The Case of the Lonely Heiress

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “Any necking?” Drake asked.

  “Yes, there was a little necking,” Barstow said, “and to tell you the truth I wondered just what she had in mind. And then after the second call I made a halfway pass at her and got my face slapped so hard my ears were ringing. The first thing I knew, I found myself out on the street, and boy, did I get a bawling out! She said I was just like everyone else, all I thought of was making passes; that she thought I’d been a sweet, unspoiled country boy, and I turned out to be an amateur wolf, and she wanted me to understand that the wolf act was strictly amateurish.”

  “Perhaps you went too fast too soon,” Mason said.

  “Or too slow too late,” Della Street supplemented.

  Barstow smiled at Della, then frowned. “After the way the thing started out last night I know I wasn’t exceeding the speed limits. I was getting along swell. Then something happened. I’d swear she egged me on to the face-slapping point just so she could throw me out. It’s some place where I didn’t put my act across the way I should. I think she found out I was phony, and it worries me. My technique shouldn’t be that bad.”

  Drake said, “Well, as soon as you phoned in and gave me the license number and her address we double-checked on her, so we have everything we want. Does she know where she can get in touch with you?”

  “Yeah, I gave her a phone number. It’s a friend. She could reach me there.”

  “Think she’ll call up?” Drake asked.

  “I’d bet a hundred to one she doesn’t. She sure was mad when she put me out”

  Drake said, “Sounds to me as though she gave you a pass to first and you tried to steal second.”

  Mason said somewhat impatiently, “Oh, well, it’s all right. It’s all over now. Forget it.”

  “I hate to think I’ve muffed a play,” Barstow said.

  “We all do once in a while,” Drake reassured him and then said apologetically to Perry Mason, “I thought you’d like to know all the details, Perry.”

  Mason said, “Okay, thanks, Paul. That’s fine, Barstow. You did a good job. We got the information we wanted.”

  Barstow arose somewhat reluctantly, glanced again at Della Street and said, “I don’t ordinarily fall all over myself that way. I still would like to know what I did wrong.”

  They left the office, and Della Street said to Perry Mason, “What do you make of it, Chief?”

  Mason glanced up from the brief which had once more claimed his attention. “Make of what?”

  “That Barstow incident.”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “The guy probably misunderstood the signals and made the wrong play.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He must have done something,” Mason said. “She turned against him all at once, and it wasn’t for nothing.”

  “I don’t think it was anything he did,” Della Street said. “I’m just checking my impressions on Marilyn Marlow and giving it to you from a woman’s angle. Remember, this Marlow person used an ad in a lonely-hearts magazine. She met this chap and started giving him a rush act. She sized him up at a restaurant and then certainly encouraged him to throw a forward pass.”

  Mason pushed the brief to one side. “All right, Della, what are you getting at?”

  She said, “I think it was the telephone call.”

  Mason frowned, then whistled and said, “Perhaps you’ve got something there.”

  “A telephone call,” Della went on positively, “that tipped Marilyn Marlow off to the fact she was playing with dynamite. Now, who could have placed that call?”

  Mason let his eyes narrow in thoughtful speculation. “Wait a minute,” he said, “let’s get the time element on this thing.” He motioned to the telephone and said, “Get Drake’s office. See if Barstow has left. Ask him what time he got the gate.”

  Della Street put through the call, turned to Mason and said, “About one-fifty.”

  The lawyer started drumming with his fingers on the edge of the desk. He was frowning and thoughtful.

  “Do you,” Della Street asked, “know more than I do?”

  “I’m simply putting two and two together,” Mason said. “The answer?” Della Street asked. Mason said, “I guess I’ve been a little too easy-going, Della.”

  “How come?”

  Mason said, “If I’d thought it was that sort of a play I’d have charged him another thousand.”

  “You mean Robert Caddo?”

  “Robert Caddo,” Mason said.

  “Good grief! Do you think it was Caddo? What would have been the idea?”

  “I think it was Caddo,” Mason said. “And the idea is that our friend, Robert Caddo, intends to cut himself a piece of cake, and he evidently wants to be certain he gets the right piece—the one with all the frosting.”

  6

  At five o’clock, Gertie the receptionist and the two typists went home. At five-ten, Jackson, the law clerk, thrust an apologetic head into Mason’s private office. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Mason, I think I’ll leave early tonight.”

  Mason smiled, glanced at his watch and said, “It’s ten minutes late now.”

  “Early for me,” Jackson said. “I just can’t seem to get caught up with things.”

  He was so deadly serious that Mason merely smiled and nodded.

  At five-twenty, Mason pushed the law books and the brief back on his desk, said to Della Street, “Let’s call it a day, Della, and get a cocktail. I’ll drive you to your apartment, or, if you haven’t a date, I’ll buy you a cocktail and also a dinner.”

  “You’ve sold a dinner,” Della Street told him. “Let’s have a cocktail down at that little place in the Spanish Quarter and then go over to the restaurant that’s run by your Chinese friend for dinner. I feel like spareribs sweet and sour, fried prawns and some pork noodles.”

  “Simply ravenous, in other words,” Mason said, smiling.

  “I have to keep my strength up to hold my nose on the grindstone—particularly with all these heiresses bobbing in and out of our lives.”

  “Out is right,” Mason said.

  They closed up the office, drove in Mason’s car down to the Spanish Quarter and sipped a Bacardi while they toyed with thin sheets of fried corn-flavored delicacies.

  Della Street said, “You have your car here, and the depot’s only a couple of blocks away. Let’s drive around and pick up that bag you left in the parcel-checking locker last night. We were so worked up over the heiress, we drove away and left it.”

  “Good idea,” Mason said. “I guess we’re all finished with those stage props. Hang it, I hate to be double-crossed by a client.”

  “Of course you aren’t certain it was Caddo.”

  “There was only one person,” Mason said, “who knew that Barstow was a detective and who also knew Marilyn Marlow’s address. That person was our esteemed contemporary, Robert Caddo. You can see what he did. He got Marilyn Marlow’s name and address. He left my office, took an hour or two to get details, then hatched a plan, called her up and told her that a detective was on her trail.”

  “But the detective had indirectly been employed by him!”

  “Naturally,” Mason said, “he didn’t tell her that. He posed as an unselfish friend who had taken a fatherly interest in her because the ad had appeared in his magazine.”

  “I suppose it must have been Caddo,” Della said.

  “Caddo,” Mason went on, “is just one of those things. His whole magazine business is a racket. I’m kicking myself I didn’t realize that right at the start. However, he enlisted my sympathy with his hard-luck story. I’m always a pushover for a client’s tale of woe…. What time is it, Della?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Well, it’s a little early to eat, but—let’s go over and pick up the bag. Then we’ll have a Chinese dinner and by that time we can probably find a show we haven’t seen.”

  Mason left two silver dollars on the table, escorted Della Street out of the cocktail lounge and int
o his car. They drove to the terminal, and Mason parked the car.

  “I like to watch people around a depot,” he said. “It’s fascinating. You can see so much of human nature that way. People aren’t on their guard when they’re dead-weary or when they’re completely removed from their usual environment. A person who lives here in the city feels he’s on his own home ground, no matter what part of the city he’s in, unless it’s the depot. But the minute he walks into the depot he’s started, so to speak, on a complete change of environment and he lets his guard down. He … Della, do you see what I see?”

  “What?”

  “Over there at the information desk,” Mason said.

  “I don’t see anything. I … Oh! … He has a white carnation.”

  “In his right lapel,” Mason pointed out.

  “Do you suppose he’s another candidate?”

  “Evidently so,” Mason said. “She must make a habit of it—and, after all, why not? Having picked the best place for her to size up her prospective boy friends, there’s no particular reason why she should change it from night to night. If this is the best place for her purpose, any other place would be inferior, and … Let’s get that bag and then move over here and sit down where we can watch proceedings, Della.”

  They found a couple of seats three rows back, but in such a position that they had a good view of what was going on at the information booth.

  Della Street regarded the young man who was standing somewhat self-consciously in front of the information-booth barrier, and said, “He’s nowhere near as attractive as Kenneth Barstow.”

  “Seems to be an upstanding young chap,” Mason said.

  “But not attractive in the way that Barstow is. Tell me, Chief, have you known Barstow before?”

  Mason shook his head. “Just one of Drake’s operatives. They come and go. That young fellow probably was in the war and hasn’t been back with Drake more than six months or so. I just haven’t had occasion to meet him, so I can’t answer your question.”

  “What question?” Della Street asked, frowning.

  “As to whether he’s married.”

  She smiled. “I hadn’t asked it”

  “I merely told you I couldn’t answer it.”

  They waited for a moment in silence, then Mason said, “I wonder if she’ll pass this one up. She’s probably sizing him up from some other part of the station, but I don’t want to try rubbering around. It’ll make us too conspicuous. Wait a minute, here she is, coming out from that telephone booth. That’s a good place for her. She can sit in there and size up the one she lines up.”

  “She’s certainly going to a lot of trouble to get the perfect mate,” Della Street said.

  “I’m afraid she’s not looking for a mate,” Mason observed thoughtfully.

  “For what, then?”

  Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, “For someone to commit a murder, for all I know.”

  Marilyn Marlow glanced quickly around the depot, then walked up toward the information desk.

  “Certainly has a snaky figure,” Mason said.

  “And how well she knows it,” Della Street said acidly. “She certainly dresses for it, and … well, here we go again.”

  Marilyn Marlow walked up to the young man at the information desk. By this time that individual was rather absorbed in his own thoughts and it was necessary for her to touch his arm before, with a sudden quick jump, he whirled and smiled down at her, removing his hat in a single quick gesture of easy grace.

  “That’s no boy from the country,” Della Street said. “That chap knows his way around. I’d like to know what he told her in his letter.”

  “Something that got a response,” Mason said, “and from what we know, that isn’t an easy thing to do. A hundred candidates a day! That’s quite a handicap—one chance in a hundred!”

  The couple chatted for a moment, the man smiling affably and easily.

  For a moment the girl seemed somewhat dubious. Her large dark eyes sized him up from head to foot in critical appraisal, then, apparently reaching a decision, she smiled an invitation to accompany her, and the two left the depot.

  “Well, that’s that,” Della Street said. “I suppose it’s another taxicab and …”

  Mason was crisply businesslike as he said, “We’ll make certain of that, Della.”

  He arose and started for the exit.

  “Want me with you?” Della Street asked.

  “Uh huh, it’ll make it seem less conspicuous. When we get to the door, you pull back and argue with me to put through a telephone call to Aunt Myrtle. I won’t want to do it. That’ll give us an excuse to stand there without seeming to be gawking.”

  She nodded and at Mason’s side walked out to the cement apron in front of the depot.

  Marilyn Marlow and the young man were standing there, not saying anything at the moment.

  “Come on,” Della Street pleaded in a loud voice, “you simply have to call Aunt Myrtle. She’ll never forgive us if she knows we went through town without calling her.”

  “Oh, forget it,” Mason said. “Then we’d have to go out and spend all our time between trains sitting in a stuffy parlor and talking a lot of family stuff. Let’s look the city over and see what it’s like. It’s the first time we’ve ever been here.”

  “No, we must call Aunt Myrtle. Perhaps we can go out after that.”

  They were still arguing when a car pulled over to one side.

  “Shucks,” Della Street said under her breath, “they can’t get a taxicab here. What are they waiting for? The taxicabs are around at the other end and …”

  Abruptly Mason said, “All right, let’s go telephone Aunt Myrtle,” and putting his arm around Della Street swept her back toward the depot.

  “What is it?” Della asked quickly.

  “You might try looking back over your shoulder,” Mason said.

  Della Street looked back. A car had driven up and stopped at the curb. Marilyn Marlow swept imperiously toward it and the young man, quickly reaching past her, opened the door and assisted her in, then climbed in beside her. The door slammed and the car moved away.

  “Get a look at the chauffeur?” Mason asked.

  “Good heavens, yes!” Della Street exclaimed. “It was Robert Caddo! And he was all dolled up in a chauffeur’s cap and a suit of livery!”

  7

  Mason regarded Della Street’s practically untouched plate.

  “Not hungry, Della?”

  She shook her head.

  “I suppose you’re thinking of the same thing I am,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “I hate to be double-crossed by a client,” Mason went on, “but let’s try and get it off our minds while we’re eating. How about a dance?”

  She nodded, and Mason swept her out on the dance floor.

  But neither of them could enjoy the dance. There was a certain tension about Della Street, and Mason’s jaw had a determined set to it.

  “Of course,” Mason said at length, “it’s none of our business what she wants the chap for, but it certainly looks as though she wants to get some green-as-grass chap she can twist right around her fingers. I wonder if there’s something phony about that will, Della.”

  Della Street laughed. “You’re not only reading my mind, but you’re getting it all churned up.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, “let’s get out of here and take another look at Drake’s report.”

  Mason called the waiter, paid their check, retrieved his car from the parking lot and drove to his office building.

  The night janitor who operated the elevator grinned at Mason as the lawyer signed the night register. “You seen Paul Drake, Mr. Mason?”

  “Not recently.”

  “He’s looking for you. He said that if you came in, to be sure to have you call him on the phone before you did anything else.”

  Mason said, “Okay, I’ll stop in and see him.”

  The elevator cage shot upward.

&nbs
p; “What was that message again?” Della Street asked.

  “Said for Mr. Mason to call him on the phone before he did anything else.”

  “Mr. Drake is home, then?”

  “Nope,” the janitor said. “He’s in his office.”

  Della Street exchanged glances with Mason.

  “The perfect secretary,” Mason said. “I’d missed that one, Della.”

  “How’s that?” the janitor asked, as he brought the cage to a stop.

  “Nothing,” Mason said.

  They walked past the lighted offices which bore the sign, DRAKE DETECTIVE AGENCY, on the door, down the long corridor, around the bend, and Mason unlocked the door of his private office.

  Della Street was at the phone, dialing Drake’s number almost before Mason had the lights on.

  “Mr. Drake there?” she asked. “Mr. Mason’s office calling.”

  A moment later she said, “Hello, Paul. The Chief wants to talk with you…. How’s that? … Yes, down in our office. … All right, I’ll tell him.”

  She hung up the phone and said, “Paul’s on his way down here.”

  Mason said, “Must be something important or Paul wouldn’t have acted this way. I overlooked the significanee of Paul’s message, Della. I’ll have to hand you one for that. There must be someone waiting in his office and …”

  The steps of Paul Drake in the corridor sounded through the night silence of the big office building. Della Street opened the door of the private office.

  Paul Drake entered the room, a slow smile twisting his features.

  “Hi, folks!”

  “Hi, Paul.”

  “Did you get my message, Perry?”

  “Yes. Why did you want me to telephone? Someone in your office?”

  “That’s right,” Drake said, settling himself in the big, leather client’s chair, and hitched himself around so that the small of his back rested against one rounded arm of the chair while his long legs dangled over the other. “What kind of a client did you have on this job I used Kenneth Barstow on?”

  “That’s what’s bothering me,” Mason said. “I think he may have been trying to cut himself a piece of cake.”

  “With a chisel,” Drake said.