“Some of those are fabulously large and...”
“Not this one,” she interrupted. “It’s rather modest, but it has a nice location and I believe it is capable of expansion.”
“How much of an interest did you inherit?” Mason asked.
“There’s a tight little corporation. My father was president. I inherited forty per cent of the stock. The other sixty per cent is divided among four individuals.”
“When did your father die?” Mason asked.
For a moment her face became completely wooden, then she said tonelessly, “Six months ago. He was murdered.”
“Murdered!” Mason exclaimed.
“Yes,” she said. “You may have read about...”
“Good heavens!” Mason exclaimed. “Was your father Glenn Falkner?”
She nodded.
Mason frowned. “The murder has, I believe, never been solved.”
“Murders don’t solve themselves,” she said, bitterly.
Mason said, “I don’t want to ask you to discuss anything that is distasteful to your or...”
“Why not?” she asked. “Life is filled with distasteful tasks. I made up my mind to suppress my feelings before I came in.”
“All right,” Mason said, “go ahead. Tell me about it.”
“My mother died when I was four. That was the beginning of a seven-year cycle of bad luck. At least that’s what Dad thought. He was horribly superstitious. I guess all gamblers are.
“Dad had been well fixed. He was cleaned out in the depression. He was out of money and out of work. He took whatever he could get. He started work in a speakeasy restaurant. The man who owned the place died. Dad bought out the heirs. He had the place built up when Prohibition was repealed.
“However, there’s no use boring you with a story of Dad’s hard luck. He had plenty. He also had some good luck. Dad was a gambler. He wasn’t a bootlegger but he was willing to operate a speakeasy restaurant. He was a plunger by nature, by inclination and by occupation.
“There are some things gamblers are good at, some things gamblers are bad at. Gamblers learn to control their emotions. Gamblers learn to be good losers. Gamblers become poker-faced and undemonstrative, and gamblers can hardly make a good home for girls, either teen-aged or younger. Gambling takes place at night.
“So I didn’t see much of my father. He kept me in boarding schools, and every time it would be the same story. Dad wanted me to have the best, but the best boarding schools don’t cater to the daughters of gamblers. So Dad would pose as an investor. The daughters of persons who gamble on the stock market are very, very eligible. The daughters of men who gamble across a table are very, very ineligible.
“It never occurred to Dad that it would be better and less cruel to put me in a school where I could sail under my true colors, where the standards weren’t so strict. He wanted me to have the best, so I met a lot of social snobs. I would last for a year, then somehow or other it would come out that Dad was a gambler and I’d have to leave.
“I absorbed some of my father’s philosophy. I became undemonstrative. I didn’t dare form friendships because I didn’t want to sail under false colors.
“So, as soon as I was old enough, I finished my education and went out on my own. I became a professional model. I made good money at it.
“Dad drifted into Las Vegas. In the course of time, he acquired some property, put a small motel on it, expanded as much as he could, and then wanted me to come and live with him.
“It was no go. He’d sleep until noon, get in about three o’clock in the morning. Property kept going up in value. A group of people got an option on some adjoining property. They wanted an option on Dad’s property. The idea was they were going to move our small units off the property, consolidate the two, put up a huge, expensive hotel with swimming pool, gambling, night club entertainment and all the rest.
“Dad was willing to sell out, but not for the price they offered. Dad learned he was dealing with a syndicate, found out what they had in mind, and held out for a good price.
“The syndicate was furious. When they couldn’t handle things any other way, they began to make threats. Dad laughed at them.
“That’s where Dad made his fatal mistake.”
“The syndicate killed him?” Mason asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. Her face was expressionless. “I don’t know. No one knows. Dad was murdered. That put fear into the hearts of the other stockholders. They wanted to sell for just about anything. From a business point of view, Dad’s murder couldn’t have been improved upon as far as the syndicate was concerned.”
“Go on,” Mason said, “what happened?”
“I inherited forty per cent of the stock. The remaining sixty per cent was owned by four people, each of whom had fifteen per cent. While I was still numbed by the news of Dad’s death, a man got busy buying up stock. Three of the other stockholders were only too willing to sell out for whatever the syndicate wanted to pay them.
“Before Dad’s death I had met Homer Garvin, Jr. We were keeping company. I saw something of his father. Immediately after the murder, Junior’s father asked me to tell him what I knew about my Dad’s death. I told him.
“Garvin Senior knew even before I did that the other stockholders would be willing to sell for just about anything they could get. He tried to beat this mysterious stock purchaser to it, but was too late. Mr. Garvin got to only one of the other stockholders in time. He bought his holdings.
“That’s the story to date. Mr. Garvin has fifteen per cent of the stock. I have forty per cent. Now a group calling itself a new syndicate wants to buy all the stock.”
“What do you want?” Mason asked.
She said, “I want to sell. However, I’m not going to let them murder Dad and then take my stock for some nominal consideration. Dad gave his life. I’m going to see that these people don’t benefit by his murder.
“Now then a man whom I will refer to as Mr. X is here in town. I don’t know whether he represents the so-called new syndicate or not. I know the man personally. I met him when I was doing model work in Las Vegas.
“All I know is that someone visited three of the other stockholders when they were frightened stiff, offered cash for their stock, paid the cash, had the certificates endorsed and then faded from the picture.
“That was all I knew until a few days ago. Then Mr. X sent in the endorsed certificates to be registered in his name.
“Then he phoned me, told me he was interested in buying my holdings as well as those of Mr. Garvin, and asked me to meet him tomorrow night at eight-thirty.
“I’d like to get in touch with Mr. Garvin and see if he wants to pool our interests. I don’t want to sell unless he sells at the same time. Otherwise they’d have control and freeze him out.
“Mr. Garvin is out of town. He left yesterday. I can’t find out where he is. His secretary hates the ground I walk on. She wouldn’t even give me the time of day.”
“How about Junior?” Mason asked. “Can’t he find out where his father is?”
“Junior is East attending a meeting.”
Mason said, “Mr. Garvin might not like the idea of your dealing with this man. He may suggest that I have the personal contact.”
“I know,” she said. “But with me it’s a matter of family pride. I’m going to carry on where Dad left off.”
“You’d like to see your father’s murderer brought to justice?”
“Naturally. That’s the second reason I came to see you.”
“Go on,” Mason said.
“You know what happens with these gangster murders,” she said. “The police huff and they puff, and they mouth great threats to all gangsters. They righteously resolve in great headlines that this city will never tolerate gangsterism, that this murder will be solved.