The Case of the Gilded Lily Read online

  The Case of the Gilded Lily

  A Perry Mason Mystery

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  Foreword

  My friend Dr. Walter camp is an outstanding figure in the field of legal medicine.

  One of his greatest attributes is the calm detached manner with which he approaches any scientific problem. It is impossible to think of Dr. Camp ever being “stampeded” so that he would lose his intellectual integrity on the one hand, or on the other hand let any personal or financial considerations color his judgment.

  Dr. Camp is both an M.D. and a Ph.D., yet despite his intellectual and scientific achievements, and a brain which functions as unemotionally (and as accurately) as an adding machine, he remains a warm, friendly human being.

  Dr. Camp is one of the country’s leading toxicologists. He is a Professor of Toxicology and Pharmacology at the University of Illinois and is Coroner’s Toxicologist for Cook County, which includes the seething metropolis of Chicago.

  For the past couple of years he has been Secretary of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, and heaven knows how much time, energy and time-consuming effort he and his personal secretary, Polly Cline, have poured into that organization.

  Dr. Camp is no prima donna with a temperament, although his achievements and record would entitle him to develop all the idiosyncrasies of temperament; on the contrary, he loves to work with others, to become a member of a “team,” and then to minimize his own part in that team’s achievement.

  Such men, who have the ability to get things done, who have the executive qualities necessary to co-ordinate the work of others, and the stability necessary to work with others, are rare.

  This year, the annual meeting of the Academy of Forensic Sciences was held under the guidance of Dr. Camp, Secretary; Fred Inbau (Professor of Criminal Law at Northwestern University), President; and Dr. Richard Ford (head of the Department of Legal Medicine at Harvard University), Program Chairman. Those of us who attended found it one of the most inspirational and informative academy sessions ever to be held in an organization covering such a complex field. This was due mainly to the fact that these three men worked together as a team with such perfect co-ordination, such smooth co-operation, and such clockwork efficiency that many of us failed to realize the untold hours of planning, working, and almost constant consultation which made the extraordinary results possible.

  Dr. Camp has worked on many a spectacular case where anyone less cool, less objective in his approach, would have been swept off his scientific feet There was for instance the famous Ragen case where a man on the receiving end of a shotgun blast was later claimed to have died because of mercuric poisoning. There was another famous case: that of a gangster awaiting execution in the electric chair who beat the executioner to the punch, reportedly with the aid of a lethal dose of strychnine.

  Dr. Camp, as a referee in these cases, handled himself in a manner which was a credit to the best traditions of forensic science. He refused to be influenced by rumors, the pressures of interested parties, or popular excitement He approached the problems as a scientist, and he solved them as a scientist.

  And so I dedicate this book to my friend:

  WALTER J. R. CAMP, M.D., PH.D.

  —Erle Stanley Gardner

  Cast of Characters

  STEWART G. BEDFORD—a staid businessman, he was embarrassed to be locked up in a motel with a not-so-dumb blonde. He was more than embarrassed when this tête-à-tête resulted in murder

  ELSA GRIFFIN—Bedford’s too-zealous secretary, her misplaced devotion inspired her to take the evidence on a silver tray to court

  BINNEY DENHAM—The con man de luxe had Bedford strapped over a barrel—of money: $20,000 worth, with much more to come

  ANN ROANN BEDFORD—Bedford’s lovely young wife had a blackmailable past. If she had just kept her hands off that silver tray—

  GERALDINE CORNING—The blonde’s efforts to “entertain” Bedford almost proved disastrous for her, too

  MORRISON BREMS—The motel manager made his money by rifling suitcases and other interesting side lines. His perfect memory proved to be one of Perry’s best clues

  PERRY MASON—The illustrious lawyer-sleuth was well aware his reputation was at stake as he pulled a fast courtroom switch in one of his smoothest displays of legal legerdemain

  DELLA STREET—Perry’s amiable amanuensis wasn’t too amicable when she found herself in the middle of Perry’s switch

  PAUL DRAKE—The tireless guiding spirit of the Drake Detective Agency didn’t stint of his all-night services to Perry, though his tongue was fuzz-coated and his stomach felt like a jar of old library paste

  LIEUTENANT TRAGG—The homicide officer’s friendly tip about hamburgers taught Perry a lesson he’d never forget

  SERGEANT HOLCOMB—In his eagerness to put Perry on the spot, he unwittingly abetted what might well have been collusion, had not Perry—also unwittingly—extricated him

  JUDGE HARMON STROUSE—He gave the defense the widest possible latitude, only to wind up with a weeping woman on his hands

  HAMILTON BURGER—The D.A. made an unprecedented move when he attempted to prosecute Perry as well as the clever lawyer’s client—but he should have known better

  1

  Stewart G. Bedford entered his private office, hung up his hat, walked across to the huge walnut desk which had been a birthday present from his wife a year ago, and eased himself into the swivel chair.

  His secretary, Elsa Griffin, with her never failing and characteristic efficiency, had left the morning paper on his desk, the pages neatly folded back so that Mrs. Bedford’s photograph was smiling up at him from the printed page.

  It was a good picture of Ann Roann Bedford, bringing out the little characteristic twinkle in her eyes, the sparkle and vitality of her personality.

  Stewart Bedford was very, very proud of his wife. Mixed with that pride was the thrill of possession, the feeling that he, at fifty-two, had been able to marry a woman twenty years his junior and make her radiantly happy.

  Bedford, with his wealth, his business contacts, his influential friends, had never paid attention to social life. His first wife had been dead for some twelve years. After her death the social circle of their friends would have liked to consider Stewart G. Bedford as the “most eligible bachelor,” but Bedford wanted no part of it. He immersed himself in his business, continued to enhance his financial success, and took almost as much pride in the growing influence of his name in the business world as he would have taken in a son if he had had one.

  Then he had met Ann Roann and his life suddenly slipped into a tailspin that caused a whirlwind courtship to culminate in a Nevada marriage.

  Ann was as pleased with the social position she acquired through her marriage as a child with a new toy. Bedford still maintained his interest in his business, but it was no longer the dominant factor in his life. He wanted to get Ann Roann the things out of life which would make her happy, and Ann Roann had a long list of such things. However, her quick, enthusiastic response, her obvious gratitude, left Bedford constantly feeling like an indulgent parent on Christmas morning.

  Bedford had settled himself at his desk and was reading the paper when Elsa Griffin glided in.

  “Good morning, Elsa,” he said. “Thanks for calling my attention to the account of Mrs. Bedford’s party.”

  Her smile acknowledged his thanks. It was a nice smile.

  To Stewart, Elsa Griffin was as comfortable as a smoking jacket and slippers. She had been with him for fifteen years; she knew his every want, his every whim, and had an uncanny ability to read his mind. He was very, very fond of her; in fact, there had been a romantic interlude after h is first wife died. Elsa’s quiet understanding had been one of the great things in his life. He had even considered marrying her—but that was before he had met Ann Roann.

  Bedford knew he had made a fool of himself falling head over heels in love with Ann Roann, a woman who was just entering her thirties. He knew the hurt he was inflicting on Elsa Griffin, but he could no more control his actions than water rushing down a stream could stop on the brink of a precipice. He had plunged on into matrimony.

  Elsa Griffin had offered her congratulations and wishes for every happiness and had promptly faded back into the position of the trusted private secretary. If she had suffered—and he was sure she had—there was no sign visible to the naked eye.

  “There’s a man waiting to see you,” Elsa Griffin said.

  “Who is he? What does he want?”

  “His name is Denham. He said to tell you that Binney Denham wanted to see you and would wait.”

  “Benny Denham?” Bedford said. “I don’t know any Benny Denham. How does it happen he wants to see me? Let him see one of the executives who—”

  “It’s not Benny. It’s Binney,” she said, “and he says it’s a personal matter, that he’ll wait until he can see you.”

  Bedford made a gesture of dismissal with his hand.

  Elsa shook her head. “I don’t think he’ll leave. He really intends to see you.”

  Bedford scowled. “I can’t be accessible to every Tom, Dick and Harry that comes in and says he wants to see me on a personal matter.”

  “I know,” she said, “but Mr. Denham … there’s something about him that’s just a little … it’s hard to describe … a persistence that’s … well, it’s a little frightening.”

  “Frightening!” Bedford said, bristling.

  “Not in that way. It’s just the fact that he has this terrible, deadly patience. You get the feeling that it would really be better to see him. He sits in the chair, quiet and motionless, and … and every time I look up he’s looking at me with those peculiar eyes. I do wish you’d see him, S. G. I have a feeling you should.”

  “All right,” Bedford said. “What the hell! Let’s see what he wants and get rid of him. A personal matter. Not an old school friend that wants a touch?”

  “No, no! Nothing like that. Something that … well, I have the feeling that it’s important.”

  “All right,” Bedford said, smiling. “I can always trust your intuition. We’ll get him out of the way before we tackle the mail. Send him in.”

  Elsa left the office, and a few moments later Binney Denham was standing in the doorway bowing and smiling apologetically. Only his eyes were not apologetic. They were steady and appraising, as though his mission were a matter of life and death.

  “I’m so glad you’ll see me, Mr. Bedford,” he said. “I was afraid perhaps I might have trouble. Delbert told me I had to see you, that I had to wait until I saw you, no matter how long it took, and Delbert is a hard man to cross.”

  Some inner bell rang a warning in Bedford’s mind. He said, “Sit down. And who the devil is Delbert?”

  “He’s a sort of associate of mine.”

  “A partner?”

  “No, no. I’m not a partner. I’m an associate.”

  “All right. Sit down. Tell me what it is you want. But you’ll have to make it brief. I have some appointments this morning and there’s some important mail here which has to be handled.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”

  Binney Denham moved over and sat on the extreme edge of the chair at the side of the desk. His hat was clutched over his stomach. He hadn’t offered to shake hands.

  “Well, what is it?” Bedford asked.

  “It’s about a business investment,” Denham said. “It seems that Delbert needs money for financing this venture of his. It will only take twenty thousand dollars and he should be able to pay back the money within a few—”

  “Say, what the devil is this?” Bedford said. “You told my secretary you wanted to see me about a personal matter. I don’t know you. I don’t know Delbert, and I’m not interested in financing any business venture to the tune of twenty thousand dollars. Now if that’s all you—”

  “Oh, but you don’t understand, sir,” the little man protested. “You see, it involves your wife.”

  Bedford stiffened with silent anger, but that inner bell which had sounded the note of warning before now gave such a strident signal that he became very cautious.

  “And what about my wife?” he asked.

  “Well, you see, sir, it’s like this. Of course, you understand there’s a market for these things now. These magazines … I’m sure you don’t like them any better than I do. I won’t even read the things, and I’m quite certain you don’t, sir. But you must know of their existence, and they’re very popular.”

  “All right,” Bedford said. “Get it out of your system. What are you talking about?”

  “Well, of course, it … well, you almost have to know Delbert, Mr. Bedford, in order to understand the situation. Delbert is very insistent. When he wants something, he really wants it.”

  “All right, go on,” Bedford snapped. “What about my wife? Why are you bringing her name into this?”

  “Well, of course, I was only mentioning it because … well, you see, I know Delbert, and, while I don’t condone his ideas, I—”

  “What are his ideas?”

  “He needs money.”

  “All right, he needs money. So what?”

  “He thought you could furnish it.”

  “And my wife?” Bedford asked, restraining an impulse to throw the little man bodily out of the office.

  “Well, of course your wife’s record,” Denham said.

  “What do you mean, her record?”

  “Her criminal record, fingerprints, et cetera,” Denham said in that same quietly apologetic manner.

  There was a moment of frozen silence. Bedford, too accustomed to playing poker in business to let Denham see the slightest flicker of expression on his face, was rapidly thinking back. After all, what did he know about Ann Roann? She had been the victim of an unhappy marriage she didn’t like to discuss. There had been some sort of tragedy. Her husband’s suicide had been his final confession of futility. There had been some insurance which had enabled the young widow to carry on during a period of readjustment. There had been two years of foreign travel and then she had met Stewart Bedford.

  Bedford’s own voice sounded strange to him. “Put your cards on the table. What is this? Blackmail?”

  “Blackmaill” the man exclaimed with every evidence of horror. “Oh, my heavens, no, Mr. Bedford! Good heavens, no! Even Delbert wouldn’t stoop to anything like that.”

  “Well, what is it?” Bedford asked.

  “I’d like an opportunity to explain about the business investment. I think you’ll agree it’s a very sound investment and you could have the twenty thousand back within … well, Delbert says six months. I personally think it would be more like a year. Delbert’s always optimistic.”

  “What about my wife’s record?” Bedford’s voice now definitely had a rasp to it.

  “Well, of course, that’s the point,” Denham said apologetically. “You see, sir, Delbert simply has to have the money, and he thought you might loan it to him. Then, of course, he has this information and he knows that some of these magazines pay very high prices for tips. I’ve talked it over with him. I feel certain that they wouldn’t pay anything like twenty thousand, but Delbert thinks they would if the information was fully authenticated and—”

  “This information is authenticated?” Bedford asked.

  “Oh, of course, sir, of course! I wouldn’t even have mentioned it otherwise.”

  “How is it authenticated?”

  “What the police call mug shots and fingerprints.”

  “Let me see.”

  “I’d much prefer to talk about the investment, Mr. Bedford. I didn’t really intend to bring it up in this way. Ho wever, I could see you were rather impatient about—”

  “What about the information?” Bedford asked.

  The little man let go of the rim of his hat with his right hand. He fished in an inner pocket and brought out a plain Manila envelope.

  “I’m sure I hadn’t intended to tell you about it in this way,” he said sorrowfully.

  He extended the Manila envelope toward Bedford.

  Bedford took the envelope, turned back the flap, and pulled out the papers that were on the inside.

  It was either the damnedest clever job of fake photography he had ever seen or it was Ann Roann … Ann Roann’s picture taken some years earlier. There was the same daring, don’t-give-a-damn sparkle in her eyes, the lilt to her head, the twist of her lips, and down underneath was that damning serial number, below that a set of fingerprints and the sections of the penal code that had been violated.

  Denham’s voice droned on, filling in the gap in Bedford’s thinking.

  “Those sections of the penal code relate to insurance fraud, if you don’t mind, Mr. Bedford. I know you’re curious. I was too when I looked it up.”

  “What’s she supposed to have done?” Bedford asked.

  “She had some jewelry that was insured. She made the mistake of pawning the jewelry before she reported that it had been stolen. She collected on the insurance policy, and then they found where the jewelry had been pawned and … well, the police are very efficient in such matters.”

  “What was done with the charge?” Bedford asked. “Was she convicted, given probation? Was the charge dismissed, or what?”

  “Heavens! I don’t know,” Denham said. “I’m not sure that even Delbert knows. These are the records that Delbert gave me. He said that he was going to take them to this magazine and that they’d pay him for the tip. I told him I thought he was being very, very foolish, that I didn’t think the magazine would pay as much as he needed for his investment, and frankly, Mr. Bedford, I don’t like such things. I don’t like those magazines or this business of assassinating character, of digging up things out of a person’s dead past I just don’t like it.”