Anders’ face showed surprise. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “I never heard of the man in my life.”
Wentworth looked longingly at the door.
“No, you don’t,” Anders said. “I’ve been chasing you all over town. We’re going to have a showdown right here and now. Try to get out that door, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“You can’t restrain me,” Wentworth said.
“Probably not,” Anders observed grimly, “but I can beat the living hell out of you.”
Mason grinned at Della Street, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his ankles on the corner of his desk. “Don’t mind me, gentlemen,” he said. “Go right ahead.”
“What kind of a trap is this?” Wentworth demanded.
“There’s no trap at all,” Anders said, quivering with indignation. “You’ve pulled a dirty, stinking trick. I’m here to tell you you can’t get away with it. Here’s your eight hundred and fifty dollars.”
“I refuse to touch it,” Wentworth said. “It isn’t the money, it’s the principle of the thing.”
Abruptly, he jumped to his feet. “You try to stop me,” he said, “and I’ll call the police. I’ll sue you for conspiracy, for...”
Mason said to Anders, “Let him go, Anders,” and then to Wentworth, “I just wanted you to know that I am representing Mae Farr. It may also interest you to know that I’ve submitted a photostatic copy of that cheque to a handwriting expert.”
Wentworth, with his hand on the doorknob, stopped to stare at Perry Mason.
Mason said, “My guess is that if your signature is forged, so is that of Mae Farr.”
Wentworth said, “It serves me right for trying to do you a good turn. I should have had my lawyer with me.”
“Bring him, by all means,” Mason invited, “and when you bring him, you might explain the matter of that cheque to him and ask him for his advice.”
“What do you mean?”
“You,” Mason said, “have accused Mae Farr of forging that cheque, acting purely on the assumption that because the cheque was sent to the Stylefirst Department Store to be credited to her account, she must have been guilty of the forgery. I submit that you haven’t any evidence to back that claim, that you can’t prove she mailed the cheque, that you can’t prove she wrote it because the evidence of the handwriting expert will be that she didn’t, and that, therefore, the cheque was forged by some third party.”
Wentworth hesitated for a moment, then he said cautiously, “Well, of course, if that is true...”
“If that’s true,” Mason said casually, “you have been guilty of defaming the character of Mae Farr. You have made slanderous assertions to the effect that she is a forger and a fugitive from justice. You have made these to the police and to other persons. You have apparently sworn to a complaint charging Miss Farr with a criminal act... Do get your lawyer, Wentworth. I am sure he will advise you to instruct the bank to pay that cheque. Come in to see me any time. Ring up my secretary for an appointment. Good day.”
Wentworth stared at him with consternation showing in his eyes. Then abruptly he jerked the door open and stepped out into the corridor, leaving Harold Anders staring in perplexity at the lawyer.
“Sit down, Anders,” Mason invited.
Anders walked over to the big leather chair which Wentworth had just vacated and sat down.
“The trouble with me,” Mason observed conversationally, “is that I am a natural born grandstander. My friends call it a flair for the dramatic. My enemies call it four flushing. That, coupled with a curiosity about people and an interest in anything that looks like a mystery, is always getting me into trouble. What are your bad habits?”
Anders laughed and said, “I lose my temper too easily. I can’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I’m too much in love with the soil, and I have a hick outlook.”
Mason studied him with twinkling eyes. “It sounds somewhat as though the list had been compiled by a young woman who left North Mesa to come to the city,” he said.
“It was,” Anders admitted.
Mason said, “I’ve been retained to represent Mae Farr. As nearly as I can find out, her entire trouble is over this forged cheque with which you seem to be familiar. I don’t think we’re going to have any further trouble with that.”
“But look here,” Anders said, “it’s a cinch she didn’t forge that cheque. Mae wouldn’t do a thing like that, but what I can’t understand is, who did it.”
“Wentworth did it,” Mason said.
“Wentworth?”
“That’s right. We probably won’t be able to prove it on him, but he’s the one who did it or had someone do it for him.”
“Good Lord, why?”
Mason said dryly, “It is quite probable that Wentworth is another individual who can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Slow comprehension dawned on Anders’ face. Abruptly, he placed his hands on the arms of the big chair, pushed himself to his feet, and had taken two quick strides toward the door when Mason’s voice arrested him. “Wait a minute, Anders,” the lawyer said, his voice kindly yet packed with authority. “I’m running this show. Come back here. I want to talk with you.”
Anders hesitated a moment, his face flushed, jaw pushed forward.
“Come on back and sit down,” Mason said. “Remember, I’m acting as Miss Farr’s lawyer. I don’t want anything done which wouldn’t be in her best interests.”
Slowly Anders came back and sat down. Mason studied the rugged features, the bronzed skin, the deep tan at the back of the neck. “Rancher?” he asked.
“Uh huh,” Anders said.
“What kind of a ranch?”
“Mostly cattle, one patch of alfalfa, some hay.”
“Much of a place?” Mason asked.
“Fifteen hundred acres,” Anders said proudly.
“All cleared?”
“No, some of it’s in brush. A lot of it’s hill land. It’s all under fence.”
“Good,” Mason observed.
For several seconds the men sat in silence, Mason calmly regarding the man who sat across from him. Anders, his angry flush subsiding, studied the lawyer with growing approval.
“Known Mae for some little time?” Mason asked.
“Nearly fifteen years.”
“Know the family?”
“Yes.”
“Mother living?”
“Yes.”
“Brothers or sisters?”
“One sister, Sylvia.”
“Where is she?” Mason asked.
“She’s there in North Mesa, working in a candy store.”
“How did you find out Mae was in trouble?”
“Sylvia got worried about her. She hadn’t heard from her for some little time, and then one of her letters was returned saying that Mae had moved and left no forwarding address.”
“You don’t hear from her regularly?” Mason asked.
Anders hesitated a minute, then said shortly, “No.”
“You keep in touch with her through Sylvia?”
“That’s right,” Anders said, in a tone that implied he considered the question none of the lawyer’s business. “But this time she called me to say she was in trouble over a forged cheque for eight hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Have you located Miss Farr?”
“No, I haven’t. I wanted you— Well, I’m her friend. I want her address.”
“I’m sorry,” Mason said. “I don’t have it.”
“But I thought she employed you.”
“The young woman who employed me,” Mason said, “explained that she was doing it on behalf of Mae Farr. She said that she didn’t know where Mae could be reached.”