The Case of the Horrified Heirs (23 page)

"Good heavens," Mason said. He was silent for several moments, then said, "Thanks for the inspiration, Della."

She raised inquiring eyebrows.

"Did I suggest something?" she asked.

"Yes, what you said about typing."

"It's like piano playing," she said. "It strengthens the hand and fingers."

Mason said, "Our second question: Why did they want to frame a crime on Virginia Baxter. The answer I gave you is wrong."

"I don't get it," she said. "It's the most logical answer in the world. It seems that would be the only reason they could possibly have for framing a crime on her; then her subsequent testimony could be impeached if she had been convicted of-"

Mason interrupted with a shake of his head. "They didn't want to convict her," he said. "They wanted to be sure that she would be out of the way."

"What do you mean?"

"They wanted to get into her apartment, get her stationery and her typewriter."

"But they knew she was on a plane and-"

"They probably didn't know it in time," Mason interrupted. "She'd only been to San Francisco and had been away overnight. They had to be absolutely certain that they would have access to the typewriter and Bannock's stationery and be absolutely certain that Virginia wouldn't be home until they had done what they intended to do."

"And what did they intend to do?" Della asked.

Mason, his face flushed with animation as his mind speeded over the situation, said, "Good Lord, Della, I should have seen it all a long time ago. Did you notice anything peculiar about that will?"

"You mean the way in which she left the property?"

"No. The way in which the will was drawn," Mason said. "Notice that the residuary clause was on the first page… How many wills have you typed, Della?"

"Heaven knows," she said, laughing. "With all my experience in a law office, I've typed plenty."

"Exactly," Mason said. "And in every one of them, the will has been drafted so that the specific bequests are mentioned and then, at the close of the will, the testator says 'all of the rest, residue and remainder of my estate, of whatsoever nature and wheresoever situated, I give, devise and bequeath to…'"

"That's right," she said.

Mason said, "They had a will. The last page of it is authentic. Probably the second page is authentic; the first page is a forgery, typed on Bannock's typewriter and on his stationery, but typed within the last few days.

"There's a substitute page in that will-and it had to be done on the same typewriter that was used at Bannock's office and whoever forged it had to have an opportunity to use that typewriter."

"But who forged it?" Della Street asked.

"On a document of that sort," Mason said, "the person or persons who made the forgery are most apt to be the persons who benefited by the forgery."

"All four of the surviving relatives are beneficiaries," she said.

"And the doctor, the nurse and the chauffeur," Mason supplemented.

The lawyer was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then said, "There was one thing about the first case we had for Virginia Baxter that puzzled me."

"What was that?"

"The officer stating that he couldn't divulge the name of the person who had tipped them off, but that person had been thoroughly dependable in his prior tip-offs."

"I still don't get it," Della Street said.

"Whoever wanted to forge that will must have known a police informer, bribed him to give false information and arranged to plant the dope in Virginia's suitcase."

Mason pushed back his chair, jumped to his feet, looked around for their waiter.

"Come on, Della," he said, "we have work to do."

The waiter not being immediately available, Mason dropped a twenty-dollar bill and a ten-dollar bill on the table and said, "That will cover the check and the tip."

"But that's way too much," Della Street protested, "and I have to keep a record of expenses."

"Don't keep a record of these expenses," Mason said. "Time is worth more than keeping accurate records. Come on, let's go."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Paul Drake was seated in his cubbyhole of an office, at the end of a long, narrow rabbit-warren runway. Fourtelephones were on his desk. A paper plate with part of a hamburger sandwich and a soiled, greasy paper napkin had been pushed to one side.

Drake had a paper container filled with coffee in front of him. He was holding a telephone to his ear and, intermittently, sipping coffee as Mason and Della Street entered.

"All right," Drake said into the telephone, "stay with it as best you can. Keep in touch with me."

Drake hung up the telephone, regarded the lawyer and his secretary in dour appraisal, said, "Okay, here you come fairly reeking of filet mignon, baked potatoes, French fried onions, garlic bread and vintage wine. I've gagged down another greasy hamburger sandwich, and already my stomach is beginning to-"

"Forget it," Mason interrupted. "What did you find out about the motel, Paul?"

"Nothing that'll help," Drake said. "A man checked in all right, and his bed wasn't slept in. He's probably our man, but the name and address he gave were phony; the license of the car he wrote down was incorrect-"

"But it was an Oldsmobile, wasn't it?" Mason asked.

Drake cocked an eyebrow. "That's right," he said. "The car was listed as an Olds… They don't usually dare put a wrong make on the register when they're putting down the make of the car; but they do juggle the license numbers around, sometimes transposing the figures and-"

"The description?" Mason asked.

"Nothing worthwhile," Drake said. "A rather heavyset man with-"

"Dark eyes and a mustache," Mason said.

Drake raised his eyebrows. "How did you get all of this?"

"It checks," Mason said.

"Go on," Drake told him.

Mason said, "Paul, how many contacts do you have? That is, intimate contacts in police circles?"

"Quite a few," Drake said. "I give them tips; they give me tips. Of course, they wouldn't let me get away with anything. They'd bust me and take my license in a minute if I did anything unethical. If that's what you're leading up to, I-"

"No, no," Mason said. "What I want is the name of an informer police rely on in dope cases who answers the description of the man who checked in at the Saint's Rest Motel."

"That might be hard to get," Drake said.

"And again, it might not," Mason said. "Whenever they issue a search warrant on the strength of an informer's testimony, or even on the strength of a tip, they have to disclose the source of their information if they want to use the evidence they've picked up. For that reason, there's quite a turnover in informers.

"After an informer becomes too well known, he can't do any more work because the underworld has him spotted as a stool pigeon.

"Now, my best guess is that the man we want has been an informer, has had his identity disclosed to some defense lawyer who, in turn, has tipped off the dope peddlers, and the stool pigeon finds himself temporarily out of a meal ticket."

"If that's the case," Drake said, "I can probably find out who he is with the description we have."

Mason gestured toward the telephones. "Get busy, Paul. We're going down to my office."

"How strong can I go?" Drake asked.

"Go just as strong as you have to to get results," Mason told him. "This is a matter of life and death. I want the information and I want it just as fast as I can get it. Put out a dozen men if you have to; get calls through to everybody you know; tell them it's a matter of law enforcement and offer a reward if you have to."

"Okay," Drake said, wearily, pushing the paper coffee container to one side, picking up the telephone with his left hand, opening a drawer in the desk with his right, and taking out a bottle of digestive tablets.

"I'll call you as soon as I get anything or, better yet, come down to the office and report."

Mason nodded. "Come on, Della," he said, "we'll wait it out."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mason and Della Street were in the lawyer's private office.

Della had the big electric percolator filled with coffee, waiting for Paul Drake.

Mason paced the floor restlessly, back and forth, his thumbs hooked in his belt, his head thrust slightly forward.

At length he stopped from sheer weariness, dropped into a chair and gestured toward the coffee.

Della filled his cup.

"Why did you make all this to-do about the handbag?" she asked. "Do you have any information I don't?"

Mason shook his head. "You know I don't."

"But I haven't heard anything about fifty thousand dollars in cash."

Mason said, "There's something mighty peculiar about this case, Della. Why wasn't the handbag found in the car?"

"Well," Della Street said, "with a wild surf, a stormy night, a car toppled into the ocean-"

"The handbag," Mason said, "would be on the floor of the car. Or, if it fell out, it wouldn't drift far. I didn't say the handbag had fifty thousand dollars in cash; I asked Eagan if he didn't know it had fifty thousand dollars in cash. I wanted to inspire a host of amateur divers to search for that bag. I-"

Drake's code knock sounded on the door of Mason's office.

Della Street jumped to her feet, but Mason beat her to the door and jerked it open.

Drake, his face showing lines of fatigue, said, "I think I've got your man, Perry."

"Who is it?"

"A character by the name of Hallinan Fisk. He has been a long-time stoolie for the police in one of the suburbs but there was one case where the police had to disclose his name and one case where Fisk had to testify. Now he's a known informer. He thinks his very life is in danger. He's trying to get sufficient money from the police undercover fund to leave the country."

"Any hope of success?" Mason asked.

"Probably some," Drake said, "but the police don't have that kind of money. This is a dog-eat-dog world. It's not generally known, but the police in this outlying town sometimes pay off their informers by letting them cut corners.

"Fisk has been giving the police information on big-time stuff and also on dope. He's been making his money out of being a runner for a bookmaker. The police closed their eyes to this in return for tips on dope. Now that his occupation as a stoolie is out in the open, the bookmaker is afraid to have him around even though Fisk told the bookmaker he can virtually guarantee him freedom from arrest.

"The bookmaker is afraid that hijackers are going to lift his cash and that he may get himself bumped off. He's had a couple of anonymous telephone calls telling him to get rid of Fisk, or else; and in that business, that's all that is needed to make Fisk as desirable as a guy with smallpox."

"You get his address?" Mason asked.

"I think I know where he can be found," Drake said.

"Let's go," Mason said.

Della got up from her chair, but Drake motioned her down with his hand, "Nix," he said. "This is no place for ladies."

"Phooey," she said. "I know about the birds, the bees, the flowers and the underworld."

"This is going to be tough," Drake said.

Della Street looked appealingly to Perry Mason.

Mason deliberated a moment, then said, "Okay, come on, Della, but you're on your own… How are you fixed for protection, Paul?"

Drake pulled back his coat to show a gun in a shoulder holster.

"If the going gets tough," he said, "we can flash my credentials and, if it comes to a real showdown, we can use this."

"We're dealing with murder," Mason said.

They carefully switched out the lights in the lawyer's private office, locked the door, and went down to Drake's car.

Drake drove down to skid row, which at this hour was a blaze of nighttime activity.