“The court will have to take into consideration the amount of the estate in fixing bonds in the probate proceedings,” Mason pointed out.
Carpenter nodded, stroked his bald spot with a cautious palm for two or three seconds and then said, “Of course, Mr. Mason, the circumstances in the present case are somewhat unusual.”
“In what way?”
“Mrs. Prescott will probably be charged with the murder of her husband.”
“That doesn’t need to affect you in the least.”
“I’d want an opinion from our attorney on that.”
“How long would it take to get such an opinion?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Look here,” Mason said savagely, “I don’t know how much money is here, but it may be rather a large amount. Sooner or later, Mrs. Prescott is going to have complete charge of that money. Your attitude isn’t one to inspire her with any desire to co-operate with you after she gets in the saddle.”
“I’m sorry,” Carpenter said.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Mason told him.
“I regret the circumstances,” Carpenter amplified.
“And that doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Mason remarked.
“It’s the best I can do.”
“Well,” Mason said angrily, “as attorney for Mrs. Prescott, I can tell you right now that your attitude isn’t appreciated in the least. When Mrs. Prescott is appointed executrix or administratrix, as the case may be, you’ll lose the account just as fast as she can check it out.”
Carpenter observed blandly, “It’s unfortunate.”
Mason strode from the bank, his angry heels pounding the flagged floor. Behind him, Frederick Carpenter continued to stroke his bald spot with an even tempo of conservative caution. Then, as Mason passed through the swinging doors, Carpenter reached for the telephone on his desk.
Mason paused on his way to his office to telephone Paul Drake. “Listen,” he told the detective, “I think you’ve uncovered something on that Jason Braun angle. I’m working on it from one angle, but that’s no reason you shouldn’t work on it from another. Confidentially, the man’s an investigator for the Board of Fire Underwriters. He’s working on a case right at present and his disappearance may have been deliberate, in which event that amnesia business may have been a stall. Now, the Board of Underwriters probably won’t be anxious to give out any information, if they know why you want it. But if you can rig up a plant who will claim to have certain information about some incendiary fires which have been set within the last two or three months, the chances are the Board of Underwriters will send Jason Braun to call on him. Now, I want to get this angle covered before the police get wise to it, so get busy on it.”
“Okay,” Drake said.
“And one more thing,” Mason told him, “get busy on a Rosa Hendrix who works at the office of Prescott & Wray. She’s a readhead with a cat-swallowed-the-cream expression. See what makes her tick.”
+Chapter nine
As Perry Mason entered his office, Della Street motioned toward the door which led to the outer offices and said, “Abner Dimmick, of Dimmick, Gray & Peabody, and a young assistant by the name of Rodney Cuff are waiting for you.”
Mason whistled.
“Why the whistle?” she inquired.
“Dimmick, Gray & Peabody are about the last word in legal aristocracy,” he told her. “They’re attorneys for some of the big banks. Their practice is mostly corporate and probate work. Now, what the devil do you suppose they want with me?”
“Perhaps it’s nothing important,” she said.
“Don’t fool yourself,” he told her. “Anytime Abner Dimmick makes a trip to my office, you can bet it’s important.”
“Do we show them in?”
“Right away,” Mason said, “and with all the little flourishes and fanfare of trumpets royalty is supposed to command.”
Halfway to the door, Della Street said, “You don’t suppose they represent the bank do you, Chief?”
“You mean the Second Fidelity Savings & Loan?”
“Yes.”
“Now that,” he told her, “is a thought. Stay around and listen to what they have to say, Della. If I cough loudly, start taking notes of the conversation.”
Della nodded, vanished through the door, to return in a matter of seconds, ushering in a white-haired man with an acrimonious countenance, a heavy cane in his right hand punctuating his steps as he walked. Slightly behind him was a young man in the late twenties, in whose china-blue eyes glittered a devil-may-care twinkle which belied the self-effacing manner with which he kept a step or two behind the older man.
The white-haired man in the lead pounded his way across the office. “How d’ye do,” he said explosively. “You’re Mason. I’m Dimmick — Dimmick, Gray & Peabody. Perhaps you’ve heard of us. I’ve heard of you.”
He shifted his cane to his left hand, pushed forward his right, said, “Careful now. Remember, I’m an old man. I’ve got rheumatism in that hand. Don’t try to crush my bones. This is Cuff, Rodney Cuff, my assistant. In the office with me. Don’t know yet whether or not he’s any good. Isn’t fitted for our type of work, anyway. We’re in a mess, a devil of a mess. Perhaps you’ve heard about it.”
Mason shook hands with Cuff, motioned his visitors to chairs, and assured Dimmick he hadn’t heard of it.
Dimmick clasped his interlocked fingers about the head of the heavy cane, lowered himself gingerly into the overstuffed leather chair. Cuff dropped into one of the plain wooden chairs, crossed his legs, hooked an elbow over the back of the chair, and gazed approvingly at Della Street.
Abner Dimmick had a high forehead, fringed with gray hair, bushy eyebrows which raised and lowered, punctuating his remarks. There were heavy pouches under his eyes. His mouth was as decisive as the jaws of a steel trap. A stubby mustache, matching the bushy eyebrows, gave his face an appearance of frosty austerity.
“What’s the matter?” Mason asked.
“Dimmick, Gray & Peabody mixed up in a criminal case! Can you imagine it? Damnedest thing I ever heard of!”
“You thought perhaps I could be of some help?” Mason asked.
Dimmick nodded.
Rodney Cuff coughed disapprovingly. Dimmick flashed him a glance and said, “Go ahead, young man, cough your head off. I know what I’m doing.”
Cuff lapsed into silence and lit a cigarette. Della Street let her amused eyes drift toward Perry Mason.
“We’re counsel for Second Fidelity Savings & Loan,” Dimmick said. “They’re trustees under a probate trust. The sole beneficiary is a chap by the name of James Driscoll. Now then, do you get the picture?”
Mason settled back in his swivel chair, lit a cigarette and regarded his visitors with wary eyes. “I’m beginning,” he said, “to get the sketch.”
“All right,” Dimmick went on. “Under the provisions of the probate trust we’re to give Driscoll such legal advice as he needs. He isn’t at liberty to employ any other counsel except with the permission of the trustee. Now then, he goes and gets himself mixed up in a murder case and there’s hell to pay.”
“Just why did you come to me?” Mason asked.
“We want you to help.”
Again Rodney Cuff coughed.
“You mean you want me to act as attorney for James Driscoll?”
“Not exactly that,” Dimmick said. “We want you to co-operate with us. We’ll represent him. You’re representing Rosalind Prescott. Their interests are identical and—”
“Pardon me for interrupting,” Mason said, “but I’m not satisfied their interests are identical.”
“Just as I was telling Mr. Dimmick,” Rodney Cuff said eagerly. “It’s very evident that—”