The Case of the Lonely Heiress Read online

  “Disturbed!” Gertie said. “Oh, Mr. Mason, you do use the mildest language! I tell you, the man’s having kittens!”

  Mason winked at Della Street, said, “I’ll go out and see him. Hand me that inkwell, Della.”

  While Gertie watched with fascinated eyes, Mason dipped his finger in the inkwell, rubbed one smear across the side of his cheek, said, “Now your lipstick, Della, just a faint line that will look like the aftermath of a scratch down from the forehead, across the nose—that’s right. Now I think, Gertie, we’re in a position to add to Mr. Caddo’s discomfiture. After all, I hate a client who’s a chiseler.”

  Mason followed behind Gertie, out to the outer office. “Good morning, Mr. Caddo,” he said sternly.

  “Oh, my God,” Caddo said, “my wife’s been here!”

  “Your wife has been here,” Mason said.

  “Now look, Mr. Mason, I’m not responsible for my wife. Honestly, it’s one of those things with her. She is subject to jealousy that amounts almost to insanity. I’m sorry this has happened, but, after all, you can’t blame it on me.”

  “Why not?” Mason asked. “Isn’t there any community property?”

  “Good heavens, you’re not going to sue a woman for a little fit of temper, are you?”

  “A little fit of temper?” Mason asked, raising his brows.

  “Now look here, Mason, I’ll do the right thing. I’ll be fair about this. I thought perhaps you were cheating yourself a little bit on that fee you fixed the other day. After all, there’s no reason why you and I can’t get along on this. I want to be fair. I want to do what’s right.”

  “Was that the reason you rang up Marilyn Marlow and told her that the man with whom she was about to play tennis was a detective employed by me?”

  “Now, Mr. Mason. Mr. Mason, please!”

  “Please what?”

  “I can explain.”

  “Well, go ahead and start explaining.”

  “It’s something I prefer not to go into here, not at the present time. Not while you’re in your present frame of mind. I … I’d like to see you later, Mr. Mason, when you’ve had an opportunity to regain your composure and get your office cleaned up. I—I’m sorry this happened, but Dolores will throw inkwells when she gets worked up. Mr. Mason, you didn’t tell her anything about Marilyn Marlow, did you? No, you couldn’t have. You’re a lawyer. You have to preserve the confidences of a client.”

  “Certainly,” Mason said.

  Caddo’s face showed relief. “I knew I could count on you, Mr. Mason. I’m going to come in and see you in a day or two. You get things straightened out and cleaned up, and we’ll assess the damages and …”

  “I didn’t tell her about Marilyn Marlow,” Mason said, “and I didn’t tell her about Rose Keeling. I didn’t need to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that since you had so thoughtfully placed their names and addresses in the little red book you habitually carry in your inside breast pocket, and since your wife had taken possession of that book, she knew….”

  Caddo clapped a hand to the breast of his coat, then plunged the other hand down into the pocket. An expression of almost ludicrous panic twisted his features.

  “She has that book?”

  “She has it,” Mason said.

  “Oh, my God!” Caddo said, and, turning on his heel, dashed out of the office.

  Gertie, inclined to avoirdupois, good nature, and a highly developed sense of humor, pushed a handkerchief into her mouth, making inarticulate sounds of merriment.

  Mason returned to his private office, washed the ink and lipstick from his face, grinned at Della Street and said, “I think now we’re beginning to get even with Mr. Robert Caddo. We don’t have Rose Keeling’s address, do we, Della?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, see if we can get Marilyn Marlow on the phone and warn her of what is due to happen.”

  Della Street found Marilyn Marlow’s number, called half a dozen times without getting an answer, then finally said, “Here she is on the line, Chief.”

  Mason said, “Good morning, Miss Marlow. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”

  “What is it?”

  Mason said, “It seems that your friend, the responsible businessman who has been giving you such fatherly advice in such a disinterested manner, is a married man. His wife apparently is named Dolores and she has a passion for throwing inkwells. Her husband, it seems, has what might be classified as a philandering complex, and the wife has a nasty little habit of throwing tantrums and ink all over the recipients of his affections and …”

  “Mr. Mason, are you kidding me?”

  “I’m kidding you on the square,” Mason said. “Mrs. Caddo left my office a half or three-quarters of an hour ago and she was very much on the warpath. It seems that your friend, the magazine publisher, had very carelessly made some notes in a leather-backed memo book he carries, jotting down names and addresses, not in alphabetical, but in chronological order. Therefore, when Mrs. Caddo made an informal and surreptitious search, the last names in the book were those of Marilyn Marlow and Rose Keeling, in that order. And I believe your esteemed friend had placed the addresses opposite the names.”

  “Good heavens!” Marilyn Marlow said. “She mustn’t, she simply mustn’t call on Rose Keeling! That would be the last straw.”

  “When last seen,” Mason said, “she was looking for new worlds to conquer.”

  “And Rose Keeling’s name would have been the last in the book,” Marilyn Marlow said in dismay. “That means she’d go to Rose Keeling first.”

  Mason said, “I don’t have Rose Keeling’s address or telephone number. I thought perhaps it would be advisable for you to let her know.”

  “I can’t do that. I can’t tell her anything like that.”

  “Then you’d better get her out of the way for a while,” Mason said.

  “I’ll have to do that. I’ll go to her at once and make some excuse to get her out of the way. We’ll play tennis, I guess.”

  “By the way,” Mason said, “you never did give me her address. Perhaps I should have it, since I’m going to be involved in this, both directly and indirectly. I’ve decided to represent you, since you manage to stir up such pleasant asides to vary the routine of a law practice that might otherwise become monotonous.”

  “You mean you’ll help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh,that’s fine! I’m so glad.”

  “When things quiet down a bit to the point of stability on the domestic front,” Mason said, “I’m going out to see Rose Keeling and have a heart-to-heart talk with her. If she’s attempting to sell her testimony to the highest bidder, I may dampen her enthusiasm for a sell-out. What’s her address?”

  “2240 Nantucket Drive. The telephone is Westland 6-3928.”

  “Will you telephone her about Mrs. Caddo?”

  “I—I think I’d better run over there, Mr. Mason. I’ll invite her to run out for some tennis.”

  “You may not have time,” Perry Mason said; “better telephone her to meet you some place.”

  “I’ll … all right, I’ll work out something. Thanks for calling, Mr. Mason.”

  “Remember,” Mason said, “that there’s a certain method in Mrs. Caddo’s madness. It’s not merely the indignation of an outraged wife; it’s a method she uses. Her system is to make such a terrific scene every time she catches her husband in a philandering expedition that …”

  “But this wasn’t philandering.”

  “I think that Mrs. Caddo resorts to disciplinary measures purely for the purpose of keeping her husband in line,” Mason said. “It isn’t so much what he has done, as it is a means of keeping his feet on the straight and narrow path in the future.”

  “All right, I’ll get in touch with Rose. Thanks for calling, Mr. Mason. Of all the goofy women! Why in the world did I ever let that man Caddo horn in on my business?”

  “I’ve wondered that, myself,�
�� Mason said. “And you will doubtless have occasion to ask yourself the question again and again in the near future. Good-by, Miss Marlow.”

  “Good-by,” she said, and slammed down the telephone.

  Mason glanced at his watch, then frowned. “The trouble with these divertissements,” he said to Della Street, “is that they are so fascinating they take my mind off the other problems that should be uppermost. What about that brief in the Miller case, Della?”

  “I have the citations you gave me all arranged in order, and the points you wanted to raise all blocked out.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “I’ll take a look at it.”

  For a half hour he busied himself with the brief, then abruptly pushing his swivel chair away from the desk said irritably, “I can’t get that woman out of my mind.”

  “Marilyn Marlow?” Della Street asked.

  Mason shook his head. “Not Marilyn Marlow, Della; Dolores Caddo. There’s a lusty, two-fisted woman for you. She’s teamed up with a heel but she doesn’t intend to have anyone impair the value of her investments in him. She has her own unique methods—and there’s something about her that impresses one.”

  “She certainly leaves her mark wherever she goes,” Della Street said.

  “Yes. With an inkwell,” Mason commented dryly. “Let’s give Rose Keeling a ring and get acquainted with her over the telephone. Tell you what you do, Della, ring her phone and ask if Marilyn Marlow is there. You can do the talking. Don’t say who you are—simply that you’re a friend of Marilyn’s.”

  Della Street consulted the office memo she had made and said, “All right, I have the number—Westland 6-3928.”

  She picked up the telephone, said, “Give me an outside line, Gertie,” and dialed the number.

  She sat at her desk, the receiver at her ear, waiting.

  “No answer?” Mason asked.

  “Apparently no answer,” she said. “I can hear the sound of the phone ringing and … wait a minute.”

  She was silent for two or three seconds, then said, “Hello—hello.”

  She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, turned to Mason and said, “That’s funny. I heard the ringing signal quit right in the middle of the ring. I could have sworn someone picked up the phone, and I thought I heard breathing, but when I said ‘Hello,’ no one answered.”

  “Perhaps your connection was broken,” Mason said, “and you imagined the sound of the breathing.”

  “I’d have sworn someone took the receiver off the hook,” Della Street said.

  “Probably Rose Keeling,” Mason said. “She had been warned and thought perhaps you were the belligerent Dolores Caddo, calling to make certain she was in.”

  “Well, if I were Dolores Caddo I’d be on my way up there right now,” Della said, “because I’m satisfied she’s in. Someone took the receiver off the hook.”

  Mason said, “It’s twenty minutes to twelve now—too early for lunch—I suppose I’ve got to go back to this confounded brief.”

  He picked up the typewritten list of authorities, said, “I guess we’re ready to start dictating the brief in final form, Della. What do you suppose a woman like Dolores Caddo sees in a chiseling two-timer like her husband?”

  “Probably she sees a certain element of financial security,” Della Street said. “Caddo can keep a lot of his business stuff under cover, but she has her rights under the community property law, and sooner or later she’ll cash in on them—and perhaps there’s a certain element of affection there. She’s really fond of him but recognizes his weaknesses and she’s trying her best to control them.”

  Mason nodded, then said, “In addition to all that, Della, the woman really enjoys violence. She loves to invade some boudoir and start smashing things, throwing things and raising hell generally. Being the wife of a heel gives her that privilege. The average woman who has been making a play with a married man doesn’t have much chance to resent a violent visit from the ‘outraged’ wife. I gather Mrs. Caddo wouldn’t willingly change her partner—although she may have some romantic side dish her husband might like to know about. However, this speculation isn’t getting this brief finished. Gosh, Della, how I hate briefs!”

  She laughed and said, “It’s like making a boy practice at the piano. You let your mind seize on every possible excuse to break the monotony.”

  Mason said, “Well, we can copy this statement of the case on the rough draft. Then we’ll go on from there. Let’s see…. All right, Della—take this down: ‘At the time of the trial the court permitted the following evidence to be introduced over the objection of the appellant.’ Now, Della, we’ll copy the transcript on page 276, the points that I’m underscoring in pencil.”

  Della Street nodded, and Mason busied himself for several minutes with marking up the reporter’s transcript of the trial, then said, “Be sure to copy this evidence and after each excerpt from the evidence, put in the page of the reporter’s transcript, Della. Now let me see that case in the hundred and sixty-fifth California Reports. I want a copy from that. But first I’ll make an introductory statement to show how we think the doctrine laid down in that case is applicable.”

  Mason took the book which Della Street handed him, and, having started to read the case, became engrossed in the language of the decision. After some ten minutes he said, “All right, Della, we’ll go ahead with the brief. Now take this: ‘In California there is a long line of cases setting forth the principle that such evidence is admissible only for the purpose of proving intent, and when admitted, it must be limited by the court to a proof of intent. In the case at bar, there was no such limitation. The jury was left to consider the evidence without restriction, nor was there any real attempt to prove intent by this evidence. Present counsel for the appellant was not his counsel at the time of trial, but trial counsel did protest vigorously to the court, although apparently no motion was made to limit the evidence to a consideration of intent, nor was any instruction submitted. However, as was said in one of the leading California cases …’ Now, Della, you can copy the parts of this case in the hundred and sixty-fifth California that I’ll indicate with lines along the margin of the page.”

  Della Street nodded, and Mason put in some ten minutes marking the portions of the decision which he wished incorporated in the brief.

  The telephone on Della Street’s desk rang and Della Street, picking up the receiver, said, “Gertie, Mr. Mason told you he didn’t want to be disturbed…. How’s that? … All right, just a minute.”

  Della Street turned to Mason. “Gertie said Marilyn Marlow is on the line and is almost hysterical. She wants to talk with you, says it’s terribly important.”

  Mason said irritably, “Hang it! I just got Dolores Caddo out of my mind. I suppose Marilyn Marlow is covered with ink and filled with contrition and … Oh well, it’s quarter past twelve and almost time to go out to lunch. Let me talk with her.”

  Della Street moved the phone on its long extension over to Mason’s desk.

  Mason said, “Hello. This is Perry Mason talking.”

  Marilyn Marlow’s voice was choked with emotion. “Mr. Mason, something … something terrible has happened. It’s … it’s awful!”

  “Did you see Dolores Caddo?” Mason asked.

  “No, no. I haven’t seen her. This is something worse than that. Something awful!”

  “What is it?” Mason asked.

  “Rose Keeling.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s … she’s dead!”

  “What happened?” Mason asked.

  “She’s dead in her apartment. She’s been killed.”

  “Where are you?” Mason asked.

  “In Rose Keeling’s apartment. It’s a flat, part of a four-flat house, and …”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “No one.”

  “When did you get there?”

  “Just now.”

  “Are you actually in the house?”

  “Yes.”

&n
bsp; “She’s been murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason said, “Don’t touch anything. Are you wearing gloves?”

  “No, I …”

  “Any gloves with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put them on!” Mason said. “Don’t touch a thing. Sit down in a chair and fold your hands on your lap. Stay there until I get there! That address is 2240 Nantucket Drive?”

  “That’s right.”

  Mason said, “Sit tight. I’m coming.”

  He slammed the receiver back on the telephone, rushed to the cloak closet, grabbed his hat and pulled out a topcoat.

  “What is it?” Della Street asked.

  “Rose Keeling’s been murdered. You stay here and run the office—no, come along with me, Della. Bring a notebook. I may want a witness and I’ll sure as hell need an alibi.”

  9

  Perry Mason slid his car to a stop at the curb in front of the Nantucket Drive address.

  The building was a four-flat house, and Mason, running up the steps, quickly picked the entrance to Rose Keeling’s flat, a second-floor, southern exposure.

  Mason tried the door. It was locked. He buzzed on the bell, and a moment later an electric door release opened the door for him.

  Della Street and Mason crowded through the door, and the lawyer took the steps two at a time, arriving at the upper corridor several steps in advance of Della Street.

  Marilyn Marlow, white and shaken with the shock of what she had found, was waiting in the reception hallway.

  “All right,” Mason said, “let’s have it fast. What happened?”

  “I … I came to see Rose Keeling. She’s … she’s in there on the floor by the bathroom.”

  Mason said to Della Street, “You’d better stay here, Della.”

  He walked rapidly down the corridor, looked in at the open door of the bedroom and looked briefly at the sprawled white body lying motionless against a sinister red background.

  For a brief moment the lawyer surveyed the ingredients of the tragedy, the packed suitcases, the nude body, the clothes on the bed, the open bathroom door. Then he turned back down the corridor toward the living room.