“Come on in, Lone,” Cullens said, without getting up. “Have a chair and make yourself at home. This is Perry Mason, the lawyer. Your diamonds have gone bye-bye.”
For a moment, Mrs. Bedford stood in the doorway, surveying the occupants of the room with dark, languid eyes. Slightly heavier than Della Street, she possessed an attractive figure, which showed to advantage through a rust-colored frilled blouse and gray tailored suit. Her hat matched her blouse, as did her slippers, whose high heels served to emphasize her short foot with its high instep. She crossed over toward a chair, paused for a moment as she saw Mason’s open cigarette case, raised her eyebrows in a gesture of silent interrogation, and, at his nod, helped herself to a cigarette. She leaned forward for his light, then went over to the chair and said, “Well, now that’s something. Tell me about it, Aussie.”
“I can’t tell you much until I get the details,” Cullens said. “I’m getting them now — or trying to. George Trent is just what I told you, one of the best gem men in the country. His work is dependable and reasonable. He’s thoroughly honest. He has one vice, and only one vice. He’s a periodical drunkard. When he gets drunk, he gambles, but he does even that methodically. He puts all of the gems in the vault, leaves himself a limited amount of money in his pocket, mails in his car keys, and then goes out and gets drunk and gambles. When he loses his money, so he can’t buy any more liquor, he sobers up, comes home and goes back to work. This time, he seems to have inadvertently taken your stones with him. I gave them to him Saturday afternoon. He started his drink Saturday night. That, my dear, is the bad news in a nutshell.”
She inhaled a deep drag from the cigarette, exhaled the smoke in twin streams through appreciative, distended nostrils. “Why the lawyer?” she asked, jerking her head toward Perry Mason.
Cullens laughed. “Virginia Trent, over here — George’s niece — thinks that her Aunt Sarah has become suddenly seized with kleptomania. She thinks the aunt took the stones while her mind was a blank and did something with them.”
“What’s the matter?” Lone Bedford asked the niece in a rich, throaty voice. “Been reading Grimm’s fairy tales, dearie?” Virginia Trent drew herself up indignantly. Her mouth tightened into a formless gash.
“Not fairy tales,” Cullens answered easily, “psychology — fixations, complexes and all that stuff. The girl studies, if you know what I mean — Freud, sex, crime...”
“It happens,” Virginia Trent said acidly, “that my aunt has surrendered in public and in the presence of witnesses to these impulses of kleptomania. She was caught shoplifting less than four hours ago.”
Lone Bedford raised inquiring eyebrows in the direction of Austin Cullens. Mason noted that it was evidently an habitual gesture with her, noticed also that they were good-looking eyebrows, and that the mannerism served to direct attention to eyes which were undoubtedly beautiful. Nor did Lone Bedford give any indication that she failed to realize the beauty of her eyes, or the graceful lines of the trim leg which her short skirt disclosed to advantage.
Cullens said, “That’s just a stall, Lone. If you saw Sarah Breel for just ten seconds, you’d realize that it’s a stall. When the foreman started checking over the work orders this morning, he found your gems were missing. Sarah knew at once George had them. So she started the old cover up — bless her soul! It’s meant well, but it isn’t going to get us any place.”
A huge emerald on Mrs. Bedford’s hand showed to advantage as she flicked ashes from the end of her cigarette with a graceful little finger. “Just what,” she asked, “is going to get us any place?”
Cullens said, “I’m going to get out and start looking for George Trent. He’s in a gambling house somewhere, beautifully plastered. Your stones are wrapped up in tissue paper and carried in a chamois-skin belt next to his skin, and he’s completely forgotten that he has them. But, if he gets drunk enough and desperate enough, he may hock them with some gambler.” Cullens turned to Mason and said, “How about it, Mr. Mason, can we claim embezzlement and get them back if he does?”
“Probably not without a lawsuit,” Mason said. “It will depend somewhat on circumstances, somewhat on the manner in which the stones were given to him, and by whom.”
“I gave him the stones,” Cullen said, “but we don’t want any lawsuits, do we, Lone?”
She shook her head and flashed Mason a smile. “No one makes any money out of lawsuits,” she said, “except lawyers.”
Mason matched her grin, “And they don’t make half enough,” he told her.
Cullens ignored the byplay. “Okay, Lone, what do we do?”
She studied the tip of her cigarette meditatively. “Suppose he’s hocked them,” she said musingly. “How much do you s’pose he’d have been able to raise on them, Aussie?”
“Not over three or four thousand at the most,” Cullens said. “Being drunk, wanting the money for gambling, and with the strong possibility of a kick-back, it’s a cinch no gambler would take a chance for more than a fifth of their clear market value.”
She turned to Perry Mason. “How much would a lawsuit cost?” she asked.
Mason grinned. “Is three or four thousand, at the most, the answer you’re waiting for?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and once more the emerald flashed as her hand made a gesture of dismissal. “That settles it, Aussie. Find Trent. If he has the stones, get them back. If he hasn’t, find out where he’s hocked them, and pay off the loan. That’s cheaper than a lawsuit — and faster.”
She turned to Virginia Trent and said, “I understand exactly how you feel. Poor child! I suppose you were afraid of me. You needn’t have been. After all, it’s not your fault.”
Virginia Trent said, “I’m not a child. I’m an adult. What’s more, I still feel there’s something back of my aunt’s conduct, that there’s some emotional upset which...”
Cullens got to his feet. “Well, come on, everybody,” he interrupted, “we have work to do, and there’s no use taking up more of Mr. Mason’s time.”
He shepherded them toward the exit door. Virginia Trent, once more, started to talk about psychology as she stepped out into the corridor. Lone Bedford flashed Cullens a roguish glance, then said to Virginia Trent, “And what do you know about suppressed emotions, dearie?”
Virginia Trent drew herself up in rigid dignity. “I wasn’t discussing suppressed emotions,” she said with calm finality.
Mason, watching Della Street hold the door, ready to close it behind the departing visitors, could have sworn that the rapid flicker of Lone Bedford’s right eyelid as she smiled a farewell at him was not accidental.
When the door had clicked shut, Mason grinned at Della and said, “And only this noon I was talking about people being mediocrities, marching inanely through life.”
“A combination of characters like that,” Della Street said, “should be able to scare up something.”
“Not a mystery, I’m afraid,” Mason rejoined. “They’re all so beautifully normal. Aside from Virginia Trent, there isn’t anyone who has so much as a nerve.”
“Where do you suppose the aunt is?” Della Street asked.
Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Having seen her in action,” he said, “I’m inclined to agree with Cullens’ explanation. I think she’s trying an elaborate cover-up for her brother. But, just as a concession to the vagaries of a whimsical fate which has catapulted us into the situation, Della, we’re going to find out. Call up police headquarters. See if she’s been arrested or is in an emergency hospital anywhere. Check on automobile accidents and ambulance calls.”