“Okay,” Mason said, “let’s get out of here and take another look at Drake’s report.”
Mason called the waiter, paid their check, retrieved his car from the parking lot and drove to his office building.
The night janitor who operated the elevator, grinned at Mason as the lawyer signed the night register. “You seen Paul Drake, Mr. Mason?”
“Not recently.”
“He’s looking for you. He said that if you came in, to be sure to have you call him on the phone before you did anything else.”
Mason said, “Okay, I’ll stop in and see him.”
The elevator cage shot upward.
“What was that message again?” Della Street asked.
“Said for Mr. Mason to call him on the phone before he did anything else.”
“Mr. Drake is home, then?”
“Nope,” the janitor said. “He’s in his office.”
Della Street exchanged glances with Mason.
“The perfect secretary,” Mason said. “I’d missed that one, Della.”
“How’s that?” the janitor asked, as he brought the cage to a stop
“Nothing,” Mason said.
They walked past the lighted offices which bore the sign, Drake Detective Agency, on the door, down the long corridor, around the bend, and Mason latch-keyed the door of his private office.
Della Street was at the phone, dialing Drake’s number almost before Mason had the lights on.
“Mr. Drake there?” she asked. “Mr. Mason’s office calling.”
A moment later she said, “Hello, Paul. The Chief wants to talk with you... How’s that?... Yes, down in our office... All right, I’ll tell him.”
She hung up the phone and said, “Paul’s on his way down here.”
Mason said, “Must be something important or Paul wouldn’t have acted this way. I overlooked the significance of Paul’s message, Della. I’ll have to hand you one for that. There must be someone waiting in his office and...”
The steps of Paul Drake in the corridor sounded through the night silence of the big office building. Della Street opened the door of the private office.
Paul Drake entered the room, a slow smile twisting his features.
“Hi, folks!”
“Hi, Paul.”
“Did you get my message, Perry?”
“Yes. Why did you want me to telephone? Someone in your office?”
“That’s right,” Drake said, settling himself in the big, leather client’s chair, and hitched himself around so that the small of his back rested against one rounded arm of the chair while his long legs dangled over the other. “What kind of a client did you have on this job I used Kenneth Barstow on?”
“That’s what’s bothering me,” Mason said. “I think he may have been trying to cut himself a piece of cake.”
“With a chisel,” Drake said.
“How come?” Mason asked.
“The heiress is in my office.”
Mason whistled. “What does she want?”
“I don’t know what she did want. I think she wanted Kenneth Barstow, but what she wants now is you.”
“And she’s waiting?”
“Yes, I told her I could get in touch with you sooner or later, that I’d leave word in case you happened to come to your office, and I’d keep working on your apartment.”
“Is it that important?” Mason asked.
“I think it is,” Drake said. “As I get the story, it’s quite a yarn. You want to talk with her, Perry?”
Mason nodded.
“The hell of it is,” Drake went on, “you may find yourself in an adverse position to your client.”
“Which client?”
“The one that was trying to find out about her.”
“The relation of attorney and client in that matter is entirely separate, and it has been completed. He wanted me to do certain things and I did them. I charged him a fee and he paid it. That’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned. I don’t like to be double-crossed by a client and I don’t like chiselers.”
“Okay,” Drake said, “I’ll bring her in.”
Mason nodded.
Della Street’s eyes were sparkling. “I knew she’d fallen for Kenneth Barstow. That one she met tonight couldn’t hold a candle to Barstow, not as far as appearance or anything else. And I’ll tell you something else. He wasn’t the greenie he was trying to appear, either. That boy knew his way around. I wouldn’t trust him any farther than I could toss that safe over there with one finger.”
Mason settled himself at his office desk, took a cigarette from the humidor, and said, “This man Caddo is beginning to get on my nerves.”
He smoked in silence for a few seconds. Then Drake’s steps sounded once more in the corridor. The pound of his heels was accompanied by the quick tapping of high heels as the woman at his side tried to keep up with Drake’s long strides.
Drake pushed the door open for Marilyn Marlow to enter the office and said, “Miss Marlow, Mr. Mason, and Miss Street, his secretary. Go on in.”
Drake followed her into the room.
Marilyn Marlow bowed acknowledgment of the introduction. There was no cordiality in her snapping black eyes.
“Well,” she said to Perry Mason, “you’ve got me in a sweet mess. Now suppose you try getting me out.”
Mason smiled. “Suppose you sit down and relax while you tell me about it.”
She sat down in a straight-backed chair across from Mason’s desk while Paul Drake slid once more into his favorite sprawling position in the client’s chair.
“Well?” Mason asked.
She said, “You framed that letter to me, and I answered it, like a fool, and then you ran that detective in on me.”
“You’re making statements,” Mason said.
“You’ve messed everything up for me!”
“And why did you want to see me now?”
She smiled. “I want you to un-mess things.”
“If you’re calling on me as a lawyer and want me to do something for you, I think it’s only fair to warn you that I may not be free to accept you as a client. However, so we can quit beating around the bush, we may as well get certain facts straight.
“Your mother was the special nurse who attended George P. Endicott in his last illness. Endicott had been in poor health for a long time and your mother had quite a hard job of it. Apparently, she did her work well. When Endicott died, he left a will by which he left your mother the bulk of his estate. His brothers, Ralph Endicott and Palmer E. Endicott, and his sister, Lorraine Endicott Parsons, inherited the house and a relatively small bequest. The will has already been submitted to probate. The amount of the estate is appraised at approximately three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, and it is indicated that the brothers and sisters are going to file a contest after probate, claiming fraud, undue influence and all the rest of it. Your mother was killed in an automobile accident. You inherit all of her property. Now then, you...”
“Have you been approached by any one of the Endicotts?” she interrupted.
“No.”
“Someone connected with Rose Keeling?”
“Rose Keeling?” Mason repeated the name, then shook his head. “I don’t place her... Oh, yes, Rose Keeling was one of the subscribing witnesses to the Endicott will.”
“You don’t know her? You’ve never met her?”
“No.”
“And you don’t know the Endicotts?”
“No.”
Marilyn Marlow seemed to be debating some move in her own mind. Then she said suddenly and impulsively, “Will you help me?”
“Let’s keep to generalities for a time,” Mason said. “I may not be in a position to help you. I may be disqualified. Generally, what do you want?”
“I’m virtually certain the Endicotts are offering Rose Keeling a big bribe to sell out. I think she’s considering the offer. I’ve tried every way I know to get a line on the thing and I’m stumped. If she sells out, it leaves me out on a limb. I’m licked.”