"The Case of the Dangerous Dowager" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gardner Erle Stanley)

CHAPTER 14

MASON CALLED Paul Drake from a pay station. "Still got your men on Oxman, Paul?" he said when Paul answered the phone.

"Yes. Why?"

"I have an idea he's going to take a run-out powder."

"He can't afford to do that," Drake said. "He…"

"He can't afford not to do it," Mason interrupted. "He's in a jam and he won't dare to show himself until he can make his peace with Squires. Now, when he leaves, I want to know where he goes. He's wise now that he's being tailed. He'll try to ditch the shadows. I want you to make things easy for him-not so easy he smells a rat, but easy enough so he feels certain he's on the loose."

"You mean you don't want him covered any longer?"

"No, I want him tailed, but if he thinks he's given his shadows the slip it'll make him easier to handle. So put a couple of men on the job who can be push-overs, and then plant some smooth operatives in the background who can carry on from there. Do you get me?"

"I get you," the detective said… "Now, listen, I've got something for you. Della Street reports that the Benson woman has contacted her and wants to see you. They're going out to Della's apartment. Can you meet them there? Della says she thinks it's important."

"All right," Mason said, "I'll go out there right away. What else is new?"

"I've managed to get micro-photographs of the fatal bullet," Drake said. "It checks with the bullet Manning dug out of the beam of the ship. That means Grieb was killed with his own gun. It commences to look more and more as though this would give you an out, Perry."

"Let's hope so," Mason told him, "but there are a few loose ends I'd like to tie up before the Federal Grand Jury starts an investigation. In the meantime, I'll go see Della Street, and you keep Frank Oxman under surveillance. He's put himself in a position where he's done some things he can't explain. We can make him the goat if we have to."

"That won't help for long," Drake said. "He really isn't guilty of anything, is he?"

"You never can tell," Mason told him. "In any event, he's put himself in a hot spot trying to chisel seventy-five hundred bucks. I'll get in touch with Della."

"Just in case it means anything to you, there's a whole army of plainclothesmen clamped around the office building here," Drake said. "They're waiting for you to come in."

"It doesn't mean a thing to me," Mason told him cheerfully. "… be seeing you, Paul."

"Yes," Drake said, "perhaps you'll have the adjoining cell."

Mason hung up, left the telephone booth, and drove to Della Street's apartment house. He went at once to his own apartment and started hurriedly packing a suitcase. He was awkwardly folding his pajamas when he heard a tap on the door which communicated with Della's apartment. He twisted back the bolt on his side of the door to encounter her anxious eyes and the keen gray eyes of Matilda Benson.

"Are things coming okay?" Della Street asked anxiously.

Mason grinned reassuringly. "We're making satisfactory progress. Come in and sit down."

Matilda Benson gave him her hand. "I want to thank you," she said. "No other man that I know of could have done what you've done."

"He's done too much," Della said. "He always does too much. He shouldn't jeopardize his career for some client who's in trouble, and no client has any right to ask him to take the chances he does."

Mrs. Benson settled herself comfortably in a chair. "No use trying to lock the stable door after the horse has been stolen," she observed. "What's been done has been done."

"How did you get off that ship?" Mason asked.

She grinned. "There wasn't anything to it. Some of the crew lowered a rope ladder over the stern and let people slip into a speed boat at twenty dollars a head. Twelve people went off that I know of."

"Twelve people went down that rope ladder?" Mason asked.

She nodded, opened her bag, took out her leather cigar case, clipped the end off a cigar, pulled out a card of matches bearing the imprint of the gambling ship, and said, "At least twelve. Apparently it's a great rendezvous for mixed couples."

"What do you mean by mixed couples?"

"Husbands who have their wives mixed, and vice versa," she said. "When a married man's stepping out with some blonde cutie and is afraid he may run into some of his wife's friends, he's apt to pick the gambling ship as a swell place for dinner, drinks, and a little action." She broke off to chuckle, scraped a match into flame, and lighted the cigar.

"How about the coat?" Mason asked.

"I tossed mine overboard. I thought it would sink, but, as luck would have it, it caught on the anchor chain. That was a break against me. Otherwise they'd never have known I'd been on the ship. With that coat as a clue, they've made an investigation and are all ready to crack down on me as soon as they can find me.

"That was a great experience-giving the officers the slip. I never saw anything quite so funny as the bedraggled appearance of those frightened philanderers crawling down the side of that ship on a rope ladder. The crew were getting a great kick out of it. The people were frightened stiff."

"So you got away all right?" Mason asked.

"Sure. They pushed the speed boat loose and didn't start the motor until it had drifted away from the ship. I had planned to give a phoney name and address, but I found it wouldn't work. The officers were demanding evidence of identification and all that sort of stuff. So I just politely skipped out on them."

"Then what?" Mason asked.

"Then I kept under cover, of course. Now I want to see Sylvia. You know where she is. I want to talk with her."

"It would be dangerous for you to see her now," Mason said slowly. "You're wanted, and your appearance is sufficiently distinctive so you could be picked up from a description, where…" He broke off as the telephone burst into sound.

Della Street picked up the telephone, said, "Hello…" then after a moment, "Who shall I say wishes to speak with him? Very well, hold the phone, please."

She turned to Mason and nodded. The lawyer scooped the receiver to his ear and heard Sylvia Oxman's half-hysterical voice. "Something awful's happened!"

"What?" he asked. "Keep cool and tell me about it."

"I was lying on the bed, reading, when someone tossed something through the open transom. It fell on the floor… It… it's a gun-a.38 automatic."

"Did you," Mason asked, "pick it up?"

"Yes. I was frightened."

"Where is it now?"

"Right here on my dresser. Shall I try to dispose of it? Or…"

"Get ready," Mason said, "for the police. The officers will be there within a matter of seconds. Don't make any statement to anyone. And…"

"Someone's knocking at the door now," she said.

"Hang up your telephone!" Mason commanded.

He slammed the receiver back on its hook, turned to Della Street and said, "Sylvia's been framed. Someone tossed a gun into her room. The cops are pounding at the door. She got frightened and put through a call to this number. They'll trace that call as quickly as they can, then call the radio cars, and start sewing this place up. Let's go!"

He began to fling things helter-skelter into his suitcase. Matilda Benson pulled them out, folded them neatly and packed the suitcase with a swift efficiency.

"Don't wait, Chief," Della Street told him. "You get started. Never mind the suitcase."

"Don't you understand," he said, "if they find the suitcase here, they'll pinch you as an accessory after the fact, for aiding and abetting, compounding a felony, and a few other charges. We can't afford to let the officers ever suspect that you know I was here. This thing is getting too hot to handle, and…"

He broke off as a peremptory knock sounded on the door of Della Street's apartment. For a moment the lawyer and his secretary stared at each other in startled consternation. Matilda Benson calmly put the finishing touches to the packing. The knock was repeated, and a voice shouted, "Open up! This is the law. We have a search warrant for this apartment."

"It's all right," Della Street said in a quick whisper. "I'll go in there and let them search. You keep this door locked and…"

"Nothing doing," Mason said. "They'll search until they find me. There's only one way to keep you out of it. You leave it to me. Come on, Della."

Matilda Benson snapped the suitcase shut and said, "Do they need to know I'm here?"

"Not if you can get away," Mason told her, "but I don't think you can."

The knock was repeated for the third time, a thundering summons which made the door rattle.

"We've got to lock the connecting door from this side," Mason pointed out. "There's no legitimate explanation you can make for having that door unlocked, Della."

Matilda Benson pushed them toward the door. "Go on in," she said. "I'll lock the door of this apartment."

Mason picked up his suitcase, stepped into Della Street's apartment, flung his overcoat over the back of a chair, perched his hat on the back of his head, and called out, "Just a minute, boys. Don't make so much noise."

He heard the bolt click in the door of the connecting apartment, opened the door of Della Street's apartment, and bowed to the three men who were standing in the corridor.

"This," he said, "is an unexpected pleasure."

One of the men stepped forward and said, "You're Perry Mason?"

"Yes."

He handed Mason a folded oblong of paper. "A subpoena to appear forthwith before the Federal Grand Jury," he said, "and I might also tell you that you're under arrest."

"On what charge?"

"Compounding a felony, being an accessory after the fact, and on suspicion of murder."

The men pushed their way into the room. Della Street stood by the window, her eyes wide with alarm.

One of the men walked toward her and said, "All right, we'll hear from you now. Did you know your boss was a fugitive from justice while you were shielding him? You…"

Mason interrupted, "Don't be silly, she wasn't shielding me. I was on my way to take a plane. I dropped in to give her some last-minute instructions."

"Says you," the man sneered.

Mason gestured toward his overcoat on the back of the chair and the suitcase. "See for yourself," he said.

The men exchanged glances. The man in charge said, "Take a look through the suitcase, Bill."

They tossed the suitcase to an overstuffed chair, unfastened the buckles on the straps, flung back the lid. "Okay," one of the men said, "he's got his stuff in here."

"He did his packing after we started pounding on the door," the man in charge said, his voice showing his irritation.

Mason grinned at them. "Rather a neat job of packing to be done in five seconds, don't you think?"

"You were long enough about getting the door open."

"I was giving my secretary some last-minute instructions," Mason told him, casually lighting a cigarette.

"The stuff is sure packed, all right," Bill said. "All neatly folded and…"

"Never mind the comments, Bill," the leader interrupted. "How about the adjoining apartment? We hear you've rented that."

"Adjoining apartment?" Della Street asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Shut up, Della," Mason warned.

The leader glowered at him. "Like that, eh?" he asked.

"Like that," Mason said easily.

The leader nodded to his men. "If that door's locked smash it down."

"Got a search warrant?" Mason asked.

No one paid any attention to the question. Two of the men charged the door. The bolt-seat ripped out. The door banged open.

Matilda Benson, her clothes draped over the back of a chair, was sprawled out in bed, pillows under her head, a cigar in her mouth. She looked up and said, "Why the hell don't you knock?"

The officers fell back in surprise. The man who had assumed charge stepped forward. "I beg your pardon. We have a warrant to search this apartment. We had every reason to believe it had been rented for the purpose of concealing Perry Mason."

Matilda Benson exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and said acidly, "You had no reason to believe anything of the sort. This is my apartment. Perry Mason is my lawyer. I wanted to be close to his secretary, so she got me this apartment. I'm quite comfortable here. And, while I have no false modesty, young man, I do object to having my morning smoke interrupted."

For a moment the leader paused uncertainly, then said, "Take a look around, boys."

"In case you don't know it," Mrs. Benson remarked, "this is a damned outrage." She pulled the sheet up around her neck, punched the pillows into a more comfortable position, and calmly resumed smoking her cigar.

The officers made a swift, hurried search of her apartment. "So," the leader said, "you've been up and had breakfast, eh?"

Matilda Benson raised her eyebrows. "What was the name?" she asked. "Dr. Watson… or is it Holmes himself?" Someone tittered.

"Where are your personal belongings?" the leader demanded.

"I haven't moved them in yet."

"And is it your custom to burn the toast, to leave bacon in the oven, and hard-boil your eggs?" the officer asked suspiciously.

Mrs. Benson sighed and said meekly, "None of my husbands cared much for my cooking." She meditatively inspected the end of her cigar, raised steady gray eyes to encounter those of the officer, and added with a smile, "But that's the only complaint they ever made, young man."

The officer stared at her in nonplused silence, then said with sudden determination, "Get up and dress. I'm going to see this thing through. You're going to the district attorney's office for questioning. You too, Miss Street. Bill, telephone the D.A. and tell him we're on our way up. Get him to round up the others."