The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece (3 page)

"You're going to use a detective?" she asked.

"On Mrs. Doris Sully Kent," he said, "and in a big way. When it comes to negotiating alimony settlements with matrimonial racketeers, an ounce of information is worth a pound of conversation."

Della Street pulled a list of telephone numbers to her, moving with that unhurried efficiency which accomplishes things. Perry Mason strode to the window, stood staring meditatively down into the street below. Suddenly he turned, jerked open a drawer of his desk, and pulled out binoculars. He raised the window with his left hand, held the binoculars to his eyes, and leaned far out over the sill.

Della Street calmly hung up the receiver in the middle of her conversation to hold a pencil poised over her notebook. Mason, eyes glued to the binoculars, called out, "9-R-8-3-9-7." Della Street's pencil wrote the number on her notebook. Mason lowered the binoculars, closed the window. "Get it, Della?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"The license number of a green Packard roadster with the top down, driven by a woman in a blue dress, and trailing our client, Peter B. Kent. I couldn't see her face, but if her legs don't lie, she's got a swell figure."

Mason nodded, motioned him to a chair and said into the telephone, "What do you know about sleepwalking, Jim?… Well, I've got a case for you. The man doesn't know he's sleepwalking. He's very nervous. Carries a knife and pad-pads around the house in his bare feet… You're going out with me tonight and investigate. We don't have to eat there, which is a blessing. How the hell do I know if he's going to stick a knife into us? Wear a chainmail nightgown if you want to. I'll call for you at seven-thirty… You're supposed to be checking up on him because his wife is going to claim he's crazy… Well, wives do get that way once in a while… Sure there's a fee in it, but don't get mercenary until after you've seen the niece… I'll say!… Okay, I'll pick you up at the club…" Mason dropped the receiver back on the hook and grinned across at Paul Drake.

The lanky detective slid into the overstuffed black leather chair and sat crosswise, knees elevated over one arm, the other arm supporting the small of his back. "Sleepwalking, eh?" he asked, in a slow drawl.

Mason nodded and said, "Do you walk in your sleep, Paul?"

"Hell, no! You keep me so busy I don't get any sleep. What do you want this time?"

"I want some good men to look up a Mrs. Doris Sully Kent, living somewhere in Santa Barbara. Don't shadow her just yet, because she's smart and I don't want to tip my hand, but find out all about her past, her friends, finances, morals, dissipations, residence and future plans. Also get the dope on a Frank B. Maddox, of Chicago, inventor and manufacturer. He's here in the city at present, so don't bother about anything except the Chicago angle. Find out who owns a green Packard roadster, license number 9R8397."

"When do you want all this?"

"As soon as I can get it."

Drake consulted his watch, said, "Okay. Do I keep the Santa Barbara investigation under cover?"

"Yes. Don't let her or her friends know she's being investigated."

Drake yawned, pulled his tall figure from the chair. "On my way," he said as he started for the door.

Della Street, hearing the door slam, entered the office.

"Where's Jackson?" Mason asked.

She smiled and said, "Packing his bag, getting ready to go to Santa Barbara and find out the exact status of the case of Doris Kent versus Peter Kent. I took the liberty of reading your mind, and giving him the order. I've telephoned the garage to fill his car with gas, oil and water and deliver it here."

Mason grinned and said, "Good girl. Some day I'll decide to raise your salary and find you've read my mind and already done it. Telephone the county clerk at Santa Barbara. Arrange with some deputy to stay after hours. Tell Jackson to telephone me and let me know what he finds out." Mason consulted his wristwatch, said meditatively, "It's about one hundred miles. Jackson should be there in something less than three hours. Tell him to step on it."

Looking down at her notebook, she read, "… And, Whereas, the parties hereto desire, once and for all, to settle and adjust the affairs of the said co-partnership and each to release the other from any and all claims of any sort, nature, or description which he may have arising from any cause whatsoever…"

"That's just the point I'm making," Duncan interrupted doggedly. "My client should only release any claim he may have as a co-partner. That release covers all claims. The sole purpose of this compromise is to settle the partnership business. Now my client…"

Mason interrupted impatiently, "What claim does your client have against Peter Kent that isn't a partnership claim?"

"I don't know of any," Duncan admitted.

"Then it won't hurt to give a general release."

"If," Duncan countered suspiciously, "he hasn't any claim, why should it be necessary to make such a release?"

"Because I'm going to get this thing cleaned up for keeps," Mason said. "If your client does have any other claim against Kent let him make it now."

"Don't answer! Don't answer!" Duncan exclaimed, turning to Maddox. "Let me do the talking."

Mason sighed. Duncan pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, removed his bifocals and polished them. Mason taking a letter from a file which lay on the table in front of Kent, said, "Here's a letter signed by Maddox. Certainly you're not going back on your own client's signature. In this letter he claims…"

Duncan hastily took the letter, tilted his head back to peer through the lower half of the lenses, held the letter at arm's length, read it, reluctantly returned it, and said, "That letter was written before Mr. Maddox was aware of his legal rights."

Mason got to his feet. "All right," he said. "I don't like the way this business is developing. Your client either signs a blanket release or he doesn't get one damn cent. If you want to quibble him out of a good settlement go ahead."

Maddox raised his eyes from his shoe tips, flickered a brief glance at Duncan, started to say something, checked himself, remained staring steadily at his lawyer. Duncan's face flushed with anger; but he caught the meaning of Maddox's stare, said, "If you'll excuse us for a minute, I'll confer with my client."

He pushed back his chair. The pair left the room. Dr. Kelton, sitting a few feet back from the table, where he could study Kent's features, took a cigar from his mouth long enough to say, "You lawyers!"

Mason said irritably, "It serves me right for getting mixed up in a wrangle over a damned contract. My specialty is murder cases. Why the devil didn't I have sense enough to stick with them?"

Kent suddenly began to twitch, the twitching, starting at the corners of his mouth, spread to his eyes. He raised his hand to his face to control the twitching and the hand began to shake. Then his whole body was seized with a tremor. Dr. Kelton's eyes narrowed to watchful slits as he observed the shaking figure. By a visible effort, Kent controlled himself. The trembling ceased. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. "Don't pay him a cent," he said, "unless you get the release we want. He's a crook. He's just a greedy…"

The door opened. The butler, standing on the threshold, said, "Mr. Mason on the telephone, please."

Mason strode from the room, followed the butler down a corridor to a soundproof telephone closet, picked up the receiver, said, "Well?" and heard Della Street's voice saying, "Paul Drake's in the office with a report from Chicago. Jackson's just coming on the line from Santa Barbara. Stay on after you talk with Paul and I'll give you Jackson.

Mason said, "Okay," heard the click of a switch and Paul Drake's voice saying, "Hello, Perry. I got some dope at the Chicago end of the case. Frank B. Maddox is in hot water back there. He organized the Maddox Manufacturing Company. Apparently the capital came from a Peter B. Kent. The business was built up from nothing to a tidy little industry. Kent kept in the background. Maddox did the managing. About two months ago a suit was filed against Maddox by the widow of a James K. Fogg who claims her husband invented the valvegrinding machine which is the sole product of the Maddox Manufacturing Company. It's a long story. I'll only give you the highlights. Fogg was dying of tuberculosis. Maddox posed as a friend who could do something with the invention. He took Fogg's working model and then obtained patents to it in his own name, assigned the patents to the Maddox Manufacturing Company and never accounted to Fogg for any of the proceeds. Fogg died. He hadn't been living with his wife for several months, prior to his death; but, after his death, she was rummaging through some old papers and found enough stuff to put her on the right track. She investigated and then filed suit. Maddox has been stalling the suit along. She got an order to take his deposition and has been trying to locate him to serve a subpoena, but she can't find him. The detective agency I hired to get the dope on Maddox in Chicago is also retained by Mrs. Fogg's lawyers to locate Maddox and serve the subpoena."

"Did you," Mason asked, "tell them where Maddox was?"

"No, but I want to. Can I?"

"You're damned right," Mason said gleefully. "Give them the whole story. They can arrange to serve Maddox and take the deposition here, and the sooner they do it, the better I'll like it."

"Okay," Drake drawled. "And here's something else. Your green Packard roadster is the property of Doris Sully Kent of Santa Barbara."

Della Street's voice, cutting in on the wire, said, "Just a moment, Chief. I have Jackson on the line. I'm going to switch him over to you."

Jackson's voice, quavering with excitement, said, "I've run into a mare's-nest up here."

"What is it?"

"I find that the interlocutory decree of divorce was entered exactly one year ago, on the thirteenth of the month. Hudson, Reynolds & Hunt were attorneys for Mrs. Kent. Hudson was in charge of the case. Mrs. Kent fired him this morning. She's got some attorney there in Los Angeles to represent her."

"That interlocutory was entered on the thirteenth?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"You're certain of that?"

"Absolutely. I've checked the records."

Mason said, "Did you find out where Mrs. Kent's living?"

"Yes. It's 1325a Cabrillo Street."

Mason said, "Okay, Jackson. Here's what I want you to do. Park your car where you can watch Mrs. Kent's house. Keep the place under observation until I send someone to relieve you. She's driving a green Packard roadster. Follow her if she goes out, and get the license numbers of any cars that call there. I'll have someone relieve you shortly after midnight."

Mason hung up the receiver and strode back to the library. Duncan, suspicious eyes peering out from under bushy eyebrows, was nervously twisting his cigar in his mouth. "I think," he said, "that the matter can be arranged. My client feels that Mr. Kent, probably through ignorance, disposed of some very valuable partnership assets without consulting my client; that the patents are worth…"

"Forget it," Mason interrupted, "you've said that at least five different times since this conference started."

Duncan raised his head to peer irritably through the lower part of his glasses at Mason. "I don't like the tone of your voice, and I don't like your comment," he said. Mason grinned at him and said nothing. "My client desires an additional ten thousand if he's to make a blanket release," Duncan said grimly.

Kent started to say something but Mason silenced him with a gesture. "I'll have to discuss this with my client," he said to Duncan.

"Very well, do you wish me to withdraw?"

"We can't reach an immediate decision. I'll want to talk things over. We'll meet tomorrow night at the same hour."

"But I thought we were all ready to conclude the matter amicably," Duncan protested. Mason said nothing. After a moment Duncan remarked, "Well, if that's final, I presume I have no other alternative but to wait."

"That," Mason told him, "is final."

Duncan turned with slow dignity, paused in the doorway only long enough to say good night in a voice which failed to conceal his disappointment, then, ushering his client into the hallway, slammed the door behind him.

Kent said, "Dammit, Mason, I wanted to settle. Money doesn't mean much to me, but as you know, I want to get my affairs in order…"

"All right," Mason interrupted. "Now I'll tell you something: Maddox is a crook. Tomorrow we're going to file suit against Maddox alleging that he defrauded you by claiming he was the owner and inventor of the Maddox Valve-grinding Machine, whereas he wasn't the owner, wasn't the inventor and had obtained the working model by defrauding a man by the name of Fogg who was the real inventor. You're going to demand an accounting, have a receiver appointed for the business in Chicago and you're going to throw Maddox and Duncan out on their ears."

"You mean Frank didn't invent that machine?"

"Exactly. He stole the whole business."

"Why, dammit, I'll have him arrested! I'll fix him! I'll go to him right now and…"

"Forget it," Mason broke in. "You've got more important stuff to think of. Mrs. Fogg's suing Maddox in Chicago and trying to reach him with a subpoena. He's out here trying to shake you down for what he can get, grab the cash and skip out. If you tip your hand now, Mrs. Fogg will never be able to take his deposition. You're going to stall him along and keep him here in the house until the subpoena can be served on him in the Fogg case. But you've got other things to think of. Your former wife canned her Santa Barbara lawyers and hired someone here in Los Angeles. It's going to take a little time for this Los Angeles lawyer to get started. An interlocutory decree was entered in the Santa Barbara divorce case a year ago today. Tomorrow morning I can walk into court – if I walk in ahead of her lawyers – and get a final decree of divorce. As soon as I get it, you can legally marry."

"But doesn't that take three days' notice?"

"In this state, but not in Arizona. I'm going to have you sign the necessary affidavit to get a final decree. The court will grant it as a matter of course. You and Miss Mays fly to Yuma and wait until I telephone you that the final divorce has been granted. Then go ahead and remarry. That marriage will be legal."

"Does it have to be done that quickly? Couldn't we wait to give Miss Mays a chance to get packed, and…"

"Can't you see," Mason exclaimed, "the minute the former Mrs. Kent files those papers, you can't get married until the litigation's disposed of. But if you can beat her to it, get a final decree and remarry, you'll be in an impregnable position."

Kent jumped to his feet, started for the door. "Come on, Helen," he said. "You'll have to get the plane reservations." Together, they left the room.

Mason turned to Dr. Kelton. "Well, Jim, what do you think of him?"

Dr. Kelton puffed meditatively on his cigar, took it from his mouth, and said, "Perry, I'll be damned if I know. That act he put on was a fake."

"You mean that shaking business?"

"Yes."

"Then that isn't a symptom of some nervous disorder?"

"No. Certain involuntary repeated contractions of associated muscles constitute a malady generally known as Tic. Excluding a form of trigeminal neuralgia due to degenerative changes in the nerve, tics aren't painful. But this isn't a tic. Watching him closely, I'd be willing to swear he's faking."

"But why," the lawyer asked, "should Kent want to fake a nervous disorder? He's fighting his wife's claim that he is deranged. He's trying to show that he's perfectly sane. That's why he had me bring you out here."

Dr. Kelton shook his head. "He's the one that suggested you bring a doctor to observe him?"

"Yes. I think that his niece had something to do with the suggestion, but it came from him."

"He had you bring me out here," Dr. Kelton said slowly, "so that he could put on that act in front of me. Like most laymen, he exaggerated his ability to fool a doctor. He might have been able to fool a family physician into making a wrong diagnosis, but that shaking business wouldn't fool a psychiatrist."

"Then what's he building up to?" Mason asked. Kelton shrugged his shoulders. "How about the sleepwalking? Does that indicate anything?"

"You mean as a symptom of mental derangement?"

"Yes."

"No, sleepwalking is usually due to some emotional inhibition, an arbitrary association of ideas with the individual. It isn't a sign of mental derangement. It comes nearer being a species of individual hypnosis, an autosuggestion of the subconscious."

"Do sleepwalkers become more active at the full of the moon?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Frankly, Perry, we don't know."

"Well," Mason said, grinning, "this is a new one – a client retains me to prove he's sane and then tries to act goofy."