Case of the Footloose Doll (7 page)

Mason hung up and said to Della, “Get this other number, Della. I’m afraid we’re getting a lot of night work out of a five-cent fee.”

“Aren’t we,” she laughed.

She called the number, said, “This is Miss Street, Mr. Mason’s secretary. Mr. Perry Mason received a call from a Mr. Harrod . . . Oh yes. Well, just a minute, I’ll put Mr. Mason on.”

Della Street said, “Some feminine voice . . . Sounds attractive . . . She said she’ll call Mr. Harrod.”

Mason picked up the phone, said, “Hello.”

A man’s voice started to say hello, then was checked in a fit of coughing.

“Hello, hello,” Mason said impatiently. “I am calling Carl Harrod.” 

The voice said, “This is Harrod . . . I wanted to talk with you . . . ” Again there was a fit of coughing.

Mason, frowning impatiently, said, “Hello. Just what was it you wanted?”

Harrod’s voice, sounding weak, said, “Your client stabbed me in the chest with an ice pick. We’d better talk it over right away.”

“Where did this happen?”

“At Fern Driscoll’s apartment.”

“Did you report this to the police?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“That isn’t the way to handle something of this sort.”

“What is the way to handle it?”

“Come over here and I’ll tell you.”

“Shouldn’t you have treatment?”

“It isn’t that serious, medically. It’s damned serious legally.”

“Stay there,” Mason told him. “I think it’s about time we had a talk.”

“You bet it is!”

“Where are you?” Mason asked.

“I’m in my apartment at the Dixiecrat Apartments. Apartment 218.”

“All right,” Mason said, “that’s not far from where I’m talking. You wait there. I’m coming over.”

Mason hung up the telephone and said, “Now, this is a real run-around. Fern Driscoll found someone in her apartment and stabbed him with an ice pick. Apparently, she doesn’t know where she hit him, but it was a solid enough blow so he took the ice pick away with him. Carl Harrod says she stabbed him in the chest.

“Hang it, Della, I suppose we’ve got to go take a look-see. Let’s run up and have a quick talk with Fern Driscoll first, and get the thing straightened out. Then we’ll try to put this blackmailer, Harrod, in his place.”

“But shouldn’t Fern Driscoll notify the police if—?”

“That’s the devil of it!” Mason said. “She’s keeping under cover and—

The Rexmore Apartments is only five minutes from here by cab.” They left the restaurant, found a taxicab and went at once to the Rexmore Apartments.

Mildred Crest was anxiously awaiting them. She unlocked her door, seemed almost hysterically relieved as she held onto Mason’s hand.

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s find out exactly what happened.” Mildred, on the verge of panic, said, “I’m going to have to give you a little personal history.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said.

“I left Lansing, Michigan, because—Well, there was a man by the name of Baylor, Forrester Baylor. His family didn’t approve of me—Well, it’s a long story.”

“Shorten it, then,” Mason said crisply. “Let’s have it.”

“He had a sister, Katherine, a wonderful girl. I had never met her. She came here tonight and met me for the first time. She told me she sympathized with me and she thought the family had been perfectly horrid in the way they had treated me.”

“What about the ice pick?” Mason asked.

“She bought them for me.”

“Who did?”

“Kitty—Katherine Baylor.”

“Bought them? Was there more than one?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She said blackmailers were yellow and that if I pointed an ice pick at Harrod and threatened him, he’d leave me alone.”

“And at the same time make you guilty of assault with a deadly weapon,” Mason said drily. “How many ice picks did she buy?”

“Three.”

“Where are they now?”

“One of them is on the little table by the door.” Mason moved over to the table. “There’s only one ice pick here.” She nodded. Mason lifted the ice pick.

“There’s a price tag on here underneath transparent Scotch tape,” he said. “The price tag says thirty—eight cents, three for a dollar. There’s some fine print—let me see—oh yes, the imprint of the Arcade Novelty.”

“The Arcade Novelty,” Mildred explained, “is down the street a short distance. It’s an arcade with a lot of penny machines for amusement. They cater largely to sailors and people who are lonely and want cheap entertainment.

“They have everything from electric machine guns for shooting at images of airplanes to girl shows on film machines. They call it a penny arcade, but most of the shows are a nickel or a dime.”

“And they sell ice picks?” Mason asked.

“Not there, but in connection with it. There’s a novelty shop where they have bottle openers, bottled goods, novelties of all sorts, a machine that vends ice cubes and things of that sort.”

Mason nodded. “Now, tell me exactly what happened.”

“I came in from the street. I snapped on the light switch, and the lights didn’t turn on. Everything was dark.”

“Could you see anything?”

“Just here by the doorway. The light came in from the main hallway so I could see a little. Someone was in here, searching the apartment.”

“What happened?”

“I snapped the light switch two or three times. The light wouldn’t come on. Then I heard someone move.”

“Did you scream?”

“There wasn’t time. I just had that feeling of motion coming at me, and instinctively I grabbed up one of those ice picks just as someone hit me.”“With his fist?”

“No, no! I don’t mean it that way. Someone hit me like a football player hits a line. It was just a rush. I was bowled over.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, I had the ice pick pointed out toward whoever was coming at me, and . . . and . . . ” She began to sob.

“Now, take it easy,” Mason said. “Let’s get this thing straight.” She said, “The ice pick stuck into this person and he or she ran on past me and that jerked the ice pick out of my hands.”

“The pick didn’t fall to the floor?”

“No. Whoever was in here—well, the ice pick was carried away with him.”

Mason thought things over for a moment, said to Della Street, “Della, go down to the Arcade Novelty. Get three of these ice picks, make it as fast as you can. Then come back here. The cab is waiting downstairs. Take it.”

Mason turned to Mildred Crest. “Your friend Harrod called up. He said he’d been stabbed in the chest with an ice pick.” Mildred raised her clenched knuckles to crush them tightly against her lips. Her eyes were wide with terror.

Mason said, “You must have something in this apartment, something someone wants. You’re hiding something. What is it? Money? Letters?”

“I . . . I’m supposed to have some letters. I think Harrod wants them very badly.”

“What do you mean, you’re supposed to have them!” Mason said.

“Well, you see—The letters were addressed to Fern . . . to me.” Mason watched her narrowly. “You say you’re supposed to have them.

Do you have them or don’t you?”

“I . . . I have them.”

“Where are they?”

“In my purse. I had them with me.”

“Then why did Harrod want them?”

“To sell to a magazine, I believe.”

Mason said, “Look here, young lady, you’re lying to me. Are you really Fern Driscoll?” There was panic in her eyes. “Are you?”

“I . . . I can’t talk now I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!” She dropped into a chair, started sobbing hysterically.

Mason said, “Cut it out! Listen, there’s no time for all that stuff. I don’t know what we’re getting into. If anything should happen and the police should question you, say that you refuse to make any statement save in the presence of your attorney. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Will you do it?”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. Now, where’s that missing ice pick? There were three. One’s in Carl Harrod. Where’s the other?”

“Kitty has it.”

“What’s her name?”

“Katherine Baylor.”

“Where does she live?”

“She’s at the Vista del Camino Hotel. She’s from Lansing. Her family’s rolling in money. Her father’s Harriman Baylor, a big manufacturer. Her brother’s Forrester Baylor. He’s responsible for my condition—my pregnancy.”

“How long have you been pregnant?”

“Two months . . . No, no, Mr. Mason. I’m not really pregnant.” Again she started sobbing.

Mason looked at her with exasperation, then moved around the apartment looking at the drawers which had been pulled out and the contents dumped on the floor. “We’ll have to report this,” he said.

“No, no! We can’t! There are reasons. There isn’t time to tell you everything now. I . . . I can’t! I can’t.”

Mason again turned away, looking around the apartment. He saw her purse on the chair, picked it up, opened it. “Are these the letters?” 

She looked at the tightly tied packet. “Yes.”

Mason put the letters in his pocket, looked again in the purse.

Suddenly he said, “Where did you get all this money?” 

She looked at him with tear-streaked eyes. “They’re going to say I stole it—if they find it.”

“Whose is it?”

“Fern Driscoll’s.”

“And you’re not Fern Driscoll. You’re Mildred Crest. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

There was a knock at the door. Mason opened the door and Della said, “Well, here they are. Three ice picks, exactly the same as those others, but there’s a different price tag on them.”

“What do you mean?” Mason asked.

“They’re forty-one cents straight now,” she said, “but they were thirty-eight cents or three for a dollar.”

“How come the price changed?”

“It’s quite a story. The woman who rang up the sale dropped one, and when I picked it up I noticed the price for the first time. I inquired if the picks weren’t three for a dollar. That’s when she went into her long song and dance. It seems someone bought three picks earlier in the evening and this woman in charge went to replenish the stock in the display case and found there were only six left in stock. She says she orders them a gross at a time, so she made out an order for another gross and then found the price had gone up sharply since they had made their last order. So she tore the price tags off the others that were in stock and put the new price tags on them.”

Mason turned to Mildred Crest. “Now look, Mildred, there isn’t time to find out what this is all about now. I’m going to see Carl Harrod and find out about that icepick stabbing.

“Now, here are definite, positive instructions. If anybody comes and asks you about what happened, or about an intruder, or about stabbing anyone with an ice pick, you simply state that you have no comments to make. I am going to leave two of these ice picks here with you on the table. That will make a total of three.

“I want you to take all the price tags off all of these ice picks, flush them down the toilet and destroy them. You will then have three identical ice picks. If the police start checking and find that one woman bought three ice picks, they’ll find all three ice picks in your apartment. There won’t be any missing.”

“But won’t they find out that—”

“Probably,” Mason said, “if they start an investigation, but this will keep them from starting one unless they get a direct complaint. I’m taking these letters with me.”

“Take the money, too.”

Mason shook his head. “Keep that money right where it is. Put it in an envelope and mark it ‘Property of Fern Driscoll.’ Don’t tell anyone anything about it. Don’t answer questions about anything. Come on, Della.”

Mason and Della Street left the apartment. On the way down in the elevator, Della Street said, “What do I do with this extra ice pick?” Mason said, “Harrod says my client stabbed him in the chest with an ice pick. Probably all he saw was a feminine figure silhouetted against light which was coming in from the corridor. He charged, doubtless intending to knock the woman over with the force of his charge and, while she was bowled over, make good his escape.

“That ice pick was invisible to him. It probably went in without any sensation of pain because the point was so fine and sharp. Later on, when he got out of the apartment house, he found an ice pick stuck in his chest.

Harrod probably doesn’t want to go to the police any more than our client wants to go to the police. So Harrod rang me up.”

“And what does he want?” Della Street asked.

“That,” Mason said, “is something we’ll find out from Mr. Harrod himself. I have an idea that he wants to make a trade. I think he’ll offer to trade his silence in return for some letters our client has.

“So,” Mason went on, “the minute we get to Harrod’s apartment, I’ll do something to hold the attention of Harrod or whoever else is in the apartment. You plant this ice pick. Wear gloves, and be sure you don’t leave any fingerprints.”

“What about the price tag?”

“Leave it on.”

“Why?” she asked. “If he was stabbed with an ice pick—”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “I want it so we can tell the ice picks apart. The one that you planted and the one that someone stuck in his chest.

“If Harrod doesn’t go to the police, we have simply presented him with an ice pick. If he does go to the police, the police will find two ice picks in his apartment. It will be up to Harrod to keep them straight so as to tell one from the other.”

“Do I keep my gloves on all the time?” she asked.

“No,” Mason said. “I have to explain your presence as my secretary.

You plant the ice pick while I’m distracting their attention. As soon as you have the ice pick planted, take your gloves off and take out a notebook and pencil.”

The cab driver held the door open for them. “Where to?” he asked.

Mason glanced significantly at Della Street. “Drive straight down the street for three blocks,” he said. “Then turn to the right and I’ll tell you where we want to get out. We’re meeting a person on a corner.”

“Okay,” the driver said. “I take it you want me to drive slow.”

“That’s right,” Mason said.

The driver closed the door and the cab moved off, went down to the designated corner, turned to the right and moved slowly along. They passed the Dixiecrat Apartments, went for half a block, then Mason said suddenly, “This is where we’re to meet the person. Stop right here.” The driver stopped and Mason handed him a five-dollar bill. “This will cover the meter and leave you a little over,” he said. As the man started to thank him, Mason handed him two more one-dollar bills.