The Case of the Troubled Trustee (8 page)

Dutton shook his head.

"What's the trouble?" Mason asked.

"It isn't what you think," Dutton said.

"How much of what you told me was untrue?"

"What I told you was generally true," Dutton said. "It was the things I didn't tell you that-oh, what's the use?"

"There isn't any," Mason assured him. "That is, no use in trying to hold out on your lawyer. Sooner or later the facts will come to light, and if your lawyer doesn't know what they're going to be in advance, he's pretty apt to be caught at a disadvantage."

Dutton simply shook his head.

"Now then," Mason went on, "no matter how legal your actions may have been in the first place, you weakened your position by resorting to flight. In California, flight is considered evidence of guilt, and a prosecutor is permitted to introduce that evidence in a criminal trial."

Dutton started to say something.

There was a knock on the door.

Dutton looked at Mason, then at Della Street, apprehension on his face.

"Expecting visitors?" Mason asked.

Dutton got up from the bed, started for the door, stopped.

The knock was repeated, this time in a more peremptory manner.

"Better see who it is," Mason said.

Dutton opened the door.

Two men came in, one in the uniform of a police officer; one in plain clothes.

The man in plain clothes sized up the occupants of the room, bowed, and said, "The sefiorita, I hope, will excuse me. I am the Jefeof Policia. May I ask which one of you gentlemen is Kerry Dutton from Los Angeles?"

"And the reason for the request?" Mason asked.

The chief of police regarded him with appraising eyes. "I do not think," he said pointedly, "that I have the honor of your acquaintance, sir."

"I am Perry Mason, an attorney at law," Mason said, "and this is my secretary, Miss Della Street."

The chief bowed deferentially. "It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir, and I am so sorry that I have to interfere with what was perhaps a professional conference-no?"

"That is right," Mason said. "I am conferring with my client, and my secretary was preparing to take some notes. If you could spare us perhaps a half an hour, I am quite certain that we will be at your service at that time."

The eyes softened into a smile. "That is what you would call a good try, but unfortunately, Seсor Mason, the business that I have with Mr. Dutton is of the urgency."

Me turned to Dutton. "Seсor Dutton, it is with great regret that it is necessary for me to inform you that you are in custody of the policia."

"And the charge?" Mason asked.

"A warrant of first-degree murder which we will honor here to the extent of declaring that Seсor Dutton is an undesirable alien. As such, we will escort him to the border and ask him to leave Mexico immediately."

"Murder!" Mason exclaimed. "Who was killed?"

"That information will, I trust, be forthcoming when Seсor Dutton reaches the border. It is my unpleasant duty to see he is promptly escorted to the border."

"And at the border?" Mason asked.

The officer smiled. "At the border," he said, "I feel quite certain that police from your country will be waiting. What would you do if you were a police officer in the United States, and you knew that a man whom you wished to arrest for murder was to be deported as an undesirable alien?"

"That procedure seems a little high-handed to me," Mason said.

"Doubtless, it does," the officer announced, "but we do things in our country the way we wish to do them in our country, just as you are permitted to do things in your country the way you wish to do them in your country. That is, we do not interfere with you and we do not care to have you interfere with us.

"I am going to ask you to withdraw, if you will please be so good."

Mason said, "I am an attorney at law. My client is accused of a crime and I demand the right to represent him and consult with him."

The chief smiled. "You are an attorney in the United States?"

"Yes."

"And in Mexico?"

Mason hesitated.

"In Mexico," the chief of police went on, "attorneys in good standing are referred to as licenciados. That means they have a license granted by the Mexican government to practice law. You perhaps have such a license, Seсor Mason?"

Mason grinned. "All right, it's your country, your customs and your prisoner."

"Thank you," the chief said, "and there is no reason why we should detain you further, Seсor Mason."

"But this man is charged with murder," Mason asked, "and his attorney can't talk with him?"

The chief shrugged his shoulders. "You are licensed in your country. You can talk with your client there at any time. Here he is charged only with being an undesirable alien. We do not wish undesirable aliens in our country any more than you do."

"What's undesirable about him?" Mason asked.

The chief smiled and said, "He is a fugitive from justice in the United States. This makes him very undesirable as a Mexican visitor."

"There are legal proceedings looking to his deportation?" Mason asked.

"Only the proceedings necessary to get him transferred to the border. Mere in Mexico we expedite the process of justice as much as possible."

Mason looked at Dutton, then back at the chief of police. "Zip the lip," he said.

The chief raised his eyebrows. "I'm afraid I didn't understand you."

"Pardon me," Mason said, "it was just a bit of American slang."

"Oh, yes-you Americans. And now, Seсor, if you and your so charming secretary will just step this way, please-and I strongly recommend the restaurants here. You will find the service excellent and the food beyond compare. As tourists, we will try to make you happy."

"But not as an attorney?" Mason asked.

The chief shrugged expressive shoulders. "Unfortunately, you are not an attorney in Mexico. If you would reside in Mexico and comply with the requirements, I have no doubt but that you could become a licenciado, but until then…"

There was another expressive shrug of the shoulders.

The police officer held the outer door open.

Mason put his hand on Della Street's arm, and together they stepped out of the room into the shaded walkway which was filled with the sound of whitewinged doves, the scent of flowers and the beauty of semitropical foliage.

Chapter Nine

As Mason and Della Street walked down the little sidewalk in front of the auto courts, Drake's detective came running toward them, motioning frantically.

Mason quickened his step.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I called Drake to report, and he's on the phone. Something he wants to tell you about right away. Says it's terribly important; that I should get you. He's going to hold the line until you can come."

Mason nodded to Della Street, hurried down the walkway under the palms and banana trees, his long legs making the detective trot to keep up, while Della Street made no attempt to match the pace.

In the phone booth, where the receiver was off the hook, Mason closed the door, picked up the receiver, said, "Yes? Hello."

Drake's voice said, "That you, Perry?"

"Right."

"All right," Drake said, "there's a rumble. I don't know how bad it is as far as your client is concerned, but it's pretty bad at this end."

"Murder?" Mason asked.

"Right. How did you know?"

"The officers moved in on Dutton while I was talking with him."

Drake said, "Here's all I know. An early golfer found a body on tee seven at the Barclay Country Club. The man had been shot once."

"Did they find the weapon?" Mason asked.

"I don't know," Drake said. "This much I do know. An attempt had been made to keep the police from identifying the victim and apparently that attempt has succeeded to date.

"Everything in the man's pockets had been taken. There isn't so much as a handkerchief. The labels had been cut from the inside of the coat pocket and on the little hanging strap at the back of the neck.

"The cutting had been skillfully done with a very sharp knife or a razor blade.

"The time of death hasn't been officially determined as yet, but it could be at just about the time our man tailed Dutton out to the golf club-that's within the general over-all time limit that they've mapped out for the murder. After they have a complete autopsy, they may let Dutton off the hook. Right now I understand the tentative time is fixed between nine-thirty last night and two-thirty this morning."

"All right," Mason said. "Now, your man couldn't get into the club because it was a key job?"

"That's right. You have to go in through the clubhouse to get to the course."

"There must be a service road," Mason said.

"There is, somewhere. I haven't looked it up."

Mason said, "At that hour of the night, the murdered man probably let himself in with a key. It's a cinch that Dutton did."

"Dutton's a member of the club," Drake said.

"All right, probably the other man is, too. Get photog'raphs from the newspaper reporters and start covering members who are regular players and-"

"We're way behind on that," Drake said, "the police have five detectives interviewing all the members whose record of greens fees shows that they've been playing regularly. They have photographs of the dead man and they're trying to make an identification."

"Have you seen a photograph?"

"No," Drake said. "I have a general description."

"Shoot."

"A man about fifty-five," Drake said, "with dark hair, powerful broad shoulders, slightly stooped, black eyes, about six feet one inch in height, weight two hundred and five pounds, very hairy hands, big powerful wrists."

"No keys on him?" Mason asked.

"No keys, no coins, no knife, no handkerchiefs, no pens, no pencils-nothing."

Mason said thoughtfully, "Paul, you talked about a man you thought was a process server who was waiting to serve papers on Dutton?"

"That's right, he- By George, Perry, it could be the same man. The description fits."

"You'd recognize the man if you saw him?"

"Sure."

"Stay away from the morgue," Mason said. "Let's see if you can get a look at the police photographs."

"Gosh, Perry," Drake wailed, "if I make the guy, I'll have to go to the police. That's evidence a private detective can't withhold."

"You can't make a positive identification from a newspaper photograph like that," Mason said. "You'd have to see the corpse."

"Well, you were talking about police photographs."

"I was," Mason said. "Now I am talking about newspaper photographs… Della and I are on our way back just as fast as we can get there. I'll leave my car here. I'll get my friend Munoz to fly us to San Diego. You have Pinky waiting at the San Diego airport with a twin-motored job to bring us in to the Tn-City Airport, and sit tight until we get there. Meet us at Tn-City Airport."

"Even if there's a very good resemblance in the newspaper photographs, I'd have to run it down," Drake said. "In a murder case my license wouldn't be worth a thin dime if I held out an identification."

"You and your license," Mason said.

"Me and my living," Drake told him. "I'll have the plane in San Diego by the time you get there."

"We'll get there pretty darn fast," Mason said and hung up.

Chapter Ten

"Pinky" Brier, the famous aviatrix, brought the twinmotored plane in at the Tn-City Airport as gracefully as a bird coming in to a landing.

A worried Paul Drake, who had been anxiously waiting, came out of the late afternoon shadows to meet Perry Mason and Della Street as they disembarked.