Della Street picked up the phone, said, “Hello, Gertie. What is it... I see... Yes, I think so. Ask him to be seated for just a moment.”
Della Street cupped her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, said to Mason, “Mr. Bertrand C. Allred is out there. He seems to be quite worked up about something. He wants to see you, but won’t say why.”
Mason grinned and said, “Now we’re getting somewhere! Tell Gertie to bring him in.”
Bertrand C. Allred was around fifty, a short, stocky individual, wearing a double-breasted gray suit that had been carefully tailored to make him appear to the best advantage. His hair, thin at the top, was parted in the middle, plastered down on a scalp which showed through the thin, reddish-brown locks. A stubby red mustache, close cropped, shadowed his upper lip but stopped before it came to the corners of his mouth, a mere half-inch of short, carefully scissored hair on each side of the upper lip.
He was, quite apparently, a man who, relying upon the power of personality to blast any obstacle out of his way, smashed his way through life as a varsity ball carrier crashes through the opposition of a scrub team.
Allred’s pudgy legs drove him across Mason’s office. His face wreathed in a cordial smile, he extended his hand when he was still six feet from the lawyer’s desk. He said in a booming voice, “Perry Mason! Perry Mason, in person! This is indeed a treat! Mr. Mason, I’ve heard a great deal about you. I’m very, very, very glad to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Mason said, shaking hands. “Won’t you be seated?”
Allred looked meaningly toward Della Street.
“Miss Street, my secretary,” Mason explained. “You may trust her discretion absolutely. She takes notes on conversations, keeps things straight for me and supplements my recollection when my memory is at fault.”
“I don’t suppose that’s very often,” Allred boomed.
“Sometimes I trip up on details,” Mason admitted.
Allred seated himself in the big leather client’s chair, cleared his throat, said, “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all,” Mason said. “Care for one of these?”
He extended an office humidor of cigarettes.
“No, thank you. Cigarettes just tantalize me. I prefer cigars. No objection?”
“None whatever.”
Allred crossed his pudgy legs. His nails, freshly manicured, made glistening reflections of the light from the window as he extracted a cigar from a leather case which he took from his pocket.
“It’s about my wife, Mr. Mason.”
“What about her?” Mason asked.
“I hardly know how to account for her actions.”
Mason said, “Let’s not misunderstand each other, Mr. Allred. You are coming here because I phoned and asked to talk with your wife?”
“In a way, but only in a way.”
“You must always realize,” Mason warned, “that when you talk with an attorney, you may present facts concerning which the lawyer is not free to act.”
“You mean you might be representing my wife?”
“I meant that I might not be free to act as your attorney, if that’s what you had in mind. Therefore, you should tell me exactly what you want, before divulging any information which you might wish to have considered confidential.”
“That’s all right. That’s all right,” Allred said, scraping a match on the sole of a broad shoe, holding the flame to the end of the cigar, puffing nervously while he got the tobacco burning to his satisfaction.
Allred shook the match out, dropped it in the ashtray, said to Mason, “You’re representing my wife?”
“I’m not prepared to answer that question at the moment.”
“Well, if you are, and it seems that you are, how did it happen that you expected to find her at my home?”
“Isn’t that the logical place to look for a wife, in the husband’s home?”
Allred peered through the blue haze of his cigar smoke to study the lawyer’s features. “Damned if you aren’t a deep one,” he admitted grudgingly, “unless—”
“Unless what?” Mason asked as the other lapsed into silence.
“Unless for some reason you don’t know — but if you’re representing Lola you must know.”
Mason merely smiled.
“Oh, what’s the use of sparring around like this, Mason? Let’s get down to brass tacks.”
“Go right ahead.”
“My wife,” Allred said bitterly, “has run away with my best friend.”
“That’s too bad,” Mason said noncommittally. “When did she leave?”
“As though you didn’t know all about it!”
“After all, Mr. Allred, you’re the one who sought this interview.”
“Saturday night,” Allred said. “Damn it, you could have knocked me over with a feather.”
“The man’s name?”
“Robert Gregg Fleetwood. One of my business associates, an employee, accountant, assistant, handy man.”
“Do you intend to apply for a divorce?”
“I don’t know.”
“I take it the newspapers know nothing of this?”
“Of course not. I’ve kept it out of the newspapers, so far. I can’t sit on the lid much longer. We’re too well known, socially and otherwise.”
Mason’s contribution to the conversation was a mere nod.
“What I can’t figure,” Allred said explosively, “is how a woman her age could do a thing like that!”
“How old is she?”
“Forty-two.”
“I believe,” Mason said, “that psychologists agree that that is one of the most dangerous ages for a woman.”
“You’re talking in generalities,” Allred said.
“Why not?”
“All right, if you want to — but look here, Mason. Lola had plenty of property; she could do anything she wished. She was a mature woman. If she got tired of me, why didn’t she simply go to Reno, discreetly announce that it there had been a separation, get her divorce and marry Bob Fleetwood? But no, she has to do something spectacular, something that is almost adolescent, something that will give us a lot of unfavorable publicity.”
“Can you tell me anything about Fleetwood?”
“I can tell you everything about him.”
“Well?”
“Bob Fleetwood is fifteen years younger than my wife. I picked him up as a young man, and tried to make something of him. I pushed him ahead just as fast as he could go. I trusted him. He was at my home much of the time. Hang it, I had no idea he and Lola could see anything in each other. Bob Fleetwood was apparently paying court to Patricia.”
“And who’s Patricia?”
“Patricia Faxon, Lola’s daughter by a prior marriage.”
“I see.”
“And then, all of a sudden, he runs off with my wife.”
“What does Pat say about it?”
“She’s crying her eyes out, but she pretends she isn’t. She comes to meals, eats just enough to keep her alive, puts on a bold front, pretends to be smiling and happy, and is eating her heart out.”
“She loves him?”
“I think she’s humiliated, more than anything. Puts a girl in a hell of a position when her mother runs off with her sweetheart.”
“And Fleetwood was Patricia’s sweetheart?”
“Well, let’s look at it this way. He was... He... Well, he was around Patricia quite a lot, and during that time he certainly never seemed to take any interest in Lola. They must have been damn clever, or else it was something that just came up all at once.
“Of course, Patricia’s a modern girl. She’s had swains by the dozen. Lots of them have been crazy about her. Lately the field narrowed down to two, Bob Fleetwood and a chap named John Bagley. I felt Bob had the inside track, but John Bagley was still in the running — make no mistake about that, Mason.”