Case of the Footloose Doll (8 page)

“And this will enable you to buy something for the kids when you go home.”

“Gee, mister, thanks,” the cabdriver said.

“I sure won’t forget this.”

Mason said, “In that case, perhaps you’d better give me the two dollars back.”

The cabdriver thought for a moment, then grinned. “I’ve got the poorest memory in the world,” he said.

Mason handed him three more one—dollar bills. “In a cabdriver,” he announced, “that’s a wonderful asset.”

He and Della got out on the corner. The cab drove away. Mason and Della walked the half block back to the Dixiecrat Apartments.

Mason consulted the directory. “Carl Harrod, 218,” he said.

Mason pressed the button. Almost instantly the buzzer sounded which released the outer door.

“We could probably have saved time on the stairs,” Della Street said, as the elevator slowly and reluctantly slid to a stop. Mason opened the outer door, pulled back the sliding metal grill. Della Street entered, Mason followed her and pressed the button for the second floor.

As the elevator came to a dispirited stop, Mason pulled back the sliding metallic grill, opened the hinged door, let Della precede him into the corridor, and stood for a moment looking which way to turn.

A woman stood in the corridor six doors to the right. Mason strode past Della Street to take the lead. “Mr. Harrod?” Mason asked the young woman as he approached.

“You’re Mr. Mason?”

“Yes.”

“This way,” she said. “Carl is expecting you.”

She held the apartment door open and Mason walked in, preceding Della Street.

The woman waited until Della Street had entered the apartment, then hurried forward and said to Mason, “He’s had a chill.” She led the way over to an adjustable reclining chair in which a man was stretched, a blanket wrapped tightly around him.

The eyes were closed.

“Carl,” she said, “this is Mr. Mason.”

Harrod opened his eyes. “I’m glad you came, Mr. Mason.”

“You’re Harrod?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

Mason bent over him and the young woman half—turned toward Della Street to invite her to be seated.

Mason said, “Is this Mrs. Harrod?”

The woman whirled to face him. There was a moment’s embarrassed silence.

Then the young woman said, “Answer him, Carl.”

Harrod waited a moment, said, “Yes, this is Mrs. Harrod.” 

Mason held the young woman’s eyes. “How long,” he asked, “have you been married?”

“And what difference does that make?” she blazed.

“I wanted to know,” Mason said. “I’m an attorney. I’m dealing with an injured man. I want to know how long you’ve been married.”

“It’s none of your business!”

Mason noticed out the corner of his eyes that Della Street was moving swiftly around the apartment, as though looking for a comfortable chair.

Abruptly she gave an exclamation of annoyance. “That pesky fountain pen! The cap is full of ink. I’ll go to the sink and—” Della darted through the door to a kitchenette. No one paid any attention to her.

Harrod said, “Look, honey, this is Mr. Mason. He’s a lawyer. I think he’s going to help us.”

“I don’t care what you think!” the woman said. “My private affairs are my private affairs and I’m certainly not going to have some smart lawyer come in and start putting me on the pan.”

“No offense,” Mason said. “I just wanted to know what the situation was.”

“Well, now you know,” she said.

“I’m not certain I do,” Mason told her.

Della Street returned to the room, removed her gloves and took a notebook from her purse. “Where do you want me, Chief?” she asked.

Mason said, “This is Miss Della Street, my secretary. I want her to make notes of this conversation. Now then, you’re Carl Harrod?” The man nodded and coughed. “You say you’ve been stabbed with an ice pick?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the ice pick?”

“We have it,” the young woman announced.

“I’d like to see it.”

“We’re keeping it where it’s safe,” she said.

“And just why do you think I’d be interested in this stabbing?” Mason asked.

Harrod opened his eyes, shifted his position slightly, moved his hands under the blanket then lay still again. “You’re going to be very much interested,” he announced.

“Why?”

“You’re representing Fern Driscoll.”

“Did she stab you?”

Harrod was silent for a long moment. He closed his eyes, opened them, then said, “Who do you think?”

Mason said sharply, “I’m not here to play guessing games. I came here because you said a client of mine had stabbed you. Now, if you have anything to tell me, start talking. If you haven’t, I’m leaving.” Harrod said, “Fern Driscoll stabbed me. She’s your client.”

“How did it happen?” Mason asked.

“I wanted to have a talk with her. I was investigating an automobile accident in which she was involved. I went up to her apartment.”

“Where?” Mason asked.

“Rexmore Apartments. 309.”

“Go on.”

“I found the door slightly ajar. I pushed the button. I could hear the bell chimes on the inside. Abruptly the door was flung open and Fern Driscoll said, ‘Oh, it’s you!’ and with that she lashed out at me. I didn’t see the ice pick at the moment. I felt a sharp, stinging sensation at the skin. I didn’t feel deep pain at all.”

“Then what happened?” Mason asked.

“She slammed the door in my face, and locked it. There was someone else in there with her. I could hear them talking.”

“What did you do?”

“I rang the chimes again, rattled the doorknob. I saw she wasn’t going to open up, so I made up my mind I’d make her regret it. Believe me, I have the goods on her. I decided to release everything I had on her, and that’s a lot.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“Well, I turned for the stairs and that was when I found there was an ice pick in my chest.” Harrod turned to the young woman, said, “Nellie, how about a drink?”

She went through the door into the kitchenette, came back with a bottle of whisky and a glass half—filled with water.

“Only about half that water,” Harrod said.

She dutifully went back to the kitchen, returned with the tumbler about a quarter full. She extended the bottle and the glass, but Harrod said, “Pour it and hold it to my lis.” Harrod drank the whisky and water.

The woman wiped his lips. Harrod said, “It’s funny but I’ve been cold ever since I got home.”

“Have you had a doctor?” Mason asked.

“No.”

“You’d better get one.”

“I don’t want one.”

“Why?”

“Doctors ask too many questions.”

“Did this ice pick go all the way in?” Mason asked.

“Clean to the hilt,” Harrod said.

“Then you’d better have a doctor.”

“I told you I don’t want a doctor. Doctors go asking questions, and then they babble everything they know to the police.”

“Well,” Mason said, “it sounds to me as though the police should be notified.”

Harrod shifted his eyes, said, “That would be bad for your client.”

“I’ll look out for the interests of my client,” Mason said sharply.

“All right,” Harrod said, “it wouldn’t be good for me.”

“Why not?”

“I am not the most exemplary citizen in the world, Mason,” Harrod said. “I’m a—all right, I’m an opportunist.”

“And a blackmailer?” Mason asked.

“He didn’t say that,” Nellie flared at Mason.

“I was trying to make it easier for him,” Mason said.

“You don’t have to!” Nellie snapped. “He can talk for himself.” Harrod said, “Fern Driscoll has some letters. I don’t know how much you know about her history, but she was going with Forrester Baylor in Lansing, Michigan. Forrester is the only son of Harriman Baylor, a big manufacturer.

“Fern Driscoll was working as his secretary. She and Forrester got playing around and then all of a sudden all hell broke loose. I think perhaps someone found out Harriman Baylor was about to become a grandfather under circumstances that didn’t appeal to the old bastard.”

“Watch your language,” Nellie said sharply.

Carl Harrod grinned, went on talking, “I started out trying to sharp-shoot. I’m an investigator for an insurance company. That’s the way I make my bread and butter. I’m also an undercover correspondent for a magazine entitled The Real Lowdown.

“I wasn’t sure about my story until after I’d interviewed Fern Driscoll.

Then I was certain I was on the right track. The trouble was the story is too big. The magazine has to have proof. I understand there are some letters written by Forrester. It’s also reported that Harriman Baylor gave her a big wad of dough to go bye-bye and have a baby very quietly, then release it for adoption to anyone that Harriman Baylor designated.

“That’s the kind of a story that The Real Low—down would pay ten thousand smackeroos to get nailed down.

“I have everything I need except the letters,” Harrod said. “That’s why I went to Fern Driscoll’s apartment.”

“You’re telling me all this?” Mason asked.

“I’m telling you all this,” Harrod said.

“And that secretary of his is writing every word of it down,” Nellie snapped.

“Let her,” Harrod said. “Mason has got to play ball with me in this thing.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“I’d been there earlier and tried to be nice,” Harrod said. “Being nice didn’t get me anywhere so I went back to try it again. This time I wasn’t going to be so nice.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mason said. “You went there the first time. What happened?”

“The door was opened by Katherine Baylor. I’d followed her to the place. You see, the Baylor family are out here quite often. Harriman Baylor has business interests in southern California. The family always stays at the Vista del Camino Hotel. I had a tip that Baylor himself had taken a tumble and was going to make a big try to get those letters.

“I felt certain some member of the family would show up. I had an idea they’d located Fern Driscoll. Katherine showed up, registered, left her baggage, and went right out to a cab.

“I followed in my car. She went direct to Fern Driscoll’s apartment in the Rexmore.

“So I went up and rang the bell after she’d been there long enough to get the preliminaries over with.”

“That was the first time you’d been to Miss Driscoll’s apartment?” Mason asked.

“Actually it was the second time . . . Suppose you let me tell it in my own way.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Go ahead.”

“Well, Katherine came to the door, took a good look at me and after I’d introduced myself she used some strong language, then swung on me and cracked me on the nose.”

“Then what happened?” Mason asked.

“I got a bloody nose. She slammed and locked the door before I could do a damned thing. I suppose she’s accustomed to playing with people who are too gentlemanly to strike a woman. Believe me, if she hadn’t got that door slammed and locked just when she did, I’d have broken her god-damned jaw.”

“Your language, Carl!” Nellie admonished.

“Her god-damned jaw!” Harrod repeated, more emphatically and in a louder voice.

Nellie made clicking noises with her tongue against the roof of her mouth, indicating shocked disapproval.

“Go on,” Mason said.

“All right. I went back after a while,” Harrod said, “and knocked again.

Believe me, if the door had opened and this Baylor bitch had been there, I’d—”

“Your language, Carl,” Nellie said. “Mr. Mason’s a lawyer.”

“I mean, this Baylor girl,” Harrod amended hastily, “if she’d been there, I’d have given her something to remember me by. That is, if she’d opened the door.”

“She wasn’t there?”

“I think she was,” Harrod said. “Someone was in there with her. I could hear them talking. I don’t know who it was.”

“All right. What happened?”

“I’ve told you what happened. I rang the chimes. Fern Driscoll pushed open the door and lurched at me with this ice pick without so much as a word!”

“Not a single word?”

“Well, she said something like ‘You again!’ or something like that.”

“Were the lights on in the apartment?” Mason asked.

“What do you mean, were the lights on?” Harrod countered.

“When the apartment door was opened,” Mason said, “were lights on in the little reception hallway of the apartment?” 

Harrod thought for a moment. “I don’t remember. Why?”

“I was wondering why you didn’t see the ice pick so you could avoid it,” Mason explained. “You wouldn’t have just stood there while someone made a pass at you with a weapon like that.”

Again Harrod thought for a moment, then said “I guess you’re right. I sure as hell didn’t see any ice pick. The lights weren’t on in the apartment. That is, they may have been on in the apartment itself, but the door opens into a little hallway. When you go in the door, there’s a little, narrow hallway, then you make a sharp, right-angle turn to the left and then you come into the main apartment.”

“And you had no idea you had been stabbed with an ice pick until after the door closed?”

“That’s right.”

“And you didn’t see the ice pick?”

“No.”

“Then you couldn’t have seen the face of the woman who wielded the ice pick clearly enough to be absolutely certain,” Mason said. “As far as you know, it could have been Katherine Baylor who stabbed you instead of Fern Driscoll.”

Harrod’s face showed anger. “You’ve got no right to come up here and cross-examine me and—damn it, I’m trying to be co-operative. Now I’ll make you a proposition, Mason.”

“What is it?”

“Your client can make a settlement with me. Your secretary there can type up a release and I’ll sign it.”

“What sort of a settlement?”

Harrod shook his head. “You go talk with your client, then you make me an offer. You’ve heard my story, now go get hers. Get it all. Don’t take anything for granted. Ask her who she really is. Then you come back to me.”Mason said, “Not now, Harrod. First we’re going to have a doctor look you over and see how serious the situation is.”

“I don’t want a doctor. I know exactly what I want.” Mason said, “I’m going to get my own personal physician on the job.

He’s going to give you a once-over. The idea is to keep any complications from developing.”