“Carter Gilman had evidently taken the sedan to work. Usually he walks four blocks to a bus stop. This morning he got up, left the house without a word, and took the sedan, unless he...”
“Unless he what?” she demanded.
“Looked in his workshop, found an intruder, had a fight, spilled ten thousand dollars in currency on the floor and then was taken for a ride while he was unconscious.
“And in that event, whoever returns to look for the ten grand will perhaps have a little difficulty finding it.”
“Perhaps not too great difficulty,” Della Street said. “You may wind up as the target for an enterprising gunman.”
“We’ll have to take a chance on that,” Mason said. “We have approximately half an hour before that appointment.”
Della Street eyed Mason’s desk. “You’ll only have time to skim through the important letters on top of the pile.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “Then at eleven-thirty we’ll take a good look at Mr. Edward Carter Gilman and find out just why he should have made an appointment under an assumed name.”
“Since he was reading the paper,” Della Street said, “do you want me to take a look on the financial page and see if I can get a clue?”
“It probably would be time wasted,” Mason told her. “We don’t know what his particular investments are and it wouldn’t do any good just to make a blind stab. After all,” he said, laughing, “a man gets up from breakfast and leaves in a hurry for his office. People do that every day. Hundreds of people, millions of people. We live at a rapid tempo.”
“I know,” Della Street rejoined, “but somehow the picture of that fried egg and the special homemade venison sausage on the plate...”
“Della,” he said, “you’re hungry. What did you have for breakfast?”
“Dry toast and coffee,” she said. “I got on the scales yesterday and—”
“That’s it,” Perry Mason said. “You’re hungry. Let’s tackle this mail and forget Edward Carter Gilman until eleven-thirty.”
Chapter Three
As Perry Mason more or less surreptitiously looked at his watch for the fifth time within ten minutes, Della Street smiled and said, “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. You’re all worked up about that appointment, wondering if he’s going to show up or not.”
“It is now four and a half minutes past eleven thirty, Della.”
“At the sound of the chime,” Della Street said.
Mason threw back his head and laughed. “All right, let’s face it. I’m intrigued by this whole business.”
“A father leaving the breakfast table without saying good-by to his daughter?” Della Street asked.
Mason shook his head. “A father eating two eggs and a couple of slabs of homemade venison sausage, then asking his daughter to go back to the kitchen and cook one more egg and another slab of sausage.”
“Sounds like a working man,” Della Street said.
Mason nodded.
“So then he takes ten thousand dollars and throws it all over the floor of his workshop,” Della Street said.
“And drops his napkin, upsets a can of red paint and, having instructed his daughter not to call the police under any circumstances, leaves my name and telephone number for his daughter to find.”
Della Street digested that information. “It sounds almost as if he might have planned to murder someone,” she said.
“Now, as far as the food is concerned,” Mason went on, “there is only one logical explanation. He had to get rid of her for a few moments. That was the only way he could think of to do it.”
Della Street slowly nodded her head.
“In this day,” Mason said, “with people conscious of diet and calories, that’s quite a breakfast for anybody. But when you consider a man old enough to be the father of a grown girl eating a breakfast like that and then asking to have another egg and another slab of sausage — and not being there when the food comes to the table — the only logical explanation is that he wanted his daughter out of the way.”
“Why?”
“Heaven knows. It may have been because of something he read in the paper. It may be because of something he saw out of the window.”
“Now that’s a thought!” Della Street said. “He...”
The phone on Della Street’s desk rang.
Della picked up the receiver, said to the receptionist, “Yes, Gertie,” then turned to Mason and smiled. “Mr. Edward Carter is here for his appointment.”
“Have him come right in,” Mason said.
“I’ll bring him,” Della Street said, hanging up the telephone and moving with supple grace to the door which led to the outer offices.
Mason watched her approvingly as she walked through the door, then got to his feet as Della ushered in a somewhat chubby man who looked as though he were somewhere in his forties.
“Mr. Mason,” he said, “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Edward Carter,” Della Street introduced.
There could be no question that this man was the man who had posed for the eight-by-ten photograph Muriell Gilman had given Perry Mason earlier in the day.
“Sometimes it’s rather difficult to estimate traffic problems,” Mason said. “I usually try to get to my appointments about five or ten minutes early and that leaves me a cushion in case of a traffic jam.”
“Is that a subtle rebuke?” the man asked.
Mason smiled and shook his head. “Just a comment concerning my own personal habits. I seldom have time to be subtle. You wanted to consult me professionally, Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Of course,” Mason said, “I’m not certain I’m at liberty to accept you as a client. An attorney always has to be careful to screen his potential clients so as to make certain he doesn’t get conflicting interests. So perhaps before you tell me the particulars you had better tell me generally what it’s all about. Now, my secretary has your address as 6231 Vauxman Avenue— Is that right?”
“That’s right. That’s where I’m staying at the moment.”
“Your business address?”
The man hesitated a moment, then shook his head and said, “I don’t have any. I’ve sort of — sort of retired.”
“All right,” Mason said, “what is it generally that you want to see me about?”
“I am acting on behalf of a friend,” the man said.
“Go on.”
“This is a very dear friend, a woman who happens to be married to a man who is also a friend of mine.”
“Her name?”
“Gilman. Nancy Gilman. I am visiting her and her husband at the moment. They are the ones who reside at 6231 Vauxman Avenue.”
“I see,” Mason said, his face expressionless. “Go on. What about Mrs. Gilman?”
“Mrs. Gilman is being blackmailed.”
“You’re certain?”
“Quite certain.”
“And, as a friend, you want me to do something about it?”
“Let’s take it one step at a time, Mr. Mason. One can’t do very much with blackmail until he knows exactly what it is the person is being blackmailed about.”
“And you have an idea?” Mason asked.
“Frankly, no. That’s one of the things I want to find out.”
“What else?”
“That’s all for the present. After we find out what’s in her past we’ll probably know the hold that the blackmailer has over her.”
“Do you, by any chance, know the blackmailer?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it?” Mason asked, his voice showing his keen interest.