"The Case of the Stuttering Bishop" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gardner Erle Stanley)

Chapter 4

Perry Mason was in a rare good humor as he ordered cocktails and dinner. Della Street, watching him with the insight which comes from years of close association, said, as she tilted her cocktail glass, "Riding the crest, aren't you, Chief?"

He nodded, eyes brimming with the joy of living. "How I love a mystery, Della," he said. "I hate routine. I hate details. I like the thrill of matching my wits with crooks. I like to have people lie to me and catch them in their lies. I love to listen to people talk and wonder how much of it is true and how much of it is false. I want life, action, shifting conditions. I like to fit facts together, bit by bit, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle."

"And you think this stuttering bishop is trying to slip something over on you?" she asked.

Mason twisted the stem of his empty cocktail glass in his fingers. "Darned if I know, Della," he told her. "The bishop's playing a deep game. I sensed it the minute he came into the office, and somehow, I have the feeling that he wanted to keep me in the dark as to his real purpose. That's why I'm going to get such a kick out of outguessing him, figuring what he wants before he's willing to let me know just what he wants. Come on, let's dance." He swept her out on the dance floor, where they moved with the perfect rhythm of long practice together. The dance over, they returned to find the first course of the dinner set before them.

"Tell me about it," she invited him, "if you want to."

"I want to," Mason said. "I want to run over all of the facts, just to see if I can't fit them together. Some of them you know, some of them you don't know.

"Let's begin at the beginning. A man who claims to be an Australian bishop comes to call on me. He's excited and he stutters. Every time he stutters, he gets mad at himself. Now why?"

"Because," she said. "he knows that a bishop shouldn't stutter. Perhaps it's some habit he's developed recently, due to an emotional shock, and he's wondering what will happen if he returns to Australia and stutters."

"Swell," he told her. "That's a good logical explanation. That's the one which occurred to me right at the start. But suppose the man isn't a bishop but is some crook masquerading, for one reason or another, as Bishop Mallory of Sydney, Australia. He's inclined to stutter when he becomes excited. Therefore, he tries his darnedest not to stutter, the result being that he stutters just that much more. He's afraid that stuttering is going to give him away." She nodded slowly.

"Now then," Mason said, "this bishop wants to see me about a manslaughter case. He doesn't mention names, but it's virtually certain the manslaughter case is one involving the Julia Branner who became Mrs. Oscar Brownley, Oscar Brownley being the older of Renwold C. Brownley's two sons.

"I don't need to tell you about Brownley. The younger son died six or seven years ago. Oscar went away with his wife, no one knows just where. Then he came back. The woman didn't. Manslaughter charges were pending against her in Orange County. But those charges weren't filed until some time after the automobile accident."

"Well?" she asked.

"Well," Mason said, "suppose I should tell you that Renwold Brownley knew that his son Oscar was coming back to him and was afraid the woman was going to try to come back. Wouldn't it be a smart move for Renwold Brownley to pull some political wires and get a warrant of arrest issued for her? Then the minute she returned to California he could have her thrown into jail on a manslaughter charge."

Della Street nodded absently, pushed back her soup dish and said, "Aren't there two grandchildren living with Brownley?"

"That's right," he said. "Philip Brownley, whose father was the younger son, and a girl whose first name I've forgotten, who's the daughter of Oscar. Now Bishop Mallory comes over on the Monterey, stays four or five days in San Francisco, puts some ads in the local papers and…"

"Wait a minute," she interrupted. "I've just remembered something. You say the bishop came over on the Monterey?"

"Yes, why?"

She laughed nervously and said, "Chief, you know a lot about human nature. Why do stenographers, secretaries and shop girls read the society news?"

"I'll bite. Why do they?"

She shrugged her shoulders. For a moment her eyes were wistful. "I'm darned if I know, Chief. I wouldn't want to live unless I could work for a living, and yet I like to read about who's at Palm Springs, who's doing what in Hollywood and all the rest of it, and every secretary I know does the same thing."

Watching her narrowly, Mason said, "Skip the preliminaries, Della, and tell me what this's all about."

She said slowly, "I happen to remember that Janice Alma Brownley, the granddaughter of Renwold C. Brownley, was a passenger on the Monterey from Sydney to San Francisco, and the newspapers said that the attractive young heiress was the center of social life aboard the ship, or words to that effect, if you get what I mean. You see, Chief, you don't know the granddaughter's first name, but I can tell you lots about her."

Mason stared across the table at her and said, "Twelve."

"What?" she asked.

"Twelve," he repeated, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Chief, what on earth are you talking about?"

"I told you a minute ago that when I added two and two in this case I didn't get four, but six, and it bothered me," he said. "Now I add two and two and make twelve."

"Twelve what?"

He shook his head and said, "Let's not even think of it for a while. It's not often that we have a chance to relax, Della. Let's eat, drink and be merry, have a few dances, go back to the office and get Paul Drake in for a conference. By that time the thing I'm chasing will probably turn out to be just a mirage. But in the meantime," he said, somewhat wistfully, "just in case it shouldn't be a mirage, what a gosh-awful case it would be. A regular humdinger of a case. A gee whillikins of a case!"

"Tell me, Chief."

He shook his head and said, "It can't be true, Della. It's just a mirage. Lets not talk about it and then we won't be disappointed if Paul Drake unearths information which shows we're all wet."

She regarded him thoughtfully and said, "Do you mean that this girl…"

"Tut, tut," he told her warningly, "don't argue with the boss. Come on, Della, this is a fox-trot. Remember now, we're giving our minds a recess."

Mason refused to be hurried through the dinner, or to discuss any business. Della Street matched his mood. For more than an hour they enjoyed one of those rare periods of intimacy which comes to people who have worked together, sharing disappointments and triumphs, who understand each other so perfectly that there is no need for any of the little hypocrisies which are so frequently the rule rather than the exception in human contacts.

Not until after the dessert had been taken away and the lawyer had sipped the very last drop of his liqueur did he sigh and say, "Well, Della, let's go back to our mirage-chasing and prove that it really is a mirage after all."

"You think it is?" she asked.

"I don't know," he told her, "but I'm afraid to think it isn't. In any event, let's telephone Drake to meet us at the office."

"Listen, Chief," she said, "I've been thinking. Suppose this woman, knowing there was a felony warrant out for her arrest in California, fled to Australia and suppose…"

"Not a word," he said, gripping her shoulder. "Let's not go jumping around in the clouds. We'll keep our feet on the ground. You telephone Paul Drake to meet us at the office, and I'll get a cab."

She nodded, but her eyes were preoccupied. "Of course," she said, "if he shouldn't be the real bishop but should be an impostor…"

Mason pointed a rigid forefinger at her, crooked his thumb as though it had been the trigger of a revolver, and said, "Halt, or I fire."

She laughed and said, "I'll call Paul while I'm powdering my nose, Chief," and vanished into the dressing room.

Paul Drake tapped on the door of Perry Mason's private office and Della Street let him in. "You two look well fed," Drake remarked, grinning at them.

Mason had lost the carefree mannerism of the cabaret. His face was thoughtful, his eyes half closed in concentration. "What about the bishop, Paul?" he asked.

"The bishop is at present perfectly able to navigate under his own power," Drake said. "He's out of the hospital and back at his hotel. He can't wear a hat, though. His head is so covered with bandages that only one eye and the tip of his nose are showing. According to last reports, he's pursuing the even tenor of his ecclesiastical ways."

"And how about the Seaton girl?"

"Still in her apartment on West Adams Street. She hasn't budged. Apparently she's waiting for a call from the bishop and isn't going to leave until it comes in."

Mason frowned thoughtfully and said, "That doesn't make sense, Paul."

"It's one of the few things that does make sense," the detective rejoined. "She was packing up when we busted in on her. Evidently she was getting ready to go places. She admitted she was to travel with the bishop or with some patient he was to get for her. So she's waiting for the bishop to give her definite instructions. She hasn't stuck her nose outdoors since the bishop went to the hospital."

"Hasn't been out to dinner?"

"Hasn't even opened the back door to dump out any garbage," Drake said.

"You've got two men watching the front and back of the apartment?"

"That's right. The man who followed her to the apartment was watching the front, and I had an operative at the back within five minutes of the time we left there."

Mason said, "Della supplied a fact which may be important. Janice Alma Brownley came over on the Monterey from Australia."

"Well," Drake asked, "what about it?"

"Bishop Mallory came over on the same ship. They were together for two or three weeks on shipboard. And, mind you, unless there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, the woman the bishop is inquiring about on the manslaughter business is the mother of the Brownley girl."

Drake frowned thoughtfully.

Mason said, "Della and I have been toying around with an idea, Paul. It may be goofy. I haven't dared to think about it out loud. I want you to listen to it and see what you think."

"Go to it," Drake told him. "I'm always willing to punch holes in ideas."

"Suppose," Mason said, "the Branner woman skipped out to Australia. Suppose, after Oscar Brownley went back to the States, she had a baby. Suppose Bishop Mallory, being at that time a Church of England minister, was given the child to put in a good home somewhere. Suppose he gave her to a family named Seaton, and then suppose when he came to the United States on the Monterey he found some girl on the ship posing as Janice Brownley and knew she was an impostor; but suppose he wanted to play his cards pretty close to his chest and get some definite proof before he started any fireworks, and among other things, wanted to dig up the real Brownley girl-now why wouldn't that fit with the facts?"

Drake thought for a moment and then said, "No, Perry, that's goofy. In the first place, it's all surmise. In the second place, the girl couldn't have been received into the Brownley household without the mother knowing about it, and if it had been the wrong girl she'd have raised merry hell."

"Suppose," Mason interrupted, "the mother was out of the state and didn't know about it but is just finding it out. Then she'd come on here to really raise some hell."

"Well," Drake said, "she hasn't showed up. That's the best answer to that. Also, don't forget that good-looking gals change a lot from the time they're little pink morsels of humanity until they blossom forth into dazzling heiresses. Bishop Mallory is probably far more interested in ecclesiastical duties than tagging babies whom he has farmed out for adoption… No, Perry, I think you've got a wrong hunch. But this may be the case: Someone may be going to pull a shake-down and in order to work it they need a Bishop Mallory to lay the foundation, so if they had a fake Bishop Mallory call on a credulous but aggressive lawyer and spill a sob-sister story they might throw enough monkey wrenches in the Brownley machinery to get a rake-off."

"So you think the bishop is a fake?" Mason asked.

"Right from the first," Drake said, "I figured this bishop was a crook. I don't like that stuttering business, Perry."

Mason said slowly, "Neither do I, when you come right down to it."

"Well," Drake said, grinning, "we're right down to it."

"So," Mason said, "I think we'll talk with Bishop Mallory again-that is, unless he gets in touch with me first. How long's he been at the hotel, Paul?"

"Around half an hour I'd say. They patched him up at the hospital, and after he recovered consciousness he was none the worse for wear, except for the headache and the flock of bandages on his head."

"What did he tell the police?"

"He said he opened the door of his room and someone jumped out from behind the door and hit him, and that's all he remembers."

Mason frowned and said, "That wouldn't account for the broken mirror and the busted chair, Paul. There was a fight in that room."

Drake shrugged his shoulders and said, "All I know is that that's the story he told the police. Of course, Perry, sometimes when a man's been given a knock on the bean that way he forgets a good deal of what happened."

"You've got a man trailing the bishop?" Mason asked.

"Two men," Drake said. "Two men in two separate cars. We're not letting him out of our sight."

Mason said thoughtfully, "Let's go talk with this Seaton girl again, and let's take Della along. The kid's a redheaded spitfire, but she may loosen up if Della talks to her."

Drake's voice showed resentment. "We'll never get anything out of her now," he said.

"Why the accent on the now?" Mason asked.

"I don't like the way you handled it, Perry. I know her type. We should have kept her on the run, made her think the bishop had been murdered, pretended she was a logical suspect, and then she'd have told the truth in order to clear her skirts."

"She told some of the truth, anyway," Mason said, "about getting in touch with him through an ad, for instance." Mason motioned to Della Street, who handed over the ads she had clipped from the personal columns. Mason gave them to the detective who stared at them frowningly and said, "What the devil's the idea, Perry?"

"I don't know, Paul, unless it's the way I outlined to you. Have you heard anything more from Australia, Paul?"

"No. I've wired my correspondents for a description and asked them to cable the bishop's present address."

Mason said thoughtfully, "I keep thinking that Seaton girl holds the key to this thing. We'll drop in on her, ask a few more questions, and then go see His Nibs, the Stuttering Bishop. And by that time I think we'll have an earful."

Paul Drake said, "Of course, Perry, it's none of my business but why go to all this trouble over a case which probably isn't going to amount to anything, which hasn't paid you any fee and where no one seems to be in particularly urgent need of your services?"

He shrugged and said, "I'm afraid, Paul, you overlook the potential possibilities of the situation. In the first place, it's a mystery, and you know how I feel about mysteries. In the second place, unless all signs fail, what we're having so far is what is technically known as the 'build-up.'"

"Build-up to what?" Drake asked in his slow drawl.

Mason looked at his wristwatch and said, "My guess is the within twelve hours I'll receive a call from a woman who gives her name either as Julia Branner or Mrs. Oscar Brownley."

The detective said, "You may, at that, Perry. And she may be phoney. If she isn't-well, you might have lots of action."

Mason put on his hat and said, "Come on. Let's go."

They went in Drake's car to the apartment house on West Adams. Behind the windshield of a battered car, a little spot of light marked the glowing end of a cigarette. A figure detached itself from the black shadows and proved to be that of Charlie Downes. "All clear?" Drake asked.

"Everything's under control," the man grinned. "How long do I stay here?"

"You'll be relieved at midnight," Drake said. "Until then, stick on the job. We're going up. She may go out as soon as we leave. If she does, we want to know where she goes."

They took the elevator to the third floor. Drake led the way to Apartment 328 and tapped gently on the panels. There was no answer. He knocked more loudly.

Mason whispered, "Wait a minute, Paul. I've got an idea." He said to Della Street, "Call out, 'Open the door, Janice, this is I.'"

Della Street nodded, placed her mouth close to the door and said, "Open up, Janice. It's I."

Again there was no sound of motion. Mason dropped to his knees, took a long envelope from his pocket, inserted it under the door, moved it back and forth and said, "There's no light in there, Paul."

"The devil!" Paul Drake said.

They stood in a silent, compact group for a moment. Then Drake said, "I'm going down and make certain the back end of the place is covered, and has been covered ever since we left."

"We'll wait here," Mason told him. Drake didn't wait to use the elevator, but ran down the stairs.

"Suppose," Della Street ventured. "that she really couldn't have left the building."

"Well?" Mason asked.

"Then she's in there."

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps she's… you know."

"You mean committed suicide?"

"Yes."

Mason said, "She didn't look like that kind to me, Della. She looked like a fighter. But of course there's some chance she's wise enough to have gone into some friend's apartment here in the same building. That's one thing we may have to figure on. Or, she may be inside, playing possum."

They stood in uncomfortable silence, waiting.

Drake came back, panting from his exertion in taking the stairs two at a time, and said, "She's sewed up in the place. It's a cinch she hasn't left by either the front or the rear. She's bound to be inside. You know, Perry, there's just a chance…"

His voice trailed away into silence and Perry said, "Yes, Della was wondering about that. But, somehow, I can't figure her for that sort of a play."

Drake grinned and said, "I know a way we can find out."

"Speaking as a lawyer," Mason observed, "I'd say such a method would be highly illegal."

Drake produced a folding leather tool kit from his pocket and took out some skeleton keys.

"Which'll it be," he asked, "conscience or curiosity?"

Mason said, "Curiosity."

Drake fitted a key in the lock and Mason said to Della. "You'd better keep out of this, Della. Stand in the corridor and don't come in. Then you won't be guilty of anything in case there's a squawk."

Drake clicked back the lock and said, "If you see anybody coming, Della, start knocking on the door. We'll lock it from the inside. When we hear you knock that'll be our signal to keep quiet."

"Suppose it should be the girl herself?" Della Street asked.

"It won't be. She can't have left. But if it should be, she's about twenty-one or twenty-two, with dark copper hair that's alive, eyes that have plenty of fire, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. She's easy on the eyes. Try and think up some stall which will take her away and give us a chance to get out. Tell her there's someone waiting in the car downstairs who is very anxious to see her. Don't mention any names, but let her think it's the bishop, and see what her reaction is to that."

"Okay," Della said, "don't worry. I'll work out some thing."

"She's dynamite," Mason warned. "Don't start an argument with her because I wouldn't put it past her to start hair pulling."

"Do we switch on the lights?" Drake asked.

"Sure," Mason said.

"Okay, here goes."

"Close the door first," Mason warned.

They closed the door. Drake groped for the light switch and clicked the room into brilliance. Apparently it was exactly as they had seen it earlier in the day. The clothes were piled on the bed, the wardrobe trunk was open in the center of the floor and partially packed.

Mason said in a low voice, "If she did anything, Paul, she did it right after we were here talking with her. You take a look in the bathroom; I'll take the kitchenette."

"Don't forget the big closet behind the bed, either," Drake said. "My God, Perry, I'm afraid to take a look. If we find her dead, it's going to put us in one hell of a spot."

"Are you," asked Perry Mason, "telling me?"

They separated, made a hasty search of the apartment, and met once more by the bed, with sheepish grins.

"Well, Perry," Drake said, "she out-smarted us. Of course, there's a chance she has a friend here in the building and has gone in with her."

Mason shook his head and said, "If she'd been doing that she'd probably have finished her packing so she'd be all ready to come back, grab her stuff and make a dash for it just as soon as the coast was clear. No, Paul, she walked out on us through the back door within five minutes of the time we left the place and before your second man had time to get on the job."

Drake sighed and said, "I guess you're right, Perry. But it makes me sore to think she took me as easily as that. Here I've been sewing the place up tight while she's been on the loose."

Mason said grimly, "Well, we'll go and see the bishop. Della, you go back to the office and stick around. Keep the light on and the outer door open." As he saw the look of inquiry on her face, he said, "I want you to wait for Julia Branner, or Mrs. Oscar Brownley, whatever name she's going under. We'll drive you over to the boulevard and you can get a taxi. Then we'll go on to the Regal Hotel."

Drake left orders his men were to keep a watch of the apartment and report as soon as Janice Seaton returned. They drove Della Street to the boulevard, saw her headed for the office in a cab, and drove directly to the Regal Hotel. In the hotel, Drake looked around in the lobby and said, "I don't see either of the boys here."

"What does that mean?" Mason asked.

"Probably that he's gone out."

"Meeting the Seaton girl somewhere," Mason surmised.

"I'll hunt up Jim Pauley and see if he knows anything," Drake said. "There he is now, over… Hey, Jim!"

The house detective, looking ponderously incongruous in a tuxedo, ducked his bald head in a grinning greeting and came strutting across the lobby. "This Mallory is a Church of England bishop," he said, "and right now he's nursing a mighty sore head. But he's a good sport. He says there is nothing missing and he isn't going to make a squawk about it so we can hush it up. Under the circumstances, we're ready to meet him halfway. By the way, he went out a while ago and left a letter for Mr. Mason."

Mason and Drake exchanged glances. "A letter for me?" Mason asked.

"Yeah. It's at the desk. I'll get it."

"Take any baggage with him?" Drake asked.

"No. He was just going out for dinner, I think."

The detective stepped behind the counter and took a sealed envelope from a pigeon-hole. The envelope was addressed: "Perry Mason, Attorney at Law. To be delivered to Mr. Mason when he calls this evening."

Mason slit open the envelope. A five-dollar bill was clipped to a sheet of hotel stationery. A brief note read:

"DEAR MR. MASON: I realized I was being followed shortly after I left your office, so I got the janitor to let me out through the basement and alley. I subsequently telephoned to try and locate my cab, and found that you had paid it off. I am, therefore, reimbursing you herewith.

Insofar as the advice which you have given me is concerned, I beg you to consider it as bread cast upon the waters, and believe I can assure you that it will be returned a thousandfold. 

 WILLIAM MALLORY"

Mason sighed, pulled the five-dollar bill from the clip, folded it, and slipped it in his vest pocket. "The bishop didn't say when he'd be back, did he?" Mason asked.

Jim Pauley shook his head, said, "A mighty nice chap, the bishop. Didn't seem to resent things at all. He got a lulu of a crack on his head. Couldn't even wear his hat. Had to be all bandaged up like a turban."

Mason nodded to Drake and said significantly, "Suppose you call your office, Paul."

Drake went into the telephone booth and talked for several moments into the transmitter. Then he opened the door of the booth and beckoned to Mason. "My operatives have reported back," he said in a low monotone, keeping his head back in the shadows of the booth. "They followed the bishop to Piers 157-158, Los Angeles harbor. He stopped at a pawnshop on the way, and bought two suitcases and some clothes. They followed him from there to the pier. He went up the gangplank of the S.S. Monterey, and he didn't come down again. The Monterey sailed tonight for Australia via Honolulu and Pago Pago. My men followed the ship in a speed launch well beyond the breakwater, to make sure the bishop didn't get off. Looks like your friend has taken a run-out powder. Watch your step, Perry. He's a phoney."

Mason shrugged and said, "Let me at that phone, Paul."

Della Street 's voice on the line was excited, "Hello, Chief," she said. "You win."

"On what?" he asked.

"Julia Branner is here at the office, waiting for you; says she must see you at once."