The Case of the Sulky Girl (2 page)

"And Norton?"

"Yes, Edward Norton," said Mason.

"Thank you," said the boy. He turned abruptly, crossed the office with nervous, self-conscious haste, as though painfully aware of the gaze of Perry Mason, and plunged into the outer office.

Perry Mason rang for his secretary.

Della Street, his secretary, was about twenty-seven years old. Her manner radiated assurance and efficiency. She pushed open the door from the outer office.

"You rang?" she asked.

"Yes," he told her, "come in."

She stepped into the office and closed the door gently behind her.

"Let's check our impressions," he said, "about that girl."

"How do you mean?" she asked.

He stared at her moodily.

"I think," he said, "that I put the words in your mouth. You said she looked trapped or sulky. Now I am wondering which it was."

"Does it make a lot of difference?" asked Della Street.

"I think it does," he told her. "In your impressions you are usually right and you had a chance to see her when she wasn't posing. She started to pose as soon as she came into my office."

"Yes," said Della Street, "she's the type that would be good at posing."

"She sat down in the chair," he told her, "and figured just how to hold her head, just how to cross her knees and arrange her skirt, just what kind of an expression to put on her face."

"Did she tell you the truth?" asked Della Street.

"None of them tell the truth the first time," he told her, "at least the women don't. That's why I want to know just what kind of an impression she made on you. Did she look trapped, or did she look sulky?"

Della Street spoke thoughtfully, as though weighing her words carefully.

"She looked both trapped and sulky," she said, "as though she got caught in some kind of a trap and had turned sulky."

"Are you sure," he asked, "that it wasn't panic?"

"How do you mean?" she wanted to know.

"Lots of people," he said, "try to put on a poker face when they are in a panic and when they try to put on a poker face they look sulky."

"And you think she was in a panic?" asked Della Street.

"Yes," he said, slowly. "I think she was in a panic. I think she's a self-willed little devil who nearly always gets her own way and who has an ungovernable temper. I think she's caught in some sort of a trap and is trying to get out. When we know her better we'll find out more about her temper."

"A hell-cat?" asked Della Street.

He twisted his lips in a smile.

"Let's call her a hell-kitten," he said.

Perry Mason was seated at his desk. His eyes squinted carefully.

"Why the secrecy?" he asked.

She advanced a step or two into the room and looked at him, then turned to glance at the door and made certain that it was closed.

"There's a man in the outer office who gives his name as Robert Gleason."

"What does he want?" asked Perry Mason.

"He wants information about Miss Celane."

"The one who has just been here?"

"Yes."

"You didn't tell him she had just been here?"

"Certainly not."

"What did he say?"

"He said that he wanted to see you. I asked him what the nature of his business was and he said it was about a client of yours. I told him that he would have to give me the name of the client and tell me something of the nature of the business. He said that it was about Miss Celane and he was very anxious to see you about her."

"All right," Mason said, "what did you tell him?"

"I told him that I wasn't familiar with the names of your clients; that he would have to be more specific concerning his business. He's frightfully excited."

"What's he excited about?" asked Mason. "The girl, his business, or what?"

"I don't know. He's excited and nervous."

Mason squared his shoulders as though reaching a sudden decision.

"Send him in," he said, "I want to talk with him."

She nodded and turned, holding the door open.

"You may come in," she said.

There was the rustle of motion. A man came into the room who radiated restlessness. He was a thin man with a very pointed nose and large ears. He walked with nervous jerky steps. He was in the late twenties or early thirties.

"You're Mason, the lawyer?" he asked, his voice quick with impatience.

Perry Mason surveyed him with patient eyes peering out from under heavy eyebrows.

"Sit down," he said.

His visitor hesitated, then sat down on the edge of one of the straight-backed chairs.

"Now, what did you want?" asked Perry Mason.

"I want to find out whether Frances Celane called on you to-day."

Perry Mason's face was patiently appraising.

"This is a law office and not an information bureau, Mr. Gleason," he said.

Gleason jumped nervously to his feet, made three swift strides to the window, stood against the light for a moment, then whirled to stare at the lawyer.

His eyes were dark and smouldering. He seemed to be fighting some overpowering emotion.

"Never mind the wisecracks," he said. "I've got to know whether or not Fran Celane was here talking with you."

Perry Mason's voice did not change its expression in the least. The other man's impatience dropped from his calm manner as easily as butter slips from a hot knife.

"Let's not have any misunderstanding about this," said Perry Mason. "You're talking about a Miss Frances Celane?"

"Yes."

"Do you know Miss Celane personally?"

"Of course I do."

Perry Mason made a frank, disarming gesture with his right hand as though the entire matter were dismissed as of no importance.

"That simplifies it," he said.

"What does?" asked Gleason, suspiciously.

"The fact that you know Miss Celane," said Perry Mason. "Under the circumstances, all you have to do is to ask her if she has consulted me. If she has not, there will be no necessity for you to return. If she has and doesn't want you to know it, she will doubtless find some way of concealing the fact. If she has consulted me and doesn't care if you know the fact, she will tell you."

He got to his feet and smiled at his visitor as though the interview were terminated.

Robert Gleason remained standing by the window. His face showed that he was laboring under a great strain.

"You can't talk that way to me," he said.

"But," explained Mason, patiently, "I have already talked that way to you."

"But you can't do it."

"Why not?"

"It would be all right to talk that way to a stranger," he said, "but I'm not a stranger. I'm close to Fran Celane. I've got a right to know. She's being blackmailed, and I want to know what you propose to do about it."

Perry Mason raised his eyebrows in polite interrogation.

"Who is being blackmailed?" he asked. "And by whom?"

Gleason made an impatient gesture.

"What's the use of all that hooey?" he asked. "I know she was here, and you know she was here. You know she's being blackmailed, and I want to know what you propose to do about it."

"I think," said Mason, "that under the circumstances I'm going to ask you to step out of the office. You see, when I asked you to come in, I thought that you had some matter of legal business to take up with me. As it happens, I am rather busy to-day, and I really haven't time to discuss with you the only matter which seems to interest you."

Gleason kept his position.

"At least," he said, "you can tell me who is doing the blackmailing. That's all I want to know. If you'll give me that information I'll arrange to take care of it myself."

The lawyer walked to the door, standing there very efficient and gravely dignified.

"Good-by, Mr. Gleason," he said. "I'm sorry that I can be of no assistance to you."

"That's final?" asked Gleason, his lips twisting with emotion, until he seemed to be snarling.

"That's all," said Perry Mason, in a tone of finality.

"Very well," said Gleason, and strode across the room and through the door without another word.

Perry Mason closed the door gently, hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, dropped his head forward and started pacing the floor.

After a few moments, he went to his desk, and took out the typewritten paper containing the copy of the clause in the will of Carl Celane, setting forth the terms of the trust to Frances Celane.

He was still studying this typewritten document when Della Street opened the door once more.

"Miss Celane," she said.

Mason looked at her speculatively for a moment, then beckoned to her.

She interpreted the gesture, and stepped fully into the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

"Did Gleason go out of the office as soon as he left here?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "in just about nothing flat. He acted as though he was trying to win a walking race."

"And Miss Celane just came in?"

"Yes."

"You don't think they met in the elevator?"

Della Street pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"They might have, Chief," she said, "but I don't think they did."

"How does Miss Celane seem?" he asked. "Excited?"

"No," she said, "cool as a cucumber, and she's trying to look her best when she comes in. She took out her compact and is making her face all pretty. She's got her hair arranged just so."

"All right," said Mason, "send her in."

The secretary opened the door. "Come in, Miss Celane," she said.

As Frances Celane walked into the room, the secretary slipped out through the door, and noiselessly closed it behind her.

"Sit down," said Perry Mason.

Frances Celane walked over to the same leather chair which she had occupied earlier in the day, sat down, crossed her knees and regarded the attorney from limpid black eyes in wordless interrogation.

"A Robert Gleason called on me a few minutes ago," said Mason, "and insisted on my telling him whether or not you had been here."

"Bob's so impulsive," she said.

"You know him then?"

"Yes, of course."

"Did you tell him you were going here?" he asked.

"I mentioned your name to him," she said. "Did you tell him that I had been here?"

"Certainly not. I told him to get in touch with you if he wanted to ask any questions about your affairs."

She smiled faintly.

"Bob Gleason wouldn't appreciate your talking to him like that," she said.

"He didn't," Mason told her.

"I'll see him," she said, "and tell him."

"Gleason," went on the attorney, "said that you were being blackmailed."

For just a fraction of a second there was a look of startled terror in the eyes of the young woman. Then she regarded the attorney with a placid and impassive face.

"Rob is so impulsive," she said, for the second time.

Mason waited for her to tell him more if she wished to take advantage of the opportunity, but she sat calmly placid, waiting.

Mason turned to the papers on his desk.

"I have copies of the trust provisions of the will, and the decree of distribution," he said. "I also find that there have been annual accounts submitted by the trustee. I'm afraid that I can't give you very much hope, Miss Celane, as far as the decree of distribution itself is concerned. The administration of the trust seems to be largely discretionary.

"You see, even if I should be able to get the provision in regard to marriage set aside, as being in violation of public policy, we would still be confronted with the fact that the distribution of the trust estate remains largely in the discretion of the trustee. I am afraid that your uncle would consider our attack upon the will in the light of an interference with the wishes of your father, and with his authority as trustee. Even if we should win our point in court, he would have it in his discretion to nullify our victory."

She took the blow without flinching, and said, after a moment: "That's what I was afraid of."

"There is another peculiar provision in the trust," said Mason, "to the effect that the discretion vested in the trustee is a personal discretion, due to the confidence which your father had in his judgment. The will and decree of distribution provide that in the event the trust should terminate because of the death, inability or refusal on the part of the trustee to continue to act, that then and in such event, the entire trust fund is to be vested in you unconditionally."

"Yes," she said, "I know that."

"There is therefore," said Mason, "some possibility that your uncle might be placed in a position where he could no longer act to advantage. In other words, we might make some legal attack upon his capacity to act as trustee – perhaps show a commingling of trust funds with his own accounts, or something of that sort. It's rather sketchy, and I'm mentioning it to you simply because it seems to be the only possible plan of campaign open to us."

She smiled at him and said: "You don't know my uncle."

"Just what do you mean by that?" asked Mason.

"I mean," she said, "that my uncle is meticulously careful, and is so obstinate that no power on earth can swerve him from anything he wants to do, or decides that he doesn't want to do. He is entirely self-sufficient."

For the first time during the interview, there was some feeling in her voice – a certain bitterness which colored her tone, though her eyes remained calm.

"Have you any suggestions?" asked Mason, watching her closely.

"Yes," she said, "I think that something might be done through Arthur Crinston."

"And who," asked Perry Mason, "is Arthur Crinston?"

"Arthur Crinston," she said, "is my uncle's partner. They are engaged in business together, buying, selling and mortgaging real estate, and buying and selling stocks and bonds. Arthur Crinston has more influence with uncle than any other living person."

"And how does he feel toward you?" asked Mason.

"Very kindly," she said, and smiled as she said it.

"Would there be any chance," asked Mason, slowly, "that Crinston could persuade your uncle to give up the administration of the trust and let you have the entire trust fund?"

"There's always a chance of anything," she said, abruptly, getting to her feet. "I'm going to have Mr. Crinston come in and see you."

"Sometime to-morrow?" asked Mason.

"Sometime this afternoon," she said.

He regarded his watch. "It's twenty minutes past four. I close the office at five. Of course I could wait a few minutes."

"He'll be here at quarter of five," she said.

"Do you want to telephone from here?" he asked.

"No, it won't be necessary."

"What," asked Perry Mason, snapping the question at her without warning, as she stood in the doorway of the office, "did Rob Gleason mean when he said that you were being blackmailed?"

She regarded him with wide, tranquil eyes.

"I'm sure," she said, "I haven't the faintest idea," – and closed the door.