“Do you know where she lives?” Mason asked.
“They had a rather swank apartment and... and I think she was the one who moved out. I think she left him.”
“No divorce?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Grounds?”
“There should be lots of them. Around us girls at the office he didn’t even bother to be subtle about it.”
“Where can I get her present address?”
“I may have it in our address book. You see, she’s a stockholder in the Texas Global. Because of the proxy fight, I’ve made lists of the names and addresses of all stockholders of record. There’s one at the’ office, Mr. Conway has one, and I have one.”
“Here?”
“Yes. I keep mine with me at all times.”
“How does it happen she’s a stockholder?”
“Part of Mr. Farrell’s compensation while he was with us was in stock, and those shares of stock were turned over to his wife.”
“When he got them, or as a result of some property settlement?”
“When he got them. He likes to keep all his property in the name of some other person. But I think she wrote about them after the separation. I’m certain we had a letter giving a new address.”
“See if you can find that address,” Mason said.
She said, “Pardon me,” went to a desk, pulled out a large address book, thumbed through the pages, then said, “I have it. It’s die Holly Arms.”
“I know the place,” Mason told her. “She’s living there?”
“Yes. Do you want to talk with her on the phone?”
He thought a moment, then said, “No, I’d better surprise her with this. Thanks a lot, Miss Kane.”
“Is there anything I can do — to help?”
“You’ve done it.”
“If Mr. Conway phones, should I tell him that I think I know the voice?”
“Tell him nothing,” Mason said. “Not over the telephone. You can’t tell who’s listening. Thanks a lot. I’m on my way.”
Chapter Five
Mason picked up the house telephone in the lobby o£ the apartment hotel.
“Mrs. Farrell, please.”
The girl at the switchboard was dubious. “I beg your pardon. It’s after ten o’clock. Was she—?”
“She’s expecting the call,” Mason said.
“Very well.”
A moment later a woman’s voice said, “Hello.”
Mason said, “I’m an attorney, Mrs. Farrell. I’d like to see you on a matter of some importance.”
“Are you representing my husband?”
“Definitely not.”
“When did you wish to see me?”
“Right away.”
“Right away? Why that’s impossible...! What is your name, please?”
“Mason.”
“You’re not — not Perry Mason?”
“That’s right.”
“Where are you, Mr. Mason?”
“I’m downstairs.”
“Are you—? Is anyone with you?”
“No.”
“May I ask why you want to see me?”
“I’d prefer not to discuss it over the telephone,” Mason said. “I can assure you it’s a matter of some urgency and it may be to your advantage.”
“Very well. Will you come on up, Mr. Mason? I’m in lounging pajamas. I was reading and—”
“I’d like to come right away, if I may.”
“All right. Come on up. You have the number?”
“I’ll be right up,” Mason said.
Mason took the elevator, walked down a corridor, pressed his finger against the mother-of-pearl button beside the door of Mrs. Farrell’s apartment. Almost instantly the door was opened by a striking, redheaded woman who wore Chinese silk lounging pajamas, embroidered with silken dragons. There was the aroma of Oriental incense in the apartment.
“Mr. Mason?” she asked.
Mason nodded.
She gave him her hand. “How do you do? Won’t you come in?”
Mason found himself in the living room of an apartment which had at least two rooms.
Lights were low, and there was an air of scented mystery about the place.
The brightest spot in the room was where a silk-shaded reading lamp cast subdued light on a deep reclining chair and footstool.
An opened book lay face down on the table near the arm of the chair.
“Please be seated, Mr. Mason,” Mrs. Farrell said, and then when Mason had seated himself, glided across to the easy chair, dropped into its depths with a snuggling motion and picked up a long, carved, ivory cigarette holder, which contained a half-smoked cigarette.
She took a deep drag, said, “What is it you want to talk with me about, Mr. Mason?”
“About Texas Global and the proxy battle”
“Oh, yes. And may I ask why you’re interested?”
“I’m representing Jerry Conway.”
“Oh!”
“Why did you want to talk with him?” Mason asked.
“Me? Talk with Mr. Conway?”
“That’s right.”
She chose her words carefully. “I don’t want to talk with him. I know Mr. Conway. I like him. I have great confidence in his business management. I suppose you know, Mr. Mason, that my husband and I have separated.
“I expect to file suit for divorce on grounds which— Well, frankly, Mr. Mason, you’re a lawyer and you understand those things. The grounds may depend somewhat on the type of property settlement which is worked out.”
“There is considerable property?” Mason asked.
“As to that,” she said, “there are two ways of thinking. Gifford Farrell is a gambler and a plunger. There should be quite a bit of money, but Gifford’s attorney insists that there is very little.”
“However, he has an earning capacity?” Mason said.
“Yes. He’s accustomed to doing big things in a big way.”
“Therefore,” Mason pointed out, “it would be very much to your interest to see that he wins out in this proxy fight.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because then he would be in clover financially.”
She took a deep drag on the cigarette, exhaled, said nothing.
“Well?” Mason asked.
“I would say that was a fairly obvious conclusion, Mr. Mason.”
She extracted the end of the cigarette from the ivory holder, ground it out in the ash tray.
“May I fix you a drink, Mr. Mason?”
“Not right now,” the lawyer said. “I’m sorry I had to call at such a late hour. If you can give me the one piece of information I want, I can be on my way.”
“I didn’t know I had any information that you wanted, Mr. Mason, but— You say you’re representing Mr. Conway?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re here in his behalf?”
“Yes.”
“What is it you want to know?”
Mason leaned forward in his chair. “How it happens that, if you’re trying to negotiate a property settlement with your husband and want to get the most you can out of it, you offered to give Jerry Conway information on the number of proxies that have been received to date by the proxy committee?”
“Mr. Mason, what on earth are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Mason said. “I want to know why, and I want to know why you disguised your voice and took the name of Rosalind.”
She sat perfectly still, looking at him with startled slate-gray eyes.
“Well?” Mason asked.
“Why, Mr. Mason, what makes you think that I would do anything like that?”
Mason said impatiently, “Come, come! You used a telephone. Calls can be traced, you know.”
Startled, she said, “But I didn’t use this telephone. I—”
Abruptly she caught herself.