The Case of the Lonely Heiress

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “That’s fine,” Mason said. “She may try to trap him by asking questions about the farm, but I don’t think the answers will mean much to her. Now I’ll want three or four more operatives, Paul.”

  “What for?”

  Mason said, “She may never go near this man at the information desk, but she’ll be sizing him up. She’ll think that he’s too green to know what her game is or to spot her, but I want men sprinkled around who can spot her and who will follow her in case she doesn’t make contact with our plant.”

  “Just what do you want?”

  Mason said, “For the present, I want to find out who MM is. I want her name, her address, and I want to find out something about her background.”

  “Okay,” Drake said, “it should be easy. If she doesn’t go up and speak to my man, it’s a cinch she’ll be wandering around where she can size him up and my boys can pick her up.”

  “Okay,” Mason said. He turned to Della Street and said, “Ring up Robert Caddo and tell him I think we’ll have an answer to his question some time tomorrow. Make an appointment with him for tomorrow at ten o’clock, Della.”

  She nodded, jotting down the time in her appointment book.

  Paul Drake weighed the letter thoughtfully. “Perry, do you suppose there’s any chance this is on the up-and-up?”

  “Of course there’s a chance,” Mason said indulgently.

  “How much of a chance?”

  Mason grinned. “Offhand, I’d say just exactly one in a million, Paul.”

  4

  Perry Mason and Della Street entered the big terminal depot, Mason carrying an empty suitcase and a small traveling bag, Della Street equipped with an overnight bag and carrying a coat over her arm. The hour was five minutes to six.

  “How are we doing?” Mason asked.

  “Fine,” she said. “There are two seats over there to the left.”

  Mason followed Della Street over to the two vacant seats, placed his bags in front of his feet and ostentatiously displayed a timetable which he studied with frowning concentration.

  Della Street, with an attitude of assumed travel weariness, kept Mason posted on developments.

  “If Paul Drake has men scattered around here,” she said, “I’m so dumb I can’t spot them.”

  “Of course not,” Mason said over his timetable. “A detective who could be spotted as a detective wouldn’t be worth a hoot to Paul Drake.”

  “Aren’t people who are intelligent supposed to be able to pick out a detective?” Della Street asked.

  “They’re supposed to,” Mason said, “but they can’t.”

  “Well, here comes the bait,” Della said. “Gosh, he’s a good-looking boy.”

  Mason glanced up over his timetable.

  A tall, awkward lad, about twenty-four or twenty-five, wearing an expression of open-eyed credulity, attired in a suit which somehow seemed just a little too small for him, walked diffidently up to the information desk. There was a white carnation in his right lapel, and his face was darkened with what appeared to be a deep tan.

  “Gosh,” Della Street whispered, “he’s perfect.”

  “We’ll see if he gets the heiress,” Mason said. “Have you spotted her?”

  “Gosh, no, and I’m looking all around, too.”

  “Don’t overdo it,” Mason said.

  “I’m not, I’m just a weary housewife who has had to go through all of the strain of packing and hurrying to get away to go to San Francisco and visit Aunt Matilda. I’m pretty tired, but I’m still interested in the people around me and keyed up with anticipation for the trip.”

  “That’s the idea,” Mason said, “only don’t take too much interest in the people around you.”

  Mason folded the timetable, got up and took one of his bags over to the parcel-checking locker, placed the bag in the locker, took out the key after depositing his dime, then returned to his seat beside Della Street. He unfolded an evening newspaper. “All right,” he said, “keep me posted,” and forthwith apparently became engrossed in the news of the horse races.

  The activity of the terminal depot flowed past them in an unceasing stream. People walked aimlessly toward the train gates, only to turn and walk aimlessly back, waiting for arrivals and departures. Other people plodded wearily to seats, apparently waiting between trains. There were others who seemed anxiously awaiting trains where they were to meet friends or relatives. Here and there businessmen and seasoned travelers bustled about, sending telegrams, placing last-minute calls in the telephone booths, putting hand baggage into the custody of redcaps before boarding trains. In contrast to these crisply energetic travelers were the tired ones who waited, slumped down on the hard benches, wrapped in weary lethargy.

  “Oh, oh!” Della Street suddenly whsipered. “Wait a minute! I think I have her spotted. The brunette in the plaid skirt. Take a look at her, Chief.”

  “Just a minute,” Mason said. “Get your eyes off of her, Della, so that I can look up casually over the top of the newspaper. She may be suspicious.”

  Della Street said, “She’s directly in line with the parcel-checking window. Look a little over your left shoulder, Chief.”

  Mason slightly lowered the newspaper, opened his mouth in a prodigious yawn, threw his head back, and, as he was yawning, studied the girl Della Street had indicated.

  As Mason was watching her, she reached a decision, suddenly walked up to the man at the information desk, touched him on the arm and smiled sweetly at him.

  Paul Drake’s operative raised a big, awkward hand to his hat, pulled it off and grinned with pleased embarrassment.

  The pair talked for a moment, then the girl glanced swiftly around, said something to the man, and they left the terminal, turning toward the big doors through which people were streaming in and out.

  Della Street, watching them in dismay, said, “Chief, they’re leaving!”

  “Uh huh.”

  “But no one’s following them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “No one’s paying the slightest attention to them. Drake’s men must have fallen down on the job.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mason said, “they’ll be on the job, all right.”

  “Shouldn’t we try to see where they …

  “Definitely not,” Mason said, and stretched out once more to yawn wearily. Then he devoted himself to his newspaper.

  “You’re the most exasperating person in the world at times!” Della Street said. “I’m burning with curiosity.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “And we don’t know anything more about who she is than we did before.”

  “We’ve had a look at her,” Mason said. “That’s mainly what I wanted.”

  “Just a glance,” she said. “You couldn’t possibly tell anything about her.”

  “I can jump at conclusions,” Mason grinned. “They may be wide of the mark, but in any event they’re conclusions.”

  “Such as what?”

  “In the first place,” Mason said, “I don’t think she’s an adventuress. I have an idea she’s on the up-and-up. In the second place, she’s frightened about something. This meeting meant a lot more to her than might have been supposed. There was a look of relief on her face when she realized that this man was just the type she was looking for.”

  Della Street thought that over, then said, “Yes, I guess there was, come to think of it. … I can tell you something about her clothes. They’re simple clothes that really cost money. I wonder what sort of a car she’s driving.”

  “Nine chances out of ten it’s a taxicab,” Mason said. “She wouldn’t take a chance on letting anyone get the license number of her car until after she’d had an opportunity to talk and size him up. Well, Della, I guess the show’s over. How about eating?”

  “Now you’re really talking.”

  A travel-weary woman, who had elicited Della Street’s sympathy, patiently pushed back the four-year-old boy who had been clinging to her knees. The man wh
o was with her said, “I guess the train’s late. I’ll get Junior his ice cream cone.” He plodded away dispiritedly and returned in a moment with the ice cream cone. Then suddenly he veered over toward Perry Mason and Della Street.

  “I’m supposed to make my report direct to Paul Drake,” he said, “but they’ve gone away in a taxicab. Since the contacting operative is with her, we followed instructions and didn’t make any attempt to tag along. I guess that’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

  Mason smiled at Della Street.

  “That is what Miss Street particularly wanted to know,” he said.

  5

  Mason said, “come in and sit down, Mr. Caddo.”

  Caddo’s manner seemed nervous. “You have a report for me?” he asked.

  “That’s right. I think I can set your mind at ease on the matter concerning which you consulted me.”

  “So soon?”

  Mason nodded.

  Caddo seated himself and almost immediately began stroking his chin nervously with his long, powerful fingers.

  “Your lonely heiress in Box 96,” Mason said, “is Miss Marilyn Marlow. She inherited approximately three hundred and fifty thousand dollars from her mother under rather peculiar circumstances. Her mother was a special nurse who attended a George P. Endicott during his last illness. Endicott made a will, leaving a large, old fashioned, rambling mansion where he had been living to his two brothers and a sister. He also devised and bequeathed to each the sum of ten thousand dollars. All the rest, residue and remainder of his estate he left to Eleanore Marlow, Marilyn’s mother. The will also contained a proviso that if any of the heirs should question the validity of gifts he had made to Eleanore Marlow in his lifetime—some cash and a collection of gems that were family heirlooms—such heir would forfeit all right to take any property under the will.

  “Eleanore Marlow was killed in an automobile accident shortly after Endicott died. Marilyn is her only daughter. She is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred thousand dollars—perhaps more. She certainly comes within the definition of an heiress. In fact, her mother’s estate has not as yet been closed and the Endicott Estate has not been closed. There are some properties in Oklahoma which are potentially oil-bearing.

  “The will was admitted to probate, but the brothers and the sister plan to contest it. The witnesses to Endi-cott’s will were two nurses, a Rose Keeling, and Ethel Furlong. The contest may be pretty hot. At the time the will was executed, Endicott was partially paralyzed. He signed with his left hand.”

  Caddo heaved an enormous sigh of relief. “Mr. Mason, I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am. I can’t even begin to tell you what a load you’ve taken off my mind.”

  Mason nodded.

  “But why in the world,” Caddo went on, “would a woman like that—young and attractive and wealthy—want to use my magazine for the purpose of making new friends?”

  “I believe the ad says that she is weary of the type of people with whom she comes in contact,” Mason said dryly. “Fortune hunters and people of that sort.”

  “But if I understand you correctly,” Caddo said, “she must have old friends, friends whom she knew before she ever inherited the money. After all, this is rather a recent development, isn’t it, Mason, this wealth of hers?”

  Mason nodded.

  “Then she must have had friends whom she knew before. … How long has she lived here, Mason?”

  “Apparently about five years.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Caddo said.

  “Do you have to?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As I understand your position, you are being accused of endeavoring to build the circulation of your magazine by a false advertisement.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s false about the advertisement?”

  Caddo rubbed his chin. “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Exactly,” Mason said.

  A slow grin suffused Caddo’s features. “I guess, Mr. Mason, thanks to you, I’m sitting pretty.” Mason nodded.

  “And the replies,” Caddo went on, “keep rolling in. Good heavens! The mail that girl is getting! I had enough of the magazines printed to last me two months, and stocks are getting low already.”

  “Then you’ll have to put out a new issue of the magazine?” Mason said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Caddo said. “I’ll simply reprint. With that ad pulling the way it is, I’ll keep on selling those magazines until the cows come home. Boy-oh-boy, what a sweet spot to be in! She’s getting a hundred replies a day right now.”

  Caddo got up out of his chair, then paused. “Are we all square, Mr. Mason?”

  “All square,” Mason said. “I’ve had some expenses, but I’ll pay them out of the five hundred dollars and still have enough left to cover my fee.”

  “That’s splendid! Would you mind telling me how you pulled this particular rabbit out of the hat, Mr. Mason?”

  “It took a little head work and a little leg work, that’s all.”

  “I presume, of course, you hired someone to do the leg work.”

  Mason said, “I try to get results, Caddo. I believe I got them.”

  “That’s right,” Caddo said, “you certainly did.”

  He shook hands with Mason, beamed at Della Street, and then, halfway to the door, said, “By the way, I’d better get all the dope on this Marilyn Marlow. What’s her address?”

  Mason consulted a card and said, “The address is 798 Nestler Avenue, at the Rapahoe Apartments. Any details you need about the rest of the layout, in case you do need them, you can secure from the office of the Probate Clerk, Matter of the Estate of George P. Endicott, deceased.”

  Caddo pulled a fountain pen from his pocket, scribbled a note on the back of an envelope, smiled beamingly once more, and went out.

  Mason said to Della Street, “Well, let’s forget the heiress, Della, and get to work on this brief. It seems terribly prosaic now. Hang it, why did Marilyn Marlow put that ad in? Oh, well, we have work to do.”

  Mason went to lunch, returned at two o’clock, worked until three, and then Paul Drake telephoned.

  “Perry,” the detective said, “do you want to talk with Kenneth Barstow?”

  “Who’s Barstow, Paul?”

  “The operative who was on that Marilyn Marlow case.”

  “Shucks, no, that case is closed.”

  “I had an idea you might like to get the low-down from Barstow. Something’s a little strange there. He thought she might be looking for something.”

  “So what?” Mason asked.

  “I mean she may be wanting him to do something specific, something that was a little bit shady.” “Where is he?”

  “In the office here. He’s been talking to me and I thought you might like to ask him a question or two, just to complete your files in case anything else turns up.”

  Mason glanced at his watch and said, “Oh, bring him in, Paul. Let’s hear the story.”

  Drake said, “We’ll be in right away.”

  Mason nodded to Della Street. “Open the door for Paul, Della. He’s bringing in the operative who made the pickup with Marilyn Marlow.”

  “Some sheik,” Della observed. “And you were going to put him out of my life, just like that?”

  Mason laughed. “I don’t know why I should waste any more time on it. The client has been satisfied; we’ve got a fee. But let’s hear his story. I’m curious.”

  Della Street opened the door and a moment later Drake and his operative entered the office. “This is Kenneth Barstow,” Drake said by way of introduction. “Sit down, Kenneth. You’ve seen Perry Mason, I guess, and this is Miss Street, his secretary. Tell them your story.”

  Barstow was no longer the awkward-appearing young man from the country. He wore a double-breasted suit that fitted his slim-waisted figure to advantage. His thick, wavy black hair was combed back from his forehead, and his blue eyes dwelt appreciatively for a moment on D
ella Street, then shifted back to Perry Mason.

  “I made contact with the subject at seven minutes past six,” he said. “We went in a taxicab to a restaurant. She bought the dinner and did most of the talking. I put on an act of being bashful and tongue-tied. She cross-examined me some about the country and life on the farm. She didn’t know too much about life in the country and I did, so it was duck soup. We walked from the restaurant over to a parking station. She had her car there. I got the license number and knew then that I was getting to first base. She drove around the city, got up in the park and stopped to show me the lights, and we did a little necking.”

  “How much?” Drake asked.

  Barstow glanced apologetically at Della Street and said, “All of the preliminaries.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I drove home with her and saw her to her apartment. She bought me a drink, and that was the end of the evening.”

  “No more necking?” Drake asked.

  “Not after we got to her apartment. She was businesslike then. She said she might have a job for me. She wanted to see me again right after lunch, this afternoon. I told her I wasn’t working at present, because I thought it would be a lot easier to stand by that than to tell her I had a job and have her check on it and find I was wrong. You see,” Barstow went on, “I didn’t know whether this was going to be just a one-time contact job or whether it was going to run along for several days.”

  Mason nodded.

  “I went back about one-thirty, as she had suggested. We were going to play some tennis. I told her I wasn’t too good at it, but she wanted to play a couple of sets. She said she had to watch her figure.”

  “Did you play?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got in bad.”

  “How?”

  “That’s the thing I don’t understand. I went up to her apartment and she bought me a drink and chatted along a while, then she went in the bedroom to change her clothes. The phone rang a couple of times and she talked on the calls.”