Case of the Footloose Doll (10 page)

“I decided you’d want to know something about the wound, so I pulled back the blankets and took a look. There was a small, livid puncture wound, and, unofficially, I have no doubt it was made with an ice pick and that it was the cause of death.”

“Just one wound?” Mason asked.

“Just one wound. Of course, I didn’t examine the entire body, but the man was naked from the waist up. I’m quite certain there was just that one puncture wound, at least in the chest cavity.”

“All right,” Mason said wearily. “We seem to be in a hell of a spot right now. Della, I think you’d better go telephone our client . . . Hold it,” Mason said sharply, as she placed her hand on the door latch, “here comes an officer to ride herd on us until it suits Sgt. Holcomb to come down and give us the third degree.”

The officer who had gone up with Sgt. Holcomb came back from the apartment house, started across the sidewalk.

A second police car rounded the corner. The driver was unable to find a parking place, so double—parked with the red blinker on the top of the car flaring vivid flashes of warning light.

Men hurried from the car. A photographer carrying a heavy camera case by means of a shoulder strap, a smaller camera in one hand and a Strobe—light in the other hand, hurried across to the apartment house.

He was followed by an officer carrying a fingerprint camera and a small, black case of the sort used to carry materials for developing latents.

The officer who had come down from the apartment moved over to confer with the newcomers briefly. Two more men debouched from the second police automobile and entered the apartment house. The officer came over to stand by Mason’s car.

“Sgt. Holcomb says he doesn’t want to detain you unduly, but he does want to question you and he doesn’t want any of you to drive away.”

“I’m a doctor,” Dr. Arlington said. “I can’t neglect my patients. I have to be where I can be available for phone calls and—”

“I know, I know,” the officer interrupted. “It won’t be long.”

“Fifteen minutes from the time Sgt. Holcomb spoke to us,” Mason said, “is a reasonable time. I advise you, Doctor, that if you are not interrogated and released within fifteen minutes, you are legally within your rights in leaving.”

“Now, wait a minute,” the officer said. “You can’t pull that stuff. The law doesn’t say anything about fifteen minutes.”

“The law requires that any police order must be reasonable,” Mason said. “Under the peculiar circumstances of this case, I feel that fifteen minutes is a reasonable time. I’m willing to accept that responsibility.”

“Well, you may be accepting a hell of a lot of responsibility,” the officer warned roughly.

“In my business I’m accustomed to accept a hell of a lot of responsibility,” Mason told him.

The officer was plainly uneasy. He glanced anxiously at the door of the apartment house. “The sergeant said to hold you until he got here.”

“I tell you I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“You’re leaving when the sergeant says you can leave.”

“I’m leaving in fifteen minutes from the time he told us to wait,” Mason snapped.

The officer was trying to think of the answer to that, when the door opened and Sgt. Holcomb came striding across the sidewalk and out to the car.

“So,” he said, “you and Miss Street got a statement from the guy and Della Street took it down in shorthand.”

“Right,” Mason said.

“He was stabbed by a client of yours.”

“Wrong,” Mason said.

“How the hell do you know?” Sgt. Holcomb asked.

“My clients don’t stab people.”

“Well,” Sgt. Holcomb said, “it seems that the stabbing was done by a woman who was in the apartment occupied by Fern Driscoll, 309 at the Rexmore Apartments. Is Miss Katherine Baylor a client of yours, Mason?”

“I’ve never seen her in my life.”

“How about Fern Driscoll?”

“Fern Driscoll is my client.”

“All right. I’m going to see her. What’s more, I want to see her before you have a chance to do any telephoning.”

Sgt. Holcomb looked at his watch. “You hold them here for ten minutes,” he said to the officer, “and then you can let them go. However, I’m going to want to hear from you. Mason. I want a statement from you and I want a copy of the statement that this man Harrod made as to the circumstances surrounding the stabbing.”

“How about the doctor?” the officer asked.

“Don’t let anybody get to a phone for ten minutes,” Sgt. Holcomb said. “I want to get up to that apartment and talk with this Driscoll woman before Mason has a chance to tip her off to clam up and say nothing. As I see it, she’s the most valuable witness we are going to find.” 

Mason said, “I’m afraid. Sergeant, you don’t understand how I work.”

“I know all about how you work,” Holcomb told him. “Keep them here, Ray. In exactly ten minutes you may let them go.” Sgt. Holcomb hurried away.

Mason looked at his wrist watch, stretched, yawned, lit a cigarette, put his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes.

Dr. Arlington, taking his cue from Perry Mason, went over to his car, opened the door and started to get in.

“Stay right here for ten minutes,” the officer warned.

“Nine minutes now,” Dr. Arlington said, climbing into his car and slamming the door shut.

Della Street, with an eye on her wrist watch, counted off the minutes.

“All right, Chief,” she said, “nine and a half minutes.” At Mason’s nod, she started the motor.

“Hold it,” the officer said. “You have thirty seconds to go.”

“Just warming the car up,” Mason told him.

The officer seemed uneasy. “I’d like to get word from Sgt. Holcomb.

He could communicate with us through the car radio.”

“I know he could,” Mason said, “but he said ten minutes, and ten minutes it is.”

The officer seemed undecided.

“Okay, Della,” Mason said.

Della Street in the driver’s seat eased the car into gear.

Dr. Arlington’s car slid out behind them.

“Now where?” Della asked.

“Drake Detective Agency,” Mason said, “but first signal Dr. Arlington to come alongside.”

Della Street drove for a block, then pulled off to the side of the road, motioned with her arm for Dr. Arlington to come alongside on the one-way street.

When Dr. Arlington was running abreast Mason said, “Go on home, Doctor, and don’t answer questions.”

Dr. Arlington nodded to show that he understood and shot ahead.

Della Street said, “I think Paul Drake is in the office tonight. He told me he was working on a case and expected to be there until nearly midnight.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “We’ll talk with Paul personally. Swing over to the right and turn a corner, Della. I presume that officer is still watching our tail-light and it’s quite possible Sgt. Holcomb might relay a radio message to him asking him to hold us for another inquiry.” 

Chapter 9

THE NIGHT switchboard operator at the Drake Detective Agency offices looked up as Mason held the office door open for Della Street.

She nodded and smiled.

“Anybody in with Paul?” Mason asked.

“No, Mr. Mason, he’s alone.”

“Tell him we’re on our way,” Mason said.

The operator nodded and plugged in a telephone line. Mason opened the gate which led to a corridor lined with doors opening into small cubbyhole offices. Paul Drake’s private office was at the end of the corridor. Mason opened the door.

“Hi, Perry!” the detective said. “Hi, Della. What brings you out at this time of night?—Oh-oh, I’ll bet I don’t want to know the answer.” Mason pulled up a chair for Della Street, then sat down next to Drake’s desk. “Paul, we’re mixed up in a case that I can’t figure out. I want a lot of research work done and I want it done fast.” Drake picked up a pencil and moved a pad of paper toward him. Tall, long—limbed, poker—faced, he moved with an easy, double-jointed rhythm which seemed awkward, yet eliminated all waste motion.

“Shoot.”

“A girl using the name of Fern Driscoll, 309 Rexmore Apartments. I want everything you can get on Fern Driscoll. She was working in Lansing, Michigan, and left suddenly. Now, this girl who’s using Fern Driscoll’s name has a job with the Consolidated Sales and Distribution Company.”

“This floor?” Drake asked, looking up.

“This floor.”

“I know the head of that concern pretty well,” Drake said. “I can get a line on her.”

“She’s only been here ten days or two weeks. I want to get her background.”

“Okay, anything else?”

“Harriman Baylor of Lansing. A big-shot manufacturer. A daughter named Katherine and a son named Forrester. I want everything you can get on the family. Fern Driscoll worked for Baylor’s company in Lansing.”

“That’s all?”

“Carl Harrod of the Dixiecrat Apartments, 218. I want to know everything about his past.”

“How about the present?” Drake asked.

“There isn’t any,” Mason told him.

Drake looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“It’s all in the past,” Mason explained.

“Since when?”

“Probably about an hour ago.”

“All of this is going to take lots of men and lots of time,” Drake told him.“It’s going to take lots of men and probably lots of money, but it can’t take lots of time.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t have that much time.”

“Do the police know about Harrod?”

“Yes.”

“About your interest in him?”

“Hell yes!” Mason said. “I got caught standing in front of the apartment waiting for Dr. Arlington to come down and make a report.”

“Report on what?”

“Nature and extent of the injuries. He was stabbed with an ice pick.

The woman who was living with Harrod had already called headquarters before we got there and reported the death as a homicide. My friend, Sgt. Holcomb, caught me flat-footed.”

“So what happens next?” Drake asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I want all the information I can get before the going begins to get tough.”

“I take it there’s some sort of a tie-in by which all of these people are joined together, more or less?”

“There may be,” Mason said.

“Okay. Where are you going now?”

“Down to my office,” Mason told him. “You start getting information, relay it in as fast as you can get it. Minutes may be precious. We’re probably one jump ahead of the police on certain phases of the case and I’d like to keep ahead of them as far as possible.

“The Baylor family use the Vista del Camino Hotel as headquarters. They’re very shy about the wrong sort of publicity. Carl Harrod was all set to see that they got lots of it.

“Katherine Baylor is in town. She may be implicated in some way. On the other hand, the girl using the name of Fern Driscoll says she did the stabbing.”

“You don’t think this girl is really Fern Driscoll?”

“I know she’s Mildred Crest of Oceanside. Get busy and check everything.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “get down to your office and let me start pouring instructions into the telephone. I’ll have ten men on the job within ten minutes and each one of those men will put out more men if he has to.” Mason nodded to Della Street and they left Drake’s office, walked down the corridor to Mason’s office. Mason latch-keyed the door, switched on the lights.

“Well?” Della Street asked, as Mason hung up his hat and settled back into a swivel chair.

“We wait it out—for a while at least,” Mason said. “If our client is telling the truth, she was entirely within her rights in protecting herself.”

“And if she’s lying?”

“Then,” Mason admitted, “things could be in quite a mess.”

“She seems to have lied before.”

“Exactly. Those lies are going to put her in quite a spot if the breaks start going against her.

“As Mildred Crest, she could find herself charged with the murder of Fern Driscoll. All that background of deceit is going to make her a pushover in this Harrod case—if the authorities decide it’s murder.” They waited twenty minutes, then the unlisted phone rang sharply.

“I’ll take it,” Mason said. “It must be Paul Drake.” Mason picked up the receiver, said, “Hello, Paul.” Drake’s voice came over the wire. “Get either morning paper. You’ll find a picture of Harriman Baylor, the famous manufacturer and financial wizard, just getting off an airplane. He arrived late this afternoon. Reporters met him at the airport.”

“I’ll take a look,” Mason said. “You say there’s a photograph?”

“A nice photograph. Mr. Baylor is not out here on business. Mr. Baylor is out here for a well-earned vacation and for his health. Mr. Baylor has been troubled with bursitis.”

“Bursitis, huh?” Mason said.

“Uh-huh. An infection of a capsule of fluid or something in the shoulder that—”

Mason laughed and said, “I know all about bursitis, Paul. That is, I know enough about it to cross-examine doctors. It can be stubborn and painful. We don’t have our morning papers at the moment. Tell me, how did Mr. Baylor look in the photos?”

“Influential,” Drake said. “He has many million dollars, and he looks like many million dollars. The photograph shows him holding a brief case in his left hand, his right hand waving his hat in greeting, a beautiful hostess on each side and a caption about the manufacturing and financial wizard who believes that the Pacific Coast is on the eve of an unpreced-ented growth. Baylor says that what has happened so far is merely scratching the industrial surface.”

“Radiating optimism, eh?” Mason asked.

“Radiating optimism.”

“Could I call him at the Vista del Camino Hotel?” Mason asked.

“No dice,” Drake said. “Trying to get a phone call through to him requires an Act of Congress and the unwinding of yards of red tape. But he’s there and, as nearly as I can find out, he’s in his suite.”

“What about his background, Paul?”

“Big manufacturer. Big financier. Big investor. Boards of directors and all that stuff. Who’s Who takes a whole column on him.”

“Find out anything about Katherine Baylor?” Mason asked.

“Postgraduate work at Stanford. Nice kid. Popular. For herself and not for her money. Unostentatious. A good scout. Something of a crusader, imbued with the idea of improving the administration of justice, safeguarding justice for rich and poor alike. A nice kid.”