Mason had worked out a system of card indexing clients based upon the manner in which they occupied their chair. Some tried to hide from the realities of the world in its protecting depths others squirmed uneasily but there were a few people who could sit there comfortably and fill the chair. Dorley Alder was one of these.
“I gather you wanted to see me about a matter of considerable importance,” Mason said.
“Mr. Mason, are you familiar with our company—the Alder Associates, Incorporated?”
“I’ve heard something about it,” Mason said dryly.
“Do you know generally about the setup?”
“Did you,” Mason countered, “wish to consult me about that?”
“Not entirely,” Dorley Alder said, “but I don’t want to waste time telling you things you already know.”
“You might assume that I know nothing,” Mason said.
The frosty gray eyes hardened.
“That would be an insult to your intelligence and to mine, Mr. Mason. You are representing a syndicate which holds a rather considerable acreage adjoining some of our holdings.”
Mason said nothing.
“And,” Dorlgy H. Alder went on, “we happen to know the syndicate has been very anxious to sign an oil lease, but the drilling company will not go ahead with development work unless it can also control our acreage. Not only have we refused to consolidate our holdings with yours for the purposes of the lease, but, frankly, we were quite definitely manipulating things so as to force your clients to sell out their holdings for a fraction of their value. A little financial squeeze here, a little political pressure there. Under those circumstances, Mr. Mason, to think that you would be entirely ignorant of die nature of our little corporation would be a reflection on your own abilities as an attorney, and my perspicacity as an opponent.”
“Go right ahead,” Mason said, grinning, “it’s your party. Start serving the refreshments whenever you get ready.”
A twinkle of humor softened Dorley Alder’s eyes. There was something almost hypnotic about the calm cadences of his voice. “I will assume that you have made such a survey, Mr. Mason, that you have probed for points of weakness, and that you may perhaps have found some. As you are probably aware, the actual control of the corporation is in the hands of my nephew, George S. Alder.
“George is relatively a young man, Mr. Mason. I am in the middle sixties. I am taking it for granted that you are familiar with the terms of the trust under which my brother left stock in the corporation.”
“That trust covers all the stock?” Mason asked.
“All of it,” Dorley said.
“Very well,” Mason told him. “Go ahead.”
“Corrine Lansing, George’s half sister, had, of course, an equal interest.”
Mason merely nodded.
“She disappeared.”
Again Mason nodded.
“Under the circumstances,” Dorley Alder said, “while there are some temporary expedients which we can resort to, we are advised that not until seven years have elapsed can we legally prove that she is dead.”
“No comment,” Mason said, smiling. “I have enough trouble advising my own clients without checking another lawyer’s opinions.”
“Of course,” Alder went on, “that is true in case we have merely an unexplained disappearance. If we can find circumstantial evidence to indicate an actual death, that would be another matter.”
“I’m quite certain you didn’t want to consult me about that,” Mason said.
Dorley said, “I’m merely outlining a situation.”
“Go on with the outline.”
“In the event Corrine should still be alive, the situation in regard to the control of the company might change very drastically. At the present time under the trust, I am merely a minority stockholder so far as votes are concerned. If Corrine were alive, I have reason to believe she would, perhaps, see things my way.”
“You had something specific in mind?” Mason asked.
Dorley Alder said, “Mr. Mason, you and I are businessmen. Why not speak frankly?”
“You’re doing the talking. I’m listening frankly.”
Dorley Alder smiled, said, “This little window dressing, Mr. Mason, this story about the stolen gems. That’s all right for the public, but for you and me the situation is different.”
“How different?”
“I have reason to believe that Dorothy Fenner entered that house. I think she entered it for the purpose of getting a letter. I am very much interested in that letter.”
“How interested?”
“Quite interested.”
“And precisely what do you know about the letter?” Mason asked.
“I know that a letter was found by a beachcomber. I know that letter had been written on the stationery of the Thayerbelle, which is George’s yacht. I understand that it was written by Minerva Danby, a woman who was washed overboard and drowned during a sudden, very severe storm.”
“And what else do you want to know?” Mason asked.
“I would like to know very, very much what that letter contained.”
Mason studied the man thoughtfully. “Do you want to know the contents of the letter, or merely whether I know the contents of the letter?”
“I want to know the contents.”
“And suppose the contents were significant, just what would be the advantage to us in communicating them to you?”
“You would have a valuable ally.”
“In this business,” Mason said, smiling, “the difficult thing is to tell whether you’re making an ally, or simply arming an enemy at your rear.”
“You have my word, Mr. Mason … and I am very fond of Dorothy.”
Mason took from his pocket the copy of the letter which had been made on Dorothy Fenner’s portable typewriter. Wordlessly, he handed it to Dorley Alder.
The older man all but grabbed at the letter in his eagerness. He started reading rapidly, his eyes shifting back and forth from line to line. When he had finished, he lowered the letter to his lap, sat for a moment gazing vacantly at the opposite wall of the office. Then he said softly, “Good heavens.”
Mason gently reached forward and, taking advantage of Dorley Alder’s preoccupied concentration, slipped the copy of the letter from the man’s lap, folded it and put it back in his pocket.
“Good lord,” Dorley said, almost to himself, “I had suspected something, but nothing like that—nothing at all like that.”
“It gave you a jolt?” Mason asked.
Dorley Alder said, “George is a peculiar boy—a most peculiar boy, Mr. Mason. The man will not permit anything to stand in his way. Once he makes up his mind to a certain course of conduct, I believe he would sacrifice his own life or the life of anyone else to carry out his purpose. Mr. Mason, I must see the original of that letter.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.”
“Why is it impossible?’
“A copy was made of the letter. The original letter then disappeared.”
Sudden anger suffused Dorley Alder’s countenance. “Good lord, Mr. Mason, are you trying to play games like that with me?”
“I am telling you that this is a copy of the letter that was in that bottle.”
“Stuff and nonsense.”
“An exact copy,” Mason went on.
“How do you know it’s an exact copy?”
“I can assure you that it is.”
Dorley Alder said, “I’m afraid that you’re either being victimized by your client, or that you’re trying to victimize me. I … No, Mason, I’m sorry. That slipped out. I lost my self-control because I’m so bitterly disappointed. I was hoping you had that original letter in your possession or that your clicnt did. I had every reason to believe such was the case.”