The Case of the Sulky Girl (9 page)

He took the money, crisp new one-thousand-dollar bills. There were ten of them. He looked at her for a few moments, then folded and pocketed the money.

"All right," he said, "where did you get it?"

Her eyes suddenly contained expression. "That's none of your business," she snapped. "You're an attorney paid to represent me; not to inquire into my personal affairs."

He stood with his feet apart, smiling down at her rage.

"Your temper," he told her, "is going to get you into trouble some day."

"Oh, you think so, do you?" she flared.

"I know it," he said. "You're getting on thin ice. You've got to learn to keep your temper and use your head."

"Just what do you mean by that crack about thin ice?"

"I was referring," he said, in cold tones, "to the reason that you were spared more detailed questioning last night, or, rather, early this morning."

"What was that?"

"The fact that you had taken your uncle's Buick sedan without his permission, and were, as I remember your story, speeding around the country trying to settle your nerves."

"I always do that," she said, her voice suddenly cautious, "after I've been in a rage. It calms me down."

He continued to smile frostily at her.

"Do you know how far you drove the automobile?"

"No. I drove it an hour or so. I had my foot pretty well down on the throttle. I drive like that most of the time."

"How unfortunate," he said, "that the speedometer was disconnected."

She stared at him, with her eyes suddenly wide and very dark.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, slowly.

"About the fact that your uncle's notebook shows every mile that the Buick was driven."

"Does it?" she asked, warily.

"Yes," said Mason dryly. "He made a note of driving the car from the bank to the house, showing that he started with the speedometer registering 15,299.5 miles, and arrived at the house registering 15,304.7 miles."

"Well," she asked, "what if he did?"

"When I inspected the speedometer on the Buick sedan this morning," he said slowly, "it showed 15,304.7 mules."

She stared at him with her eyes dark with panic. Her face had suddenly gone white. She tried to set down the coffee cup, but missed the saucer. The cup balanced for a moment on the edge of the tray, then crashed to the floor, spilling its contents over the rug.

"You hadn't thought of that, had you?" asked Perry Mason.

She continued to stare at him mutely, her face white to the lips.

"Now," said Perry Mason suavely, "you will perhaps pardon a repetition of my question. Where did you get this money that you gave to me just now?"

"I got it," she said slowly, "from my uncle."

"Just before his death?" asked Mason.

"Just before his death," she said.

"Oh," said the lawyer meaningly, "before his death."

The significance of the accented word suddenly dawned upon her.

"You don't think," she began…

There was a knock at the door of the room, and the housekeeper walked in. She stared at them.

"Did I hear you drop something?" she asked.

The girl indicated the coffee cup on the floor.

"You have," said Perry Mason meaningly, "rather remarkable ears."

She met his stare with her eyes snapping and defiant.

"I was given a good pair of ears," she said, "and I use them."

"Even to the extent of listening at doors?" said the lawyer.

Frances Celane spoke steadily.

"That will do, Mr. Mason," she said. "I think that I am perfectly capable of disciplining the servants when they need it."

The housekeeper stooped, picked up the coffee cup, set it back on the tray, turned her back to the attorney, and said to Frances Celane: "Shall I bring you another cup and saucer?"

"Yes," she said, "and a hot pot of coffee."

The housekeeper picked up the tray, and swept from the room.

Perry Mason's tone was rasping. "If I'm going to handle this case," he said, "I don't want you interfering. That woman was spying on us. She tried to blackmail me early this morning."

Frances Celane seemed hardly interested.

"Indeed?" she said, absently.

Perry Mason stood, staring down at her.

"Yes, indeed," he said, "and I'm still waiting for an explanation of why your trip made in the Buick sedan at such a high speed, didn't show on the speedometer."

Frances Celane jumped from the chair, and, totally ignoring the presence of the lawyer, started pulling garments from her slender body.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Going to get dressed and put some mileage on that Buick, you fool!" she blazed at him.

"And are you going to tell me anything about where you were last night at the time of the murder?"

She whipped off the last of her lounging garments and started dressing.

"Don't be a fool," she said.

"I can help you a lot more," said Mason, "if you let me know the facts."

She shook her head. "Get out," she said.

Perry Mason turned to the door with dignity.

"Very well," he said, and jerked the door open.

The housekeeper was on the other side of the door, regarding him with malevolent, glittering eyes, and a smile which held a trace of sardonic triumph. In one hand she held a coffee cup and saucer, and in the other hand a pot of coffee.

"Thank you, sir," she said, "for opening the door," and slipped into the room.

Only a slight uneasiness of the eyes belied the picture of stolid, intellectual respectability which he tried to present to the public.

He stared across the desk at Perry Mason. "I understand that you're the attorney for the family," he said.

Perry Mason's eyes were hard, and patient.

"I'm representing Miss Celane in the termination of her trust matter," he said, "and I'm representing Arthur Crinston, who is the surviving partner of the partnership. There's some talk about having me represent the executor under the will, but I can't very well represent both the surviving partner and the executor."

Blackman grinned, and there was a trace of envy in his grin.

"Pretty soft for you," he said, "with all of those fees coming in."

"Was that what you came to talk about?" asked Mason, coldly.

Blackman's expression changed.

"I came to tell you," he said, "that I'm representing Peter Devoe, the chauffeur, who is charged with the murder."

"Got a good case?" asked Mason casually.

The other man winced.

"You know all about the case," he said.

"To tell you the truth," said Mason, speaking with elaborate carelessness, "I don't. I've been so busy with other angles of the matter that I haven't had time to look into the murder case at all."

Blackman said, "Baloney!" explosively.

Mason looked dignified and resentful.

Blackman leaned forward and tapped the desk impressively.

"Look here, Mason," he said. "You're playing things pretty foxy. But I just want you to know that you're up against somebody who's going to play just as foxy."

"Meaning?" asked Perry Mason.

"I mean that you can't sit back and rake in all the money, and keep all your people out of it, while you railroad Devoe to the gallows."

"I'm not railroading anybody to the gallows."

Blackman squirmed under the cold glare of the man across the desk.

"Look here," he said, "I'm talking facts now. There's nobody here to hear us. It's just a conference between us two. You know the game as well as I do. You defend persons accused of crime whenever there's a good fee in it, and so do I. When you defend a person, you're representing him and nobody else on earth. You'd fight the whole world to protect the rights of your clients."

"Sure," said Mason, patiently, tonelessly, "that's the duty of an attorney."

"All right," Blackman said. "I just want you to know that I'm going to be faithful to my duties."

"Go on," said Mason. "You've said too much or not enough. I can't tell which yet."

"All right," Blackman told him. "I mean just this: You're keeping this Celane woman pretty much in the background. You've managed to do it rather adroitly. After all, the only case against Pete Devoe is one of circumstantial evidence, and it's pretty weak circumstantial evidence, at that. He was lying there in bed, drunk, and anybody could have planted that club in his room and the two thousand dollars in his clothes."

"You overlook," said Mason, "the testimony of Don Graves, who actually saw the murder being committed. You overlook the fact that, according to Crinston's testimony, Edward Norton was sending for his chauffeur as Crinston left the place."

"I overlook nothing," said Blackman impressively, his eyes boring belligerently into Mason's face. "And I don't overlook the fact that there was a woman mixed up in the thing somewhere."

"Yes?" asked Mason in a tone of polite but surprised interest.

"Yes," said Blackman, "and don't be so damned surprised at it. You know it, as well as I do."

"Know what?" asked Mason.

"Know that Don Graves saw a woman in that room at the time the murder was being committed."

"Don Graves doesn't say so in the statement that he made to the police, as I understand it," Mason remarked.

"The statement he made to the police hasn't got anything to do with it," said Blackman. "It's the statement he is going to make on the witness stand that counts."

Mason looked at the ceiling and said, impersonally: "In the event, however, that the statement he makes on the witness stand doesn't coincide with the first statement he made to the police, it might have a tendency to weaken his testimony, particularly as far as the woman was concerned."

"Yes, it might," said Blackman.

There was silence for a moment, then Blackman lowered his voice and said emphatically, "All right. You know where I stand now. You're controlling all the money in this case, and I'm representing the man who has been picked for the fall guy. I want the family to cooperate in this thing, and I want some money. Otherwise, I'm going to tear the lid off."

"What do you mean by cooperation?" asked Mason.

"I mean that I want the family to convey the impression to the police that they're not at all vindictive; that if Devoe did anything, he was drunk when he did it, and that if the District Attorney will take a plea of manslaughter they'll be just as well satisfied. And then I'm going to want some of the gravy."

"You mean," said Mason, "that you want Frances Celane to see that you get paid to plead Pete Devoe guilty of manslaughter so as to hush up any scandal? Is that what you're trying to convey to me?"

Blackman got to his feet with ponderous dignity.

"I think, counselor," he said, "that you understand my errand perfectly. I think that I have stated my position fairly and frankly, and I do not care to commit myself by replying to the rather crude summary which you have attempted to make."

Perry Mason pushed back the chair from his desk, stood with his feet planted well apart, his eyes staring at Blackman.

"Don't think you can pull anything like that, Blackman," he said. "We're here alone. You're going to tell me what you want, and tell it in so many words."

"Don't be silly," Blackman told him. "You know what I want."

"What do you want?"

"I want money."

"What are you going to give in return for it?"

"I'll cooperate with you in keeping Miss Celane in the background."

"To the extent that you'll have Pete Devoe plead guilty to manslaughter?"

"Yes. If I can get a plea."

"Is he guilty of manslaughter?" asked Perry Mason.

"Why the hell bother about that?" said Blackman irritably. "I told you that he'd plead guilty to manslaughter."

"How much money do you want?"

"I want fifty thousand dollars."

"That's too much money for a fee," Mason remarked, in a voice that was almost casual.

"Not for the work I'm going to do it isn't."

"The work for Devoe?" asked Mason.

"The work for Frances Celane, if you want to put it that way," Blackman told him.

"All right," Mason went on, "as you, yourself, expressed it, we're here alone. There's no reason why we can't talk frankly. Did Pete Devoe kill Edward Norton?"

"You ought to know," said Blackman.

"Why should I know?"

"Because you should."

"I don't know. I'm asking you if he did."

"Why worry about that? I'll get him to plead guilty to manslaughter."

"For fifty thousand dollars?"

"For fifty thousand dollars."

"You're crazy. The District Attorney wouldn't accept any such plea. This is a murder case. Second degree murder would be the best you could get."

"I could get manslaughter," Blackman said, "if the family would cooperate, and if Graves would change his story a little bit."

"Why should Graves change his story?" Mason inquired.

"Why should anybody do anything?" Blackman asked in a sarcastic tone of voice. "Why should I do anything? Why should you do anything? We're not mixed in it. We're doing things for money too."

Slowly, almost ponderously, Perry Mason walked around the big desk toward Blackman. Blackman watched him with greedy eyes.

"Just say it's all right," said Blackman, "and you won't hear anything more about it."

Perry Mason came to a stop in front of Blackman. He looked at him with eyes that were cold and sneering.

"You dirty scum," he said, his voice vibrant with feeling.

Blackman recoiled slightly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You," said Mason.

"You've got no right to talk to me like that."

Perry Mason took a swift step forward.

"A dirty shyster," he said, "who would sell out his client for a fifty thousand dollar fee. Get out of this office, and do it right now!"

Blackman's face twisted in surprise.

"Why," he said, "I thought you were going to listen to my proposition."

"I listened to it," Mason told him, "and heard all I wanted to."

Blackman suddenly bolstered up his courage, and brandished a rigid forefinger in front of Mason's face.

"You're mixed in this thing pretty deep yourself," he said. "You're either going to accept this proposition, or you're going to hear a lot more about it."

Perry Mason reached up and grasped the extended forefinger in his left hand. He twisted the other's hand down and around, until the lawyer exclaimed with pain. Mason abruptly released the forefinger, spun the other lawyer halfway around, grasped the back of the lawyer's coat with his big, capable hand, and propelled the lawyer to the door. He jerked open the door of the private office, gave Blackman a shove that sent him sprawling off balance, into the outer office.

"Get out, and stay out!" he said.

Blackman almost ran for half the distance across the outer office, then turned, with his face livid with rage, his glasses dangling at the end of the black ribbon.

"You're going to regret that," he said, "more than anything you ever did in your life!"

"Get out!" said Perry Mason, in a slow, even tone of voice, "or I'm going to do some more."

Blackman groped for the knob of the outer door, pulled it open, and stepped into the corridor.

Perry Mason stood in the doorway of his private office, shoulders squared, feet planted widely apart, staring belligerently at the slowly closing door.

"What happened?" asked Della Street, in sudden concern.

"I told the cheap heel where to get off," Mason remarked, without looking at her, his cold eyes still fastened on the door from the outer office.

He turned and walked back to his private office, leaving Della Street staring at him with wide, apprehensive eyes.

The telephone was ringing as he reached his desk. He scooped the receiver to his ear, and heard the voice of Frances Celane.

"I've got to see you at once," she said.

"All right," he told her, "I'm in my office. Can you come in?"

"Yes, unless you can come out here."

"Where are you?"

"Out at the house."

"All right," he told her, "you'd better get in that Buick and come in here."

"I can't come in the Buick," she said.

"Why not?" he asked.

"The police have sealed it up. They've locked the transmission and padlocked the wheels."

Perry Mason gave a low whistle over the telephone.

"In that event," he said, "you'd better get in the Packard and come here just as fast as you can. You'd better grab a suitcase and put some clothes in it, but do it without attracting too much attention."

"I'll be in in twenty minutes," she said, and hung up.

Perry Mason put on his hat, and paused for a moment to talk with Della Street as he went out.

"I'm expecting Miss Celane in here," he said, "in about twenty or twenty-five minutes, and I think I'll be back by the time she arrives. But if I'm not, I want you to put her in my private office and lock the door. Don't let anyone in. Do you understand?"

She looked up at him, swiftly apprehensive, and nodded her head in a gesture of affirmation. "Has anything gone wrong?" she asked.

He nodded curtly, then smiled and patted her shoulder.

He walked out of the door, took the elevator down, and walked a block and a half to the Seaboard Second National Trust Company.

B.W. Rayburn, vice president of the bank, regarded Perry Mason with hard, watchful eyes, and said: "Yes, Mr. Mason?"

"I'm representing Miss Frances Celane, the beneficiary under a trust fund which was administered by Edward Norton," said Mason. "Also, I'm representing Mr. Arthur Crinston, who is the surviving partner of Crinston & Norton."

"Yes," said Mr. Rayburn. "So I understand from a conversation I had this morning with Mr. Crinston."

"On the day of his death," said Mason, "Mr. Norton made a trip from his home to a bank and back again. I am wondering if the trip was to this bank, or to the Farmers and Merchants National, where I understand he also had an account."