Case of the Footloose Doll (11 page)

“Entanglements?”

“Apparently not. Nothing formal. Very popular, therefore it’s hard to tell whether she’s playing the field or has her eye on some particular individual. Apparently, there was an affair back East, something that the folks were afraid might prove serious, and that’s the reason for postgraduate work at Stanford.

“I’m just beginning to get the dirt. Perry, and I’ll have more for you in a little while. But in the meantime I thought you’d like to know about Baylor.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Keep digging and keep in touch with us. I think I’ll go out to the Vista del Camino Hotel and try for an interview.”

“No chance,” Drake said. “He had a press interview at the plane, then he ordered everything shut off. No phone calls, no interviews. Nothing.”

“Any exceptions?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know. The house dick over there is a friend of mine. I might be able to find out.” ‘Find out and call me back,” Mason said. “I’m interested.”

The lawyer hung up the phone and Della Street drew a cup of coffee from the electric percolator.

“Listen in on the extension?” Mason asked. She nodded. “Take notes?” Again she nodded.

Five minutes later Drake again called on the unlisted telephone. “Now look. Perry,” he said, “you’re going to have to protect me on this. I got it from my close friend, the house detective. It would cost him his job if anyone knew there had been a leak coming from him.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said.

“Baylor has shut off all telephone calls. Everything. His suite is completely isolated. There’s even a guard at the door. He has, however, left instructions that if a Mr. Howley tries to get in touch with him, the call is to be put through immediately, no matter what hour of the day or night.”

“Howley, eh?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“Who’s Howley, do you know?”

“Can’t find a thing in the world about him. All I know is Baylor is sewed up tight except for Howley. And Howley is to be put through the minute he picks up a phone.”

“Is Howley arriving at the hotel?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know. Instructions are for action, the minute Howley shows up. I gather that he’s probably coming in on a plane or something and Baylor is waiting for him.”

“But you don’t have anything definite on that? That’s just a hunch?”

“Hunch, hell! It’s a deduction,” Drake said.

“All you have is the deduction?”

“That’s right.”

“Why should Baylor be taking all the precautions?” Mason asked. “It would seem to indicate that he expects to become center of interest somehow.”

“He is a center of interest,” Drake said. “He’s a big shot.”

“But he doesn’t ordinarily take all those precautions against disturbance?”

“He doesn’t ordinarily have bursitis and—probably he’s working on a big business deal. I don’t know. All I can do is get the facts and relay them to you. You’re going to have to do your own thinking.”

“No more deductions?” Mason asked.

“Not after the cool reception I got on the other one.” Mason laughed. “Don’t be so sensitive. Keep working, Paul.” Mason hung up the telephone, looked at Della Street thoughtfully, said, “Try to reach our client, Della. Perhaps the police haven’t taken her out of circulation. In that event, they’ve probably completed their questioning and we might be able to get her on the line.”

 Della Street put through a call, got no answer, so called the manager of the apartment house, asked for Fern Driscoll in Apartment 309, said, “Just a moment please,” then turned to Mason. “The manager says Miss Driscoll left with two men and asked the manager to hold all mail.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “hang up.”

Della Street said, “Thank you. I’ll call later,” and hung up.

Suddenly Mason turned to his secretary. “You sit here and hold the fort, Della. I’m going over to the Vista del Camino Hotel.”

“Be careful,” she warned.

Mason nodded.

Mason left the office and went directly to the Vista del Camino Hotel. In the lobby the lawyer picked up one of the room phones, said, “Connect me with Mr. Harriman Baylor, please.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Baylor’s phone has been temporarily disconnected. He has left orders that he’s not to be disturbed.”

“Well, he’ll talk with me,” Mason said. “I’m supposed to call him.”

“I’m very sorry, but there are to be absolutely no—Just a moment. What’s the name, please?”

“Howley,” Mason said.

Mason heard the sound of swift whispers, then the operator said, “Just a moment, Mr. Howley. If you’ll hold on, I’ll see if we can get Mr. Baylor.”

A few moments later a rich baritone voice said cautiously, “Hello. This is Harriman Baylor speaking.”

“Howley,” Mason said.

Baylor’s voice showed excitement. “Where are you now?”

“In the lobby.”

“Well, it’s about time,” Baylor said. “They had the damnedest report that you’d been—Wait a minute. How do I know you’re Howley?”

“As far as that’s concerned,” Mason said, “how do I know you’re Baylor?”

“What’s your other name, Howley?”

“Look,” Mason said, “I’m not going to stand down here in the lobby where anyone can buttonhole me at any minute and have you give me a catechism. I’ll come up there, then I’ll answer your questions. I—”

“What’s the other name I know you by?” Baylor interrupted. Mason hesitated. Suddenly the receiver clicked at the other end of the line and the line went dead.

Mason immediately left the room phone, sauntered across the lobby to the cigar stand and waited.

A house detective hurried to the bank of house phones, looked around, then made a survey of the lobby.

Mason lit a cigarette, strolled over to one of the reclining chairs, settled back and waited.

A bellboy, closely followed by the house detective, paged “Mr. Howley.”

Mason made no move. He waited for five minutes, then went to the hotel drugstore, entered a phone booth and again called the number of the Vista del Camino Hotel.

“Will you please tell Mr. Harriman Baylor,” Mason told the operator who answered, “that Mr. Howley is calling?”

The operator hesitated perceptibly, then after a moment a man’s voice came on the line. “Hello?” the voice asked. 

“Mr. Baylor?” Mason asked. 

“That’s right,” the voice said. 

“Howley,” Mason told him. 

“Where are you now, Mr. Howley?”

“Not too far away,” Mason said. 

“If you tell me where you are, I’ll—”

“Look here,” Mason said indignantly “this isn’t Baylor. Who the hell is that?”

“Now, just a minute! Take it easy! Take it easy!” the man’s voice said.

“We’re filtering Mr. Baylor’s calls. Someone tried to get through to him by using your name. Just a minute, and I’ll put Baylor on.” A moment later another voice came on the line. “Hello,” the voice said cautiously. 

“Baylor?” Mason asked. 

“Yes.”

“Howley,” Baylor said promptly, “What was the other name you gave me, Howley?”

“Why, hell! You know,” Mason said.

“I know,” Baylor retorted. “But I want to be sure that this is the man I think it is. What was the other name?”

“Carl Harrod,” Mason said promptly.

“All right,” Baylor told him, relief in his voice, “that’s better! There was a report around that you were seriously incapacitated, that—Never mind, I’ll discuss that with you. Now, I want you to come up to my suite. It’s the presidential suite, Suite A. But you can’t get near the door of the suite because it’s guarded. Walk up to Room 428 and knock on the door. Knock twice, wait a moment, knock twice more, then wait a moment, and knock once. Do you understand that?”

“Perfectly!” Mason said.

“All right, I’ll see you there. How long will it take you to get there?”

“About two minutes,” Mason told him.

“Did everything go all right?”

“Everything went fine.”

“All right. Come on up and we’ll discuss arrangements.” Mason hung up the telephone, sauntered into the hotel, took the elevator to the fourth floor, walked down the corridor. Presidential Suite A was at the end of the corridor, and the entrance was blocked by a man who was over six feet tall, bullnecked, and built like a wrestler. The man eyed Mason suspiciously. Mason paid no attention to him but turned sharply to the left to the door of 428 and knocked twice, waited a moment, knocked twice more, waited another moment, then knocked again.

The door was opened by a stocky, quick—moving individual in the early fifties, a man with a high forehead, bushy eyebrows, dark piercing eyes, and an assertive manner.

He recoiled as he saw Mason. His left hand holding the doorknob tried to slam the door shut.

Mason lowered his shoulders, pushed the door open and walked into the room.

“I’m Perry Mason, Mr. Baylor,” he said. “I’m the attorney for the young woman in the Rexmore Apartments. I think you and I had better have a talk.”

Baylor stepped back, said, “Perry Mason, the lawyer?”

“That’s right.”

Baylor said, “I’m sorry, but you can’t come in, Mason. I can’t see anyone!”

“Except Carl Harrod,” Mason said. “For your information, Carl Harrod is dead.”

“I . . . I . . . ”

Mason kicked the door shut. “A great deal is going to depend on decisions you and I reach during the next few minutes, Mr. Baylor. I want to get some cards on the table.”

“I don’t want to talk with you. I’ve been warned about you.” Mason said, “I don’t know how long you’re going to have to discuss matters before the police get here. For your information, Mr. Baylor, I happen to know that Carl Harrod was blackmailing you. Carl Harrod was stabbed in the chest with an ice pick. He died a short time ago. He made a statement to me that Fern Driscoll had stabbed him with the ice pick, but under questioning admitted it could just as well have been your daughter Katherine that had pushed the ice pick into his chest.

“Now, I don’t care how big you are or how powerful you are; Harrod’s death is going to make complications. I don’t know all the ramifications of what happened to Fern Driscoll, but it seems to me, you and I had better exchange a few facts before the newspapers come out with a sensational story.”

“The newspapers!” Baylor exclaimed.

“Exactly,” Mason said.

Baylor hesitated, suddenly said, “All right. You win!” He extended his left hand and shook hands with Mason. “You’ll pardon the left hand,” he said. “My bursitis has become suddenly worse. Come on in and we’ll talk things over.”

Baylor led the way across Room 428, which was fitted up as an ordinary hotel bedroom, through a connecting door and into the reception room of a luxurious suite.

“This is my daughter, Katherine,” he said. “Katherine, this is Perry Mason, an attorney, who is representing Fern Driscoll.” Katherine Baylor jumped to her feet, her eyes wide with some emotion Mason was unable at the moment to classify. She moved over to give him her hand. “Mr. Mason,” she said. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mason said. And then added quietly, “My client has told me about you.”

“Oh!” Kitty said.

“All right,” Baylor said. “Sit down. Mason. Perhaps we’d better put some cards on the table.”

Mason selected a chair, stretched his long legs out in front, crossed his ankles.

“Now, what’s all this about Harrod having been killed?” Baylor asked.

“Stabbed with an ice pick,” Mason said. “At first Harrod said Fern Driscoll had pushed the ice pick into his chest. Then it became clear that your daughter Katherine may have done it.”

“What!” Katherine Baylor exclaimed. “Why, that’s absolutely absurd! I slapped his face and—”

“Suppose you let Mr. Mason and me do the talking, Kitty,” Harriman Baylor said. “I’d like to find out a little more about Mason’s position in the matter, and exactly what it is he wants.”

Mason said, “I want facts. I want to know exactly what your relations were with Harrod. I want to know why you came in here and closed off every means of communication providing that no one could reach you except Carl Harrod who was to call you under the name of Howley.”

“And I want to know how you got that information,” Baylor snapped.

Mason smiled. “I’m afraid there’s some information I can’t give you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“That’s not a very good way to start playing your hand,” Baylor said.

“It’s my way,” Mason told him.

Baylor colored. “I don’t let men dictate to me, Mr. Mason.”

“Probably not,” Mason said. “However, we have one essential difference, Mr. Baylor.”

“What’s that?”

Mason grinned. “I don’t care how often they put my name in the newspapers, and I don’t care how large the type is.” Baylor’s aggressive personality visibly collapsed.

“Precisely what do you want, Mason?”

“First,” Mason said, “I want to know all about Fern Driscoll.” Baylor said, “There isn’t any reason why you shouldn’t know everything I know. Miss Driscoll was employed as my son’s secretary. It is possible that some romantic attachment developed. It is even possible that Miss Driscoll was foolish enough to think a person in my son’s position could have married her, and she may even have dared to think such an event would take place.”

Mason regarded the man thoughtfully. “You say she dared to think that?”

“She may have.”

“You consider such an event improbable?”

Baylor flushed and said, “I consider it utterly impossible.”

“May I ask why?”

“There are certain reasons that I don’t think we need to go into at the present time, aside, of course, from the obvious difference in social status.”

“You consider that important?” Mason asked.

“Quite important!” Baylor said drily.

The telephone rang. Evidently some sort of an agreed—upon signal: a long, two shorts and a long.

Katherine Baylor moved toward the phone, but her father shook his head, strode across the room, picked up the telephone, said impatiently, “Hello. Yes. What is it now?”

He listened for several seconds, then said, “Of course, I’ll talk with him. Put him on.”

A moment later he said, “Hello, Sergeant. Yes, this is Harriman Baylor.”

Again he listened for a few seconds, then said, “She is here with me. We will of course do everything in our power to co-operate, but any such charge as that is absolutely absurd! Now, I want to be certain of one thing: Are you positive that the man is dead?”