, stood very close to him and said, “If you’re busy, I won’t bother you.”

  “That’s all right,” he said without looking up, “I’ll see you in a minute. Don’t interrupt me.”

  She continued to stand very close to him. “I came as a friend,” she said. Her voice was seductively low.

  Mason sighed, pushed the book away, and pointed to a chair. “Go over there and sit down. Tell me about it and give me all the facts so I don’t have to ask for a lot of explanations.” She hesitated a moment, then with a little petulant shrug of her shoulders, seated herself, crossed her knees, and smiled at him. “Go ahead,” he told her.

  “I’ve discharged my attorney.”

  “Paid him off?”

  “Does that make any difference?”

  “It might. Particularly if he has any papers which belong to you.”

  “I’ve reached a complete understanding with him.”

  “Very well; what else?”

  “I want to talk with you.”

  “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Mason,” she asked, dropping her seductive manner, “that I hold the whip hand?”

  “No,” he said, “it hasn’t.”

  “Well, I do.” He made a gesture, as though to reach for his law book and she started a rapid fire of conversation. “Do you know what it’ll mean, if I get on the stand and swear that Peter got a carving knife and tried to kill me; that he said he was walking in his sleep, but that I knew he was lying? Well, I don’t want to do that. I want to help Peter. But, if Peter is going to fight me, I’ll have to fight Peter.”

  “Go on,” Mason said.

  “I just want you to understand I’m looking out for myself.”

  “I understand that.”

  “And don’t think I can’t do it!”

  “I also understand you’re fairly good at that.”

  “Well, I want to know where I stand.”

  “I’m sure I can’t tell you.”

  “Yes, you can. You’re Peter’s lawyer. I know Peter well enough to know that when it comes to standing up to a real knockdownanddragout fight, he won’t do it. He’s too nervous. We can settle this thing. He’ll want to settle. He’s got to settle.”

  “What do you want, an income or a cash settlement?”

  “Neither. I want to have Peter take me back as his wife. I want to stand by him during this period of adversity. I want him to let me take my place by his side.”

  “So, after a few months, you can begin all over again and get a larger settlement and a larger chunk of alimony?” Mason asked.

  “That’s unkind, Mr. Mason. You have no right to say that. That isn’t what I want. I want to be Peter’s wife.”

  “Knowing,” Mason said acidly, “that he’s in love and wants to marry, you decide that you can throw more monkey wrenches into the machinery by keeping him tied up to you. He’ll eventually pay more to buy his freedom.”

  She produced a lace handkerchief, slowly, dramatically. Her eyes blinked rapidly, filled with tears, the corners of her lips quivered, then with a little, inarticulate cry, she raised the handkerchief to her eyes. Her shoulders heaved with sobs.

  Mason watched her unemotionally. “How much for a cash settlement?” he asked.

  “I don’t want a cccash settlement.”

  “How much for a monthly income?”

  “I don’t want a mmmonthly income. I wwwant PPPeter. I wwwant to help him. I wwwant to tttestify that he’s not right mentally. I hope he cccan be cccured. But, if he cccan’t, I want to ssstand by him.”

  Mason’s face showed indignation. He got to his feet, strode toward the sobbing figure and reached out as though to jerk the handkerchief from her eyes, then as he stood there, his eyes suddenly narrowed in thought. He stood in frowning concentration for a moment, then turned back to the desk and surreptitiously slid his forefinger to the push button which summoned Della Street to his office. A moment later, as his puzzled secretary noiselessly opened the door from the law library, Mason moved his hands about his head in a pantomime, indicating a hat. Then he made gestures about his shoulders, imitating the motions of one holding a coat collar tightly about the throat. Della Street frowned in a perplexed attempt to gather his meaning. Mrs. Kent continued to sob into her handkerchief. Mason walked over to her, patted her shoulder. “There, there, my dear,” he said sympathetically, “I didn’t mean to be harsh with you. Perhaps I’ve misunderstood you. Get your hat and coat and come back.”

  She peeked up at him from around the side of her handkerchief. “My hat and coat?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Oh, pardon me,” Mason said hastily; �
��what I meant was that I wanted you to return when you weren’t so emotionally upset.” Della Street noiselessly closed the door to the law library.

  “You were mmmean to me,” Doris Kent sniffled into her handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry,” Mason said, patting her shoulder; “I’m upset this morning and perhaps I did you an injustice.” She dried her tears, blew her nose, sighed tremulously and put the handkerchief in her purse. Her eyes glinted with the remains of unmistakably genuine tears. “Do you,” he asked casually, “still have keys to Peter Kent’s residence?”

  “Of course. I haven’t used them for a year, however. Why did you ask?”

  “Nothing in particular. I just wondered.”

  “Well, does it make any difference?”

  “Not necessarily. What’s your attitude going to be toward Maddox?”

  She raised her eyebrows and said, “Maddox?… Maddox?… I don’t believe I know him.”

  “Maddox, from Chicago,” he said; “you know, the Maddox Manufacturing Company.”

  “Oh, that was something my lawyer discovered about my husband’s property. He said that the Maddox Manufacturing Company had patents that were worth millions and Peter had deliberately concealed the information from me, so he wouldn’t appear to be so wealthy when my divorce action was filed. But that’s all passed now.”

  “But don’t you know Maddox personally?” Mason asked.

  She looked at him with wide, astonished eyes, and said, “Certainly not.”

  “Nor Duncan, his attorney?”

  She shook her head, her face the picture of surprise.

  “I thought you talked with Maddox over the telephone.”

  “Why, whatever gave you that idea?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Skip it.”

  “No, but I want to know. I really am interested, Mr. Mason, because I feel that someone has been lying about me. Perhaps that’s why Peter feels about me as he does.”

  The door from the law library silently opened. Della Street, attired in a fur coat, gloved hands holding a black purse, a closefitting hat tilted rakishly at an angle, raised inquiring eyebrows at Mason. He nodded. She took a dubious step into the room. Mason strode toward her, “Why, Miss Street,” he exclaimed, “Why, my dear Miss Street.” Doris Kent stared frigidly. “Why, how did you get in here?” Mason asked, coming toward her. “I’m busy. I wasn’t to be interrupted; I haven’t forgotten about your appointment… I…”

  Della Street came breezily toward him, gave him her gloved hand. “I’m sorry, if I intruded, Mr. Mason,” she said, “but I knew what a stickler you were for accuracy in appointments. Some girl in the outer office told me to go in the law library and wait because you were busy. Since I had a most definite appointment, and knowing how important my matter was, I simply couldn’t believe her. Therefore, after I’d waited a few minutes, I opened the door. I’m very, very sorry.”

  “It just happened,” Mason explained, “that another matter interfered…” He broke off and motioned toward Doris Kent, who got slowly to her feet.

  “I’m afraid,” Della Street said, watching Mason’s face, “that I must insist upon my appointment, however, Mr. Mason. I have only a very few minutes. You remember, you told me over the telephone that I wouldn’t have to wait. I know it was wrong for me to break in, but, after all, an appointment is an appointment.”

  Mason’s manner was embarrassed. He turned to Doris Kent and said, “I’m very sorry. You’ll remember, I told you I could only give you a few minutes. I’ve had this appointment with Miss Street…”

  “It’s quite all right,” Doris Kent said, throwing up her chin. “I’ll come back.”

  Mason caught Della Street’s eye, jerked his head toward Doris Kent. Della moved toward her.

  “I’m sure you’ll excuse me, won’t you, my dear, but I have only a few minutes available.”

  Mrs. Kent smiled graciously. “Not at all,” she said, “don’t mention it. I realize how busy Mr. Mason is. After all, I think he understands my position and…”

  “Where can I get in touch with you?” Mason asked.

  “At the Lafitte Hotel. I’ll be there for the next two or three days.”

  Mason gave a start of surprise and said, “Why, that’s your hotel, isn’t it, Miss Street?”

  “Yes, I’m staying there. It’s very nice,” Della Street remarked amiably.

  Mason escorted Doris Kent to the corridor. “I’m very sorry,” he said, “that this happened. She really shouldn’t have opened the door to my private office. But she had the appointment. She’s rather wealthy and quite impulsive…

  “I understand perfectly,” Doris Kent said, and, turning, gave him her hand. “After all,” she said, “we can be friends, can’t we?” and her eyes were filled with promise.

  Mason patted her hand, turned and reentered his office. Della Street, looking up at him anxiously, said, “Did I muff it?”

  “No,” he told her, “you did nobly. Just exactly what I wanted.”

  “What was the big idea?”

  “Get a bunch of glad rags and move into the Lafitte Hotel. Keep sticking around until you see Doris Kent. Go over and get acquainted with her. Tell her how sorry you were that you interrupted her conference; that you realized afterward you had no right to bust in on her and that you don’t know what made you do it. Tell her I’m usually so careful about appointments, that you felt there’d been a mistake made by someone in the office; that you were in a hurry and simply had to see me.”

  “Then what?” she asked. “Surely, Chief, you don’t think she’d become confidential and tell me anything which would damage her side of the case? Particularly when she knows that I know you, and…”

  He chuckled. “What’s the name of the girl who got gypped in the love racket?”

  She frowned at him and asked, “What the devil are you talking about, Chief?”

  “You know, the girl that wanted me to handle her case? She got gypped for five thousand dollars…”

  “Oh, you mean Myrna Duchene.”

  “That’s the one,” he told her. “Where’s her boyfriend?”

  “He’s at the Palace Hotel. Going under the name of George Pritchard.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, “now you go to the Lafitte Hotel. Cultivate a speaking acquaintanceship with Mrs. Kent. Get Myrna Duchene to point out this love pirate to you. I presume he’s the type that makes a girl’s heart go pittypat, isn’t he?”

  “I gather that he is,” Della Street said, puzzled. “I saw a photograph of him. He certainly looked like the answer to a maiden’s prayer.”

  Mason said, “Scrape an acquaintance with him. Hand him a hard luck story about having lost your money but don’t do that until after he’s called on you at your hotel. Keep him calling there until you have an opportunity to point out Mrs. Kent to him as a very wealthy widow. And, if you can possibly work it, you’ll introduce him to Mrs. Kent and…”

  Her eyes showed swift comprehension. “And let nature take its course?” she interrupted.

  Mason bowed and smiled. “Exactly,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  The sign which stretched across the front of the store was relatively new. Peasley Hardware Co. it read. the rest of the store was old. In the dusty, drab show windows an attempt had been made to put new wine into old bottles. Various tools had been arranged in geometric designs. Wooden steps had been covered with green cloth and used to display stock to advantage, but, for the most part, that stock gave unmistakable evidences of having been on display for some time. Perry Mason pushed his way through the door. Obviously new electric fixtures showered brilliant illumination over the counters; but the gloomy walls drank up the light and left only drab dregs for the eye.

  Bob Peasley came walking briskly forward from a little office in the rear. When he was close enough to recognize Mason his step faltered appreciably, then he squared his shoulders and came up, giving Mason a forced smile of greeting. “How do you do, Mr. Mason? This is
indeed a pleasure!”

  “Hello, Peasley. Nice place you have here.”

  “Think so? Glad you like it.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Not so long. I picked it up cheap at a receiver’s sale. I’m trying to get rid of some of the old stock now. Then I either want to move or else have the whole interior done over.

  “A lease?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, and it’s rather an advantageous lease. But I can’t get the landlord to do anything toward fixing up. I have the right to make changes and improvements at my own expense, however.”

  “Going to start soon?”

  “Soon as I can move some of the old stock and get some cash.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fair. I’m going to have a big clearance sale in about thirty days. I really don’t know all that I have here yet. There wasn’t any current inventory, and the one the receiver made was just a makeshift. It was so dark in here that I honestly don’t know how a customer ever had a chance to find his way in. I put in new lights; but, somehow, it still seems cobwebby.” Peasley glanced cautiously over his shoulder, lowered his voice and said, “How was the carving knife?”

  “Excellent,” Mason answered. “Just exactly what I wanted. Peasley fidgeted uncomfortably. “What’s the matter,” Mason inquired, “anything?” Peasley shook his head. “Seen Helen Warrington lately?”

  “Last night,” Peasley answered. “Why? Nothing wrong is there?” His eyes didn’t meet Mason’s.