The Case of the Lonely Heiress

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  The Case of the Lonely Heiress

  A Perry Mason Mystery

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  Cast of Characters

  PERRY MASON—crack criminal lawyer, whose methods of solving cases might be termed “a little unorthodox”

  DELLA STREET—Mason’s Gal Friday—and all the other days of the week

  ROBERT CADDO—publisher of “Lonely Hearts Are Calling”—self-styled psychologist who capitalizes on the diffidence of friendless people

  PAUL DRAKE—head of Drake Detective Agency-long-time, long-suffering friend of Perry Mason

  MARILYN MARLOW—an heiress with no flair for it—her ad in Caddo’s magazine brings some startling results

  ROSE KEELING ETHEL FURLONG —the nurses who witnessed the signing of the late George Endicott’s will

  KENNETH BARSTOW—one of Drake’s most attractive operatives—especially adept at portraying young men fresh from the farm

  DOLORES CADDO—Robert Caddo’s outraged wife, who vents her wrath on the other woman in her husband’s life

  LIEUTENANT TRAGG—of Homocide—who has devised new and ingenious methods of producing mental anguish

  RALPH ENDICOTT—brother of the late George P. Endicott—his thumbprint stars in a major role

  PALMER ENDICOTT—who seems unduly suspicious of brother Ralph

  LORRAINE ENDICOTT PARSONS—frosty sister, full of family feelings (including avarice) and fear of publicity

  PADDINGTON C. NILES—the Endicotts’ lawyer, eager to help his clients contest their brother’s will and dismayed to find them way ahead of him

  SERGEANT HOLCOMB—of the police—suspects find it a sheer delight to have nothing whatever to do with him

  DEPUTY DISTRICT ATTORNEY HANOVER—skillful prosecutor, and more than a match for Mason

  1

  Perry Mason extended his hand for the oblong business card which Della Street was carrying as she entered the lawyer’s private office.

  “Who is it, Della?”

  “Robert Caddo.”

  Perry Mason studied the card, then smiled. “LONELY LOVERS PUBLICATIONS, INC.,” he read. “And what seems to be Mr. Caddo’s troubles, Della?”

  She said laughingly, “They are what he described as ‘complications’ arising from an ad which he has been running.”

  She handed Mason a copy of a cheaply printed magazine entitled Lonely Hearts Are Calling.

  “It looks like a cheap edition of a mail-order catalogue,” Mason said.

  “That’s what it is.”

  Mason raised his eyebrows.

  “At any rate, that’s almost what it is,” Della qualified. “You see, there are stories in the front part, and then in the back there are classified ads, and there is a blank on the back inside cover that can be torn along the perforated lines and turned into a mailing envelope with a message folded on the inside.”

  Mason nodded.

  “I gather from Mr. Caddo that all such messages received at the office, properly addressed, will be forwarded to the advertiser to whose box they are addressed.”

  “Very interesting,” Mason said.

  “For instance,” Della went on, opening the magazine at random, “here’s Box Number 256. Would you pexrhaps like to communicate with Box 256, Mr. Mason? All you have to do is to tear off the back cover, cut it along the perforated lines, write your message, then fold it, place a seal on it, and deliver it by any means you may select to the office of Lonely Lovers Publications, Inc.”

  “Tell me more about Box 256,” Mason grinned. “I think we’re going to enjoy Mr. Caddo.”

  Della Street read the classified ad:

  Refined woman of forty, with rural background, wishes to contact man who is fond of animals.

  Mason threw back his head and laughed. Then suddenly he quit laughing.

  “What’s the matter, Chief?”

  “After all,” Mason said, “it’s ludicrous and yet it’s tragic. An unmarried woman of forty, with rural background, finds herself in the city with no friends. She probably has a cat or two. And she … What does Caddo look like?”

  “He’s about thirty-eight, high cheekbones, big ears, large blue eyes, partially bald, big Adam’s apple, tall, has big feet, and sits rigidly erect in the chair. He won’t lean back and relax. He makes me nervous just watching him.”

  “And his trouble?”

  “He said he could only tell me that it was due to peculiar complications which he’d have to explain to you personally.”

  “Let’s have a look at him,” Mason said.

  Della Street said, “Don’t throw the magazine away. Big-hearted Gertie out at the switchboard is all worked up about it. She wants to write letters to all of them and cheer ’em up.”

  Mason thumbed through the pages of the magazine, musing half to himself.

  “Looks like a racket,” he muttered. “Take this first story—‘A Kiss in the Dark,’ by Arthur Ansell Ashland—‘Never Too Late for Cupid,’ by George Cartright Dawson…. Let’s have a look at our friend Caddo, Del-la. He may be someone we want to take apart.”

  Della Street nodded, slipped back through the door into the outer office, and returned with a man who was tall in a gangling, loose-jointed way, with a static, vacuous grin seeming to betoken a continuous attempt to placate and mollify a world which somehow kept him on the defensive.

  “Good morning, Mr. Caddo,” Mason said.

  “You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer?”

  Mason nodded.

  Caddo’s thick, sinewy fingers squeezed the lawyer’s hand. “I’m mighty glad to meet you, Mr. Mason.”

  “Sit down,” Mason invited. “My secretary says you’re publishing this magazine.” He indicated the magazine on the desk.

  Caddo’s head nodded in eager assent. “That’s right, Mr. Mason, that’s very true.”

  The light from the window glinted on the smooth, shiny expanse of his high forehead as he bowed. The big ears seemed to dominate the face. One almost looked for them to flap in accord, much as the reflex wagging of a dog’s tail helps to communicate his emotions.

  “Just what is the object of the magazine?” Mason asked.

  “It’s a means of communication, a means by which lonely people are brought together, Mr. Mason.”

  “It has a newsstand circulation?”

  “Not exactly. It’s sold through certain outlets. And then I have a small subscription list. You see, Mr. Mason, nothing is quite as cruel and impersonal as the solitude of a big city.”

  “I believe the theme has been the subject of poetic expression,” Mason said dryly.

  Caddo flashed him a quick glance from his big eyes, then grinned vaguely. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “We were talking about the magazine,” Mason prompted.

  “Well, you see, this has the sort of stories that appeal to people who are hungry for companionship, people who are alone in the city, alone in life. We cater largely to women who have arrived at an age when they are afraid love may be about to pass them by permanently, an age of loneliness, an age of panic.”

  And Caddo’s head once more embarked upon a series of regular, rhythmic nods, as though some inner clockwork mechanism had started him mechanically agreeing with himself.

  Mason opened the magazine, said, “Your stories seem rather romantic, at least the titles.” “They are.”

  Mason skimmed through the story entitled “A Kiss in the Dark.”

  “Don’t read that stuff,” Caddo said.

  “I just wanted to see what sort of stories you were publishing. Who’s Arthur Ansell Ashland? I can’t remember ever having heard of him.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t ever have heard of anyone whose
stuff appears in my magazine, Mr. Mason.”

  “Why not?”

  Caddo coughed deprecatingly. “Occasionally one finds it necessary, almost imperative, in fact, to do considerable detail work in order to be certain that there will be an ample supply of stories carrying out the general theme of the magazine.”

  “You mean you write them yourself?” Mason asked.

  “Arthur Ansell Ashland is a house name,” Caddo admitted modestly.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The magazine owns the name. We can publish anything we want to under the name of that author, using that by-line as a tag.”

  “Who wrote this story?”

  Caddo’s big teeth showed in a grin. “I did,” he said, and once more started nodding a steady rhythm of affirmation.

  “And how about this next one, by George Cartright Dawson?”

  The nodding continued without the slightest change in tempo.

  “You mean you wrote that one too?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason watched the light glinting from the high forehead as the head continued to nod.

  “And the next story?” he asked.

  There was no slightest change in the tempo of the nodding.

  “For the love of Mike,” Mason said, “do you write the whole magazine?”

  “Usually. Sometimes I find a story I can buy at my regular space rates of one-quarter of a cent a word.”

  “All right,” Mason said crisply. “What are your troubles?”

  “My troubles!” Caddo exclaimed. “I have them by the thousand! I … Oh, you mean why did I come to see you?”

  “That’s right.”

  Caddo opened the magazine which Della Street had placed on Mason’s desk. With a practiced hand, he thumbed the pages and stopped at Ad 96. “Here we have it in a nutshell,” he said.

  He passed the ad across to Mason.

  Mason read:

  I am a girl of twenty-three, with good face and figure. I am the type the wolves all say should be in Hollywood, although Hollywood doesn’t seem to think so. I am an heiress with a comfortable fortune coming to me. I am tired of the people who know who I am and are quite obviously making love to me for my money. I would like very much to form a new circle of acquaintances. Will some personable young man between the ages of 23 and 40 write to tell me he knows how I feel. Also, when you write, tell me something about your background. Enclose a picture if possible. Communicate with me at Box 96, care of this magazine.

  Mason frowned.

  “What’s the matter?” Caddo asked.

  “Quite obviously this is a fake,” Mason said acidly. “No intelligent heiress would even read your magazine. A good-looking heiress would be far too busy and far too intelligent to waste her time reading such tripe, let alone sending in an advertisement for you to publish. This is the cheapest type of exploitation.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Caddo said.

  “You should be.”

  “I mean I’m sorry that you can’t understand.”

  “I think I do understand. I would say that this ad was the result of a collaboration by Arthur Ansell Ashland and George Cartright Dawson.”

  “No! No! No, Mr. Mason! Please don’t,” Caddo said, holding an uplifted hand with the palm toward Mason, as though he were a traffic cop restraining an impatient pedestrian.

  “You mean you didn’t write that yourself?”

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Then you had someone do it,” Mason charged.

  “But Mr. Mason, really I didn’t. That’s what I came to see you about.”

  “All right, tell me about it.”

  The lawyer’s cynical eyes, boring into his, caused Caddo to shift uneasily. “I wish you would believe me, Mr. Mason.”

  “Give me the facts.”

  “In this business, you understand, as in any other business, once a person blazes a trail there are others who will follow it—in other words, I have imitators, and these imitators are my bitter rivals.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “One of these imitators has complained to the authorities that I am boosting the circulation of my magazine by resorting to false advertising.”

  “What do the authorities say?”

  “They’ve advised me either to withdraw this issue from circulation or prove to them that the ad is genuine. And I can’t do either.”

  “Why not?”

  “In the first place, this is not really a magazine, in the usual sense of the word. It’s sort of a pamphlet. We print a large number and keep them in circulation until they’re sold out or until the freshness has so worn off that our advertising returns cease. To call in all the magazines and print others would be out of the question. Oh, I suppose it could be done, but it would be expensive and annoying and would necessitate a lot of work.”

  “If the ad is genuine, why can’t you prove it’s genuine?”

  Caddo stroked his big jaw with long, powerful fingers. “Now there’s the rub,” he said.

  “Meaning no pun, I take it,” Mason observed with a swift glance at Della Street.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing. Go on.”

  “Well,” Caddo said, still rubbing his chin, “perhaps I’d better explain to you a little something about how we work, Mr. Mason.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The only way a reader can communicate with one of the persons who has seen fit to insert an ad in my magazine is by purchasing a copy of the magazine at twenty-five cents, writing a message on the back page, and seeing that that page reaches the office of the magazine, properly addressed to the box with which he wishes to communicate. We then take the responsibility of seeing that the message is placed in the proper box. That’s all. If the message is sent to us through the mails it’s done by the subscriber at his own risk. In fact, we suggest that it be delivered personally, but if a subscriber lives out of town, of course, he usually has to mail his message.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Now, a person who wants a pen-pal will be quite apt to communicate with several different advertisers. In other words, a person will often write ten or fifteen letters.”

  “All at the expense of buying a magazine for each letter at twenty-five cents a copy?” “That’s right.”

  “And then what?”

  “He will probably receive an answer to every letter he writes.”

  “So that he then ceases to be lonely and therefore ceases to be a customer.”

  Caddo smiled. “It hardly works out that way.”

  “No?”

  “No. A person who is truly lonely,” Caddo said, “is very apt to be so because of some facet of his own character, not because of his environment. In other words, Mr. Mason, you take a mixer, a person who is going to be popular, and put him down in a strange city where he doesn’t know a soul, and within a couple of weeks he’ll have quite a circle of friends. Of course, with a woman it’s a little more difficult, but they always manage some way. Now, the people who use my columns are, for the most part, mature people, who have something within themselves that keeps them from mixing, from making friends. A normal girl is married by the time she’s thirty. One who passes that age, still unmarried, and not from choice, is quite apt to have a personality that will doom her to a solitary life. In other words, she has erected a barrier between herself and her emotions, between herself and the world; yet she’s yearning to have someone smash that barrier. She herself lacks the power to remove it.

  “Anyhow, without going into a lot of details about the psychology of lonely people—and I can assure you, Mr. Mason, I’ve made quite a study of that psychology—the fact remains that my customers are, as nearly as I can tell, more or less steady. For instance, we’ll take the case of a hypothetical Miss X. Miss X is perhaps a spinster of forty-two or forty-three. She is wistful, lonely and essentially romantic. There are, however, certain mental inhibitions which keep her from letting herself go, so that only
in the privacy of her own mind does she have these romantically gregarious thoughts.

  “She’s probably been someone’s old-maid aunt who has perhaps lived with her married sister, helped take care of the children until the children grew up, and then found either that her welcome was wearing thin or that she was being used more and more as a servant. So she starts out for herself and she’s completely lost. While she lived with her married sister she had a vicarious sort of life, a man around the house, children to care for, a feeling she was doing something. When she struck out for herself, she became an isolated piece of flotsam on a sea of cold faces.”

  “You certainly talk the way Arthur Ansell Ashland writes,” Mason interpolated, “but go on with your story.”

  “Someone tells our hypothetical Miss X about my magazine,” Caddo continued. “She puts an ad in, a very diffident ad, using the same old clichés about an unmarried woman of refinement, in the thirties, wishing to correspond with some gentleman whom she will find congenial.

  “Now, the gentleman she has in mind is an ideal that exists only in her own mind. He certainly isn’t going to be one who is answering the ads in my magazine.”

  “What about the men who answer the ads?”

  “There aren’t as many of the men as there are women. There really aren’t enough to go around. Of course, we get lots of answers, but some of them are from practical jokers. It’s quite the thing for pranksters to buy copies of the magazine, write that they’re lonely widowers with large fortunes and good automobiles and things of that sort, and build up a correspondence with some of these women, simply for the purpose of a practical joke. It is, of course, cruel.”

  “But each letter nets you twenty-five cents.”

  Caddo nodded and said, without enthusiasm, “However, I would like to have the practice discontinued. It’s cruel and it’s bad for my business, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Tell me something about the men who aren’t practical jokers,” Mason said.

  “The men are mostly crusty old bachelors who are in love with the dream of a childhood sweetheart who is dead or married to someone else. There are, of course, a sprinkling of glib-tongued adventurers who are in terested only in the small savings the women may have put by for a rainy day. In short, Mr. Mason, the men who advertise are all too frequently somewhat spurious. There is, however, one class, and that’s the green-as-grass young swains from the country who are awkward, diffident, and shy. They want to get acquainted and don’t know just how to go about it.”