“I said come down to the office.”
Once more the girl indicated her open checkbook. “I’ve repeatedly tried to tell this man,” she said, “that my aunt has merely been shopping. If you’ll be so good as to give me the total amount of her purchases, I’ll gladly make out a check.”
The manager glanced from the placid face of the unperturbed woman to the girl, then to the urbane lawyer. He took a deep breath, accepted defeat, and bowed as he said, “I’ll have these purchases wrapped. Shall we deliver them, Madam, or would you prefer to take them with you?”
“Just wrap them and bring them here,” the white-haired woman said, “and if you’re the manager, will you kindly tell one of the waitresses to give this table some attention... Ah, there you are, my dear. I think we’ll have two cream of tomato soups, and I want chicken croquettes. What would you like, Ginny?”
The young woman, her cheeks crimson, shook her head and said, “I can’t eat a thing, Aunt Sarah.”
“Nonsense, Ginny! You mustn’t let yourself be disturbed by little things. The man was clearly in error. He’s admitted his fault.” She raised her eyes to Perry Mason. “And I believe, young man, I’m somewhat obligated to you. I’ll take one of your cards, if you don’t mind.”
Mason smiled, glanced at Della Street as he passed over one of his cards. “I wonder,” he said, “if you wouldn’t care to join us at our table. We could make a foursome. And,” he added, lowering his voice, and glancing at the young woman, “you might feel less conspicuous.”
“We’ll be glad to,” the white-haired woman said, pushing back her chair. “Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Mrs. Sarah Breel. This is Miss Virginia Trent, my niece. You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer. I’ve read of you, Mr. Mason. I’m very glad to meet you.”
“Miss Della Street, my secretary,” Mason introduced.
Della extended her hand. “So glad to meet you,” she said.
Mason seated the women, apparently entirely oblivious of the curious eyes at surrounding tables. “Go right ahead with your soup,” Mrs. Breel said. “Don’t let it get cold. We’ll catch up with you on the rest of the lunch.”
“I can’t eat a thing,” Virginia Trent said.
“Nonsense, Ginny. Go ahead and relax.”
“Really,” Mason urged, “you’ll find the cream of tomato soup very delicious. It’ll make you forget — the rain.”
She glanced at Mason’s steaming cup of soup, met Della Street’s friendly eyes, and said dubiously, “Food should never be eaten when one’s upset.”
“Don’t be upset, then,” the aunt said.
“Two more cream of tomato soups,” Mason told the waitress. “Rush them up right away, please. And I believe there’s one order of chicken croquettes and...”
“Make it two orders,” Mrs. Breel said. “Ginny likes chicken croquettes. And two pots of tea, my dear, with lemon. And make the tea rather strong.”
She settled back in the chair with a sigh of complete satisfaction. “I always like to eat here,” she said, “they have such wonderful cooking. And, so far, the service has been excellent. This is the only time I’ve had occasion to make any complaint.”
Mason’s eyes twinkled to those of Della Street, then back to Mrs. Breel. “It is,” he said, “a shame that you were annoyed.”
“Oh, I wasn’t annoyed in the least,” Mrs. Breel remarked casually. “My niece, unfortunately, is sensitive about what people think. Perhaps super-sensitive. Personally, I don’t give a hoot. I live my life the way I want, and... Ah, here comes the man with the things. Just put the packages on that chair, young man.”
“How much does it amount to?” Virginia asked.
“Thirty-seven dollars and eighty-three cents, with the tax,” the assistant manager said with dignity.
Virginia wrote out a check. As she entered the figures on the stub and performed the subtraction, Mason’s eyes, actuated by a curiosity which was stronger than the conventions, glanced swiftly at the figures. He saw that after the check had been paid there was a balance of but twenty-two dollars and fifteen cents in account.
Virginia Trent handed the manager the check.
“If you’ll kindly step down to the office,” he said, “and fill out a credit card.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Breel interposed. “We’ll be right here, eating lunch for the next half hour. The bank is in the next block. You can send over and have the check cashed... I hope you’ve wrapped the bundle securely, young man. It’s raining outside.”
The manager said suavely, “I believe you’ll find the wrapping is quite satisfactory.” He glanced at Perry Mason. “I notice,” he said with dignity, “that you have consolidated your party, Mr. Mason. May I inquire if there’s any intention on your part to file a suit against the store?”
Mrs. Breel answered the question. “No,” she said magnanimously, “I’m quite willing to let bygones be bygones. I think you were frightfully rude... Here comes the waitress with my soup. If you’ll kindly step back so she can serve me... Thank you.”
The manager bowed affably. There was the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. “If you find any of these things not entirely satisfactory, Mrs. Breel,” he said, “remember we’ll be glad to exchange them. Perhaps your shopping was somewhat hurried, and you didn’t get just the exact sizes required...”
“Oh, but I did,” Mrs. Breel interrupted. “I was very careful to get just the sizes I wanted. I’m not exactly a young woman, but I’m not absent-minded. I’m quite certain the merchandise will be satisfactory. I picked the very best that was on display.”
The manager bowed and withdrew. Craning necks followed his progress across the lunch room, then heads came together as the hiss of sibilant whispers filled the room.
Mrs. Breel, apparently utterly oblivious of the interest she had aroused, smacked her lips over the soup and said to her niece, “There, dear, just taste that and see how nice it is. I told you they had wonderful cooking here.”
Virginia Trent showed no enthusiasm over her food, but Mrs. Breel ate her way through the menu with placid enjoyment. No one made any further mention of the shoplifting episode. There were no explanations offered on the one hand, nor, on the other, did Mason ask for any. He threw himself into the part of acting the perfect host, and Della Street, trained by years of experience to read his moods, followed his lead. Gradually, the air of restraint which had settled about the table disappeared. Mrs. Breel’s perfect poise, Mason’s urbane hospitality and Della Street’s sympathetic understanding conspired to make Virginia Trent lose her consciousness of the gaping interest displayed by the curious diners at adjoining tables.
Mason lingered over his demi-tasse, evidently reluctant to terminate the meeting. Finally, however, he summoned the waitress, announcing that a one-thirty appointment necessitated his departure. In the leave-taking, Virginia Trent showed once more a consciousness of the peculiar circumstances which had drawn them together, but none of this was apparent in her aunt’s demeanor.
Back on the street, where patches of blue sky showed between drifting clouds, Mason turned to Della Street. “That,” he announced, “was a break!”
“How did you size them up, Chief?”
“I couldn’t,” Mason admitted. “And, consequently, enjoyed myself immensely.”
“Do you suppose she’s a professional shoplifter?”
“I doubt it. The girl’s embarrassment was too natural.”
“Then why did she do it, Chief — I mean the aunt?”
Mason said, “Now you’ve got me, Della. She’s hardly the criminal type. Back of her somewhere is an interesting background of philosophy... We’ll chalk it up as one of life’s adventures, an isolated chapter which we can’t understand without knowing what has gone before, yet interesting, nevertheless. It’s like picking up a magazine, getting interested in a serial installment, and reading about characters doing things which don’t make sense because we don’t know what’s gone before, yet getting interested in the people we’re reading about. That’s the way it is in this case. We don’t know what’s gone before and we don’t know what’s to follow.”