“Do you know Meridith Borden?” Mason asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Why?”
“He’s dead.”
“What!”
“He’s dead. The police think he was murdered sometime last night.”
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed.
“And,” Mason said, “the automobile accident that I refer to is one that took place in the grounds of Meridith Borden’s country estate. You remember it was rainy last night. A car skidded off the road, went through the gates, crashed through the hedge, then turned over.”
“Does the registration of the car mean anything?” she asked.
“The car was stolen,” Mason said.
She was thoughtful for a few moments, then she said, “Well, I may as well tell you, Mr. Mason. Meridith Borden is— I mean, was... a client of mine.”
“In what way?”
“He was an amateur photographer. He played around with pin-up art. Sometimes he got models through me.”
“Recently?”
“No, not recently. I think that lately he’d made a private deal with some amateur model who wasn’t averse to serving cheesecake either for thrills or for cash.”
Mason said, “I’m trying to find out who it was who used your name. She was someone who probably knew Borden and she must have known you. She was taller than you, younger than you. She had dark, chestnut hair with brown eyes. She’s someone who knows you personally. She came to this apartment house about—”
“About ten o’clock?” Beatrice Cornell interrupted.
“Probably,” Mason said.
“I remember that my bell rang,” she said, “and I pressed the buzzer releasing the door catch on the outer door. But no one came to my apartment. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. Quite frequently you get wrong calls, and—”
“Do you always press the button opening the door without knowing who it is?” Mason asked.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “I suppose I should find out, but after all, I’m in business, Mr. Mason. I have two dozen different irons in the fire, and clients drop in to see me, to pick up personal messages or leave instructions, and some of these models—”
“Let’s concentrate on the models,” Mason interrupted. “Do you have a model of that description?”
“I have some models,” she said. “I... I don’t like to betray the interests of my clients.”
Mason said, “I’ll try a different approach. I am an amateur photographer. I’m looking for a model. I don’t want one of the slender, long-legged models, I want one with curves. A good figure but well curved. Could you put me in touch with one of your models?”
“I have some sample photographs,” she said. “I could show you those.”
“Please,” Mason said.
She smiled and said, “This is strictly business. These girls will want twenty dollars an hour. They’ll want pay from the time they leave their apartment until they return. You’ll have to furnish the transportation. You’ll have to furnish any special costumes you may want. You’ll have to see that they’re fed. They have stock costumes, Bikini bathing suits. Some of them want chaperons. Some of them will take a chance if they know you. Some of them will take a chance, period.”
“Do I get photographs and addresses?” Mason asked.
“You do not,” she said. “You get photographs with numbers on them. My addresses are my stock in trade. I get a commission on any booking. Most of the specimen photographs are in Bikini bathing suits.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Let’s take a look.”
She said, “Just a minute,” and went through a door to an adjoining room. Mason heard the sound of the drawer in a filing case opening and closing.
A moment later she was back with a dozen eight-by-ten glossy photographs of good-looking girls in attractive poses. Each photograph had a number pasted to it.
Mason regarded the photographs thoughtfully, eliminated several, said, “I’d like studio appointments with numbers six, eight and nine.”
“It’ll cost you twenty dollars an hour.”
Mason nodded.
She opened an address book.
Abruptly Mason said, “Wait a minute, Miss Cornell. I have a better idea. Ring up every one of your models on the list, ask if they’re free today and ask if they can pose for a series of bathing beauty pin-up pictures. And, of course, please understand that I want to pay for your time, whatever it’s worth.”
“All right,” she said. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get busy on the phone.”
Beatrice Cornell struck pay dirt on the third telephone call. She said, “Just a minute, dearie, I’ll... well, I’ll call you back.”
She hung up the telephone, turned to Perry Mason.
“That’s Dawn Manning,” she said, “an attractive girl with a beautiful torso, pretty well upholstered, an awfully good scout. She says she’s out of business for four or five days on account of some rather unsightly bruises. She says she was badly shaken up last night in a minor automobile accident.”
“That’s my girl,” Mason said.
“What do you want to do?”
“Could you get her to come out here?”
“She said she can’t pose.”
“Tell her,” Mason said, “that I’ve seen her photographs, I like her looks, that we can probably cover up the bruises so they won’t show. Ask her if she’ll come out here and meet me. Tell her she gets paid from the time she leaves her apartment. Tell her to jump in a taxi and come out.”
Beatrice Cornell frowned. “She’s going to feel that I’ve double-crossed her.”
“You haven’t double-crossed her at all,” Mason said. “You’re booking photographic models. I’ve heard of your services. You don’t need to mention that I’m an attorney. I’m simply Mr. Mason, a photographer. Ask her to come out here for an interview. Tell her you have the money.”
Beatrice Cornell hesitated, said, “Well, I guess it’s all right.”
Mason took his wallet from his pocket, took out a twenty and a ten. “There’s thirty dollars,” he said. “Twenty dollars for an hour of her time, and the balance will cover taxi fares and incidental expenses.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Are you going to tell this girl who you are and what you want?”
“That depends,” Mason said.
“You’re going to be a photographer?”
Mason nodded.
“Then you’d better get yourself a camera.”
“Is there a photographic store near here?”
“One about four blocks from here. I’m in close touch with him. Want me to telephone?”
“No,” Mason said, “I’d prefer you didn’t. I’ll walk in and get an outfit. I’ll have a chance to get back here by the time your girl arrives?”
“Probably. It might be a little better for you to let me talk with her first, and—”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Chapter Five
Thirty minutes later Mason returned to Beatrice Cornell’s apartment. He was armed with a twin-lens camera, a Strobolite, a leather carrying case and a dozen rolls of film, both color and black and white.
Dawn Manning was there ahead of him.
Beatrice Cornell performed the introductions.
Dawn Manning’s slate-gray eyes appraised the evident newness of Mason’s photographic equipment.
“You’re an amateur, Mr. Mason?”
He nodded.
“Rather a new amateur, I would say.”
Again Mason nodded.
“What is it you want, Mr. Mason?”
“I want some shots,” Mason said, “of a model. I’d like to try some... well, some... well, some—”
“Pin-ups?”
Mason nodded.
She pulled the tight-fitting sweater even more closely to the contours of her body. “I have nice breasts,” she said, “and my legs are good. You understand about my rates?”