The Case of the Stuttering Bishop (12 page)

"What do you mean?" Mason asked.

"Just what I say. The police haven't been entirely asleep at the switch, and you left something of a back-trail yourself. The police can prove Brownley told you he was going to make a will which would put your client on the skids. They can trace you to a Western Union office where you sent a wireless to the Monterey and used a pay station telephone. They can prove you called Stella Kenwood's apartment where Julia Branner was staying.

"Now, after you telephoned Julia, she got a cab driver to take a letter to old man Brownley. Brownley read the letter and made some crack about having to go to the beach to get Oscar's watch back. He was excited as the devil."

"Did the cab driver give the letter to Brownley?" Mason asked.

"Not to the old man. He gave it to the grandson, and the grandson took it up. Old Brownley was asleep."

"Philip saw him read the letter?"

"That's right, and he said something to Philip about getting a watch back from Julia. Now the police figure she lured him down to the beach, climbed on the running board and gave him the works with a.32 automatic. She dropped the gun and beat it. An accomplice who was in on the play climbed into the car and drove it down to a pier, near which he had another car parked. He put the car in low gear, stood on the running board, opened the throttle, and jumped off. The car went into the drink."

"And I believe the car was still in low gear when they pulled it up, wasn't it?" Mason asked.

Drake, wiping his nose with his handkerchief, gave a muffled "Uh huh."

"And it's her gun," Coulter said. "She was carrying it under a permit issued in Salt Lake City."

Drake, sniffling, said, "What's more, they've got her fingerprint on the car window on the left-hand side. You see, Brownley was driving with the window rolled up because it was raining. When Julia came out, he rolled the window down to talk to her, but he didn't roll it all the way down. She stood on the running board, and hooked her fingers over the window and left some perfectly swell fingerprints on the inside of the glass. The cops got the car raised up before the water had eliminated the fingerprints."

Mason frowned. "Any chance she could have left her fingerprints on the car before Brownley started for the beach?"

"Not one chance in ten million," Drake said. "Now that's the gloomy side, Perry. Here's a silver lining to the cloud: There's a darn good chance this granddaughter who's living with Brownley is a phoney."

"Have you got any facts?" Mason asked.

"Of course I've got facts," Drake said irritably. "I don't know what they amount to, but they're facts. After Oscar's death the old man wanted to locate his granddaughter, so he got Jaxon Eaves to find her – or it may have been that Eaves came to old man Brownley and claimed that he could find the girl. I can't find out which is which.

"Now it isn't ethical for me to knock another detective agency, and it isn't nice to say anything against a man who's dead, but the story goes that old man Brownley agreed to pay twenty-five thousand dollars if Eaves could find the granddaughter. Now you figure twenty-five thousand bucks and add to it the possibility of a split on whatever inheritance the girl might get, and subtract that from Eaves' code of professional ethics, and you don't need to turn to the back of the book to find the answer. I will say this much for Eaves. He apparently tried his darnedest to locate the real granddaughter. He got as far as Australia, and then ran up against a brick wall.

"Now Eaves had a twenty-five thousand dollar bonus at stake, and that's a hell of a lot of money for a detective to pass up simply because he can't produce a granddaughter. And remember that about the only way you can prove an impostor ain't the real thing is to produce the real thing. Eaves had gone far enough with his investigation to become pretty well satisfied the real thing couldn't be produced. Now, of course the old man wanted proof before he paid over the money, but he also wanted to believe the girl was genuine. He wanted to be convinced. Eaves and the girl wanted to convince him. There wasn't anyone to take the other end of the argument. That's something like having a lawyer argue his case to the judge without having any witnesses or any lawyer on the other side."

Mason said thoughtfully, "You figure Eaves arranged with the girl to split any inheritance she'd get?"

Drake said impatiently, "Of course he did. Don't think Eaves would overlook a bet like that."

"And he's dead?"

"Uh huh."

Mason said slowly, "He wouldn't have kept this all to himself, Paul. There must have been someone else in on the deal, and now that Eaves is dead, there must be someone trailing along to get Eaves' cut out of the inheritance."

Drake nodded his head and said, "That's logical, but I can't prove anything."

"And then again someone who smells a rat might be trying to cut in, just on general principals," Mason pointed out.

"That's not so likely," Drake said. "It's a good set-up for a blackmailer, if the blackmailer knew what he was doing; but old Brownley wasn't a damned fool, and neither was Jaxon Eaves. They didn't make any splash in the newspapers when the girl moved in. She just slid quietly into the house and started living there, and Brownley casually announced she was his granddaughter, and after a while, the society editors started telling every time she went to Palm Springs and what she had on."

Mason nodded his head slowly. "Is she staying at the house now, Paul?" he asked.

"No, she left the place early this morning and went to the Santa Del Rios Hotel. You know a young kid like that didn't want to be around the house after the tragedy."

"That's what she says?" Mason asked.

"That's what she says," Paul Drake affirmed.

"Of course," Mason said, "she might have gone to the hotel so she could be more available for conferences with anyone who was interested in keeping her out of the murder mix-up."

Drake sneezed, wiped his nose and said, "I'm keeping her shadowed."

Mason started pacing the floor, his forehead puckered into a frown. Once or twice he shook his head dubiously, then paused in his pacing to stand with feet spread far apart and stare moodily at the detective. "That isn't going to get us anywhere, Paul," he said. "That's the sort of net which will catch all the small fish but let all the big ones get away."

"What do you mean?" Drake asked.

"If she's there in the hotel and some man is planning her campaign, that man will either be a detective or will be someone who was associated with Eaves when Eaves was alive. In other words, he'll know all about how detectives work and what to watch out for. He'll know darn well that we're having the girl shadowed, and he'll have some scheme figured out by which that shadowing won't do us any good, at least so far as he's concerned."

"Well," Drake said irritably, "what the hell can I do?"

Mason said slowly, "Nothing. We can't get in touch with the man we want by trying to follow his back trail." He turned to Della Street and said, "Della, could you get a henna pack that would make your hair look nice and red?"

"Yes. Why?"

Mason said moodily, "You could go into the Seaton girl's apartment just as though you owned the joint, finish packing up, take her trunk and suitcase and go to some new apartment."

"Wouldn't that put her in an awful spot?" Drake asked.

Mason, speaking in the moody monotone of one who is thinking out loud, said, "Breaking and entry, grand larceny and a few other things – if they could prove a criminal intent. If they couldn't prove criminal intent, there wouldn't be so much to it."

"But what would be the advantage?" Drake inquired.

"If the chaps who are watching that house," Mason said slowly, "are hired by someone who's interested in getting Eaves' cut out of the estate, they won't know anything about Janice Seaton except what they've been able to pick up from a description, and that'll mostly be a trim figure with red hair. When they see someone who answers that description checking out of the Seaton girl's apartment, they'll act on the assumption that two and two make four and won't ask her to go down to the bank to be identified."

Harry Coulter fidgeted uneasily in his chair and said, "You can't tell just what they're after, Mason. Looking at it one way…" He became silent in mid-sentence and shrugged his shoulders.

Della Street went to the closet, took out her hat and coat. "It'll take me about two hours to get that pack and get my hair dry, Chief," she said.

Mason nodded. The other two men stared at her in apprehensive silence.

Mason turned, entered the lobby, nodded reassuringly to the clerk on duty at the desk and said, "I have my key, thanks." He rode up in the elevator to the tenth floor and opened the door of 1028. He closed the door, dragged up a chair, climbed on it and stood where he could look over the transom at 1027, which was directly across the corridor.

A few minutes later, he heard the sound of an elevator door, quick steps in the corridor, and then the rumble of wheels made by a hand truck. Della Street, preceded by one of the porters who carried a suitcase in one hand, a bag in the other, walked down the corridor. The porter paused in front of Room 1027 and said, "This is it – the one you reserved over the telephone. If it isn't right, we can change it."

"I'm quite sure it will be all right," Della Street said. "I'm familiar with the apartments. I had a friend who lived here once."

The porter opened the door, stood aside for Della to enter, then followed her with the suitcase. A second or two later, an assistant trundled the trunk into the apartment.

Mason leaned his arm against the sill of the transom and eased his weight against the wood. He saw the porter and the assistant come out to the corridor with broad smiles on their faces, slowing the door behind them.

There followed a long, tedious wait, while Mason shifted his position and smoked cigarettes, the stubs of which he ground out against the wood of the transom. He stiffened to attention as he heard the clang of the elevator door and then steps in the corridor. A tall man walked swiftly down the carpeted hallway. There was something furtive in his manner, despite the fact that he made no attempt to tread lightly. The man paused in front of Mason's door, raised his knuckles as though to knock, then squinted his eyes as he stared up at the number, turned sharply about, and knocked on the door of apartment 1027.

Della Street's voice called, "Who is it?"

"The engineer to inspect your light connections," the man said.

Della Street opened the door. The man entered the room without a word. The door shut with some violence.

Mason finished his cigarette and looked at his wristwatch. Seconds ticked into minutes. After five minutes, Mason started to smoke another cigarette, but extinguished it after taking no more than two puffs. From across the hall came the sound of a faint thud, a mere hint of muffled noise. Mason jumped down to the floor, sent the chair spinning half across the room with a quick twist of his wrist, jerked the door open, crossed the corridor in three swift strides, and twisted the knob of the door of 1027. The door was locked.

Mason, moving with cat-like agility, stepped back, lowered his shoulder, and went forward in a charge. He flung his full weight against the locked door, like a football player with only seconds to play in the final quarter bucking the line. Wood splintered as the lock gave way. The door slammed back on its hinges, struck against a door-stop, and came to a shivering pause. Mason saw a pair of wildly kicking legs, the broad shoulders of a man bending over a slender, struggling figure. Bedclothes had been dragged out from beneath the studio couch on which the pair were struggling, and the tall man was holding a thick quilt down on Della Street's face, muffling her cries, slowly suffocating her. He jumped to his feet and whirled to face Mason, his mouth distorted with the intensity of his effort, as a sprinter's face is twisted into a spasm when nearing the tape. The man's hand raced back to his hip pocket. "Hold it," he warned. Mason came forward in a charge.

Della Street flung off the guilt. The tall man whipped blued steel from his pocket. Mason, some ten feet away, stared into the ominous dark hole which marked the end of a.38 caliber revolver. The man braced his shoulder as though against an expected recoil. His lips were twisted back from his teeth. Mason stopped abruptly, shifted his eyes to Della Street. "Are you hurt, kid?" he asked.

"Get your hands up," the man with the gun warned. "Back up against that wall. When you get there, turn to face it and hold your hands just as high as…"

Della Street doubled up her body, braced her heels and shot forward. The man jumped to one side, but not in time to keep her from grabbing the arm which held the gun. Mason took two jumps and swung his right fist, catching the man flush on the jaw. The tall man staggered backward. Della Street, clutching for the gun, slid down the man's arm and fell, face forward, on the floor. She jerked the weapon from the man's nerveless fingers. The tall man regained his balance, lashed out a vicious kick at Mason, and picked up a chair.

Della Street, rolling over, the gun in her hand, screamed, "Watch out for him, Chief! He's a killer!"

Mason feinted a rush, stopped abruptly.

The man whirled the chair in a vicious swing, tried to check the momentum of that swing when he realized Mason's rush was a feint, but spun half around, off balance. He dropped the chair, and grabbed for Mason as the lawyer rushed. Mason knocked the man's left aside and sent his fist crashing into the other's nose. He felt the cartilage flatten out under the impact of his fist, saw the man stagger backward and drop abruptly to his hips. The tall man tried to say something, but the words only bubbled through the red smear which had been his nose and lips.

Della Street climbed to her feet, Mason caught the man by the collar, jerked him upright, spun him around, and slammed him down on the couch where he had been struggling with Della. The lawyer's hands made a swiftly thorough job of searching the man for weapons. "All right, buddy," he said, "talk!"

The man made gurgling sounds, pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, carried it to his mutilated face, and lowered it, a sodden, red rag.

Della Street ran from the bathroom with towels. Mason handed the man one of the towels and said to Della, "Get some cold water." She brought in a pan of cold water. Mason sopped one of the towels in the water, held it against the back of the man's neck, dashed cold water over his face. The man said, in a thick, choking voice, the words sounding as though someone was holding a clothespin over his nose, "You've broken my nose."

"What the hell did you think I was trying to do," Mason asked, "kiss you? You're damned lucky I didn't break your neck!"

"I'll have you arrested for this," the man choked out.

Mason told him, "You'd find yourself facing a charge of assault with intent to commit murder. What did he do, Della?"

Della Street was half hysterical. "He got rough, Chief," she said, "and when I tried to blow the whistle to signal you, he jumped on me, punched the wind out of me, jerked the bedclothes out of the closet and tried to smother me. He was going to kill me."

The man groaned as he held towels to his face.

Mason said savagely, "I should have beaten your head in with a club; but, damn it, now I've spoiled your looks so Bishop Mallory can't identify you as the man who knocked him over the head."

Unintelligible words sounded thickly from behind the soggy towels.

Mason said, "Hell, we're not getting anywhere doing this. Let's see who this bird is." He calmly proceeded to go through the man's pockets. The man tried to push Mason away, then clutched his fingers for Mason's throat. Mason said, "Not had enough yet, eh?" and jabbed his fist into the pit of the other's stomach. As the struggle ceased he pulled objects from the man's pockets and handed them to Della Street. He discovered and passed over a wallet, a key container, a knife, a watch, a blackjack, a package of cigarettes, a cigarette lighter, fountain pen, pencil, and then a single key which had not been clipped into the leather key container. "Look 'em over, Della," he said, "and let's see who this bird is."

The man had fallen back on the couch now and lay perfectly motionless, only the hoarse sound of his sputtering breath, coming from behind the towels, showed that he was still alive. Della Street said, "He tried to murder me. I can tell the difference between someone just trying to smother my cries and someone really trying to kill me."

"All right," Mason said, "let's see who he is. Something tells me when we find out how this bird fits into the picture, we'll know a lot more than we do now."

Della laughed nervously as she opened the wallet. "My hand's shaking," she said. "Gosh, Chief, I was sc-c-ared."

Mason said, "We'll settle his hash. He's the one who knocked the bishop on the head. We can send him up for having that blackjack in his possession."

"Here's a driving license," she said, "made out to Peter Sacks. The address is 691 Ripley Building."

"Okay," Mason said, "what else?"

"Here are some business cards," she said, "State-Wide Detective Agency, Incorporated. Here's a license made out to Peter Sacks as a private detective."

Mason whistled.

"There are some papers in the wallet. Do you want those?"

"Everything."

"Here's a hundred dollars in twenties. Here's a wireless addressed to Bishop William Mallory, Steamship Monterey It reads: CHARLES W. SEATON KILLED SIX MONTHS AGO IN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT. I AM SETTLING HIS ESTATE. WRITING YOU IMPORTANT LETTER CARE OF MATSON COMPANY, SAN FRANCISCO. [Signed] JASPER PELTON, ATTORNEY."

"Now we're getting some place," Mason said. "What else, Della?"

"Here's a letter," she said, "from Jasper Pelton, an attorney in Bridgeville, Idaho. It's addressed to Bishop William Mallory, passenger on Steamship Monterey, care of Matson Navigation Company, San Francisco."

"Go ahead and read it," Mason said.

"My dear Bishop [she read], as the attorney settling the estate of Charles W. Seaton, I have received the radiogram which you sent Mr. Seaton, asking him to communicate with you immediately upon your arrival in San Francisco.

"Mrs. Seaton died some two years ago, leaving surviving her Charles W. Seaton and a daughter, Janice. Some six months ago Mr. Seaton was fatally injured in an auto wreck. He died within twenty-four hours after the injuries were received. At his bedside at the time of his death was his daughter, Janice, who is a trained nurse. I am mentioning this to you in detail because, during a lucid interval just before his death, Mr. Seaton very apparently tried to give us some message to be conveyed to you. He said several times, 'Bishop Mallory. Tell him… promise… don't want… read in newspaper…'

"I am giving you this verbatim because I took down as many of the words as we could understand. Unfortunately, Seaton was too weak to articulate clearly and most of his words were merely a rattle which could not be understood. He apparently sensed this and made several desperate attempts to get his message across, but died without being able to do so.

"At the time, I searched diligently throughout the United States for a Bishop Mallory, thinking that perhaps he might be able to shed some light upon what Mr. Seaton had been trying to tell us. I located a Bishop Mallory in New York and one in Kentucky. Neither of them remembered a Mr. Seaton, although they stated it might well have been possible Mr. Seaton had been in touch with them and they had forgotten about him, inasmuch as bishops come in contact with so many people.

"Mr. Seaton at one time had been in the possession of considerable property, but his financial affairs had become hopelessly involved within the last two years and, after deducting the claims which have been presented and allowed from the inventory value of the estate, it is doubtful if there will be much property to turn over to the daughter who is now, I believe, somewhere in Los Angeles. I do not have her present address, but will endeavor to get in touch with her through friends of hers and ask her to communicate with you. If you happen to be in Los Angeles you might locate her through the fact that she is a registered nurse.

"I am giving you this detailed information because I was a personal friend of Mr. Seaton, as well as a member of a fraternal organization in which he was active. I would like very much indeed to be able to send Janice something substantial from the estate, and if you know of any tangible or potential assets I would be glad to have you communicate with Miss Janice Seaton or with me."

"That all of it?" Mason asked.

"That's all of it except the signature. It's an awful scrawl."

"Well," Mason said, "we're commencing to get somewhere. Those are the papers that he…" He broke off as a voice from the door said, "What's coming off here?"

Mason whirled to face a dignified elderly gentleman whose close-cropped white mustache contrasted with the rich red of a florid complexion. The eyes were cold, steely and steady. From all appearances, the man might have been a banker, but there was an ominous menace in his eyes.

Mason said, "Where do you fit into the picture?"

"I'm Victor Stockton," the man said. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"No," Mason told him.

"You don't mean anything to me either."

Sacks, on the couch, had struggled to a sitting position at the sound of Stockton's voice. He pulled the bloody towels from his face. The frosty, gray eyes shifted from Mason to Sacks. "What did he do to you, Pete?" Stockton asked.