Case of the Footloose Doll (21 page)

“Who?” Mason asked.

“He didn’t want to give his name,” Gertie went on. “He’s terribly distinguished-looking, long, wavy, dark hair, that sweeps back from a beautiful forehead. Delicate features, and—”

“Who the devil are you talking about?” Mason interrupted.

“The man in the case,” she said, in a hushed voice. “Forrester Baylor!”

“The devil!” Mason exclaimed.

“I don’t care what they say, Mr. Mason. I know that he loved her. He’s been living years during the past few days. The lines of suffering have etched character on his face, and—”

“Get your mind back out of the clouds,” Mason said brusquely. “Send him in, Gertie, and don’t go home. Stick on the switchboard. If any newspaper reporters call, lie like a trooper.”

Gertie whirled with a swirl of skirts, showing a flash of well-rounded, nylon-clad legs.

“Well,” Della Street said, as Gertie rushed from the office. “The plot thickens.”

A moment later, Gertie was back. “Mr. Mason, Mr. Baylor,” she said in a hushed voice.

The man who moved slowly past Gertie was tall, straight-backed, slim-waisted, and looked as though he hadn’t slept for a week. The dark eyes seemed lackluster, although the face had breeding and character.

“Mr. Mason,” he said in a low voice, and his long, strong fingers gripped the lawyer’s hand.

“My confidential secretary, Miss Street,” Mason said.

Forrester Baylor bowed.

“All right,” Mason said, “sit down. Let’s straighten out a few things. Who told you to come here?”

“No one.”

“Who knows you’re here?”

“No one.”

“Your father?”

Forrester Baylor shook his head. “My father forbade me to leave Lansing.”

“Your sister?”

“Kitty is a good egg. She’d help me out, but I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”

“Where are you staying?” Mason asked. “At what hotel are you registered?”

“I’m not registered anywhere as yet. I checked my bag in a locker at the airport and took a taxi to the depot. Then I took another taxi here. I didn’t want to be followed.”

“You’re traveling under your own name?”

“No, under an alias, and I’ve taken great pains to elude the newspaper reporters in Lansing.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to tell you what I’ve found out.”

“What have you found out?”

“That my father, doubtless with the best intentions in the world, was responsible for Fern’s leaving. He manipulated things quietly behind the scenes so that life in the employ of his company became unbearable for her.“I also want to tell you that Fern was a decent, straightforward, square-shooting girl. She wasn’t pregnant.”

“How do you know?”

“If she had been pregnant, she’d have told me. And she didn’t tell me. She . . . she wasn’t that kind.”

Mason watched the man narrowly. “Sit down, Mr. Baylor. Make yourself comfortable. Unfortunately, it’s easy to get fooled about women.”

“But I’m not fooled about Fern Driscoll. I . . . I realize now how very, very much I loved her.”

“It’s a little late for that now.”

“Mr. Mason, I want you to put my father on the stand.”

“Why?”

“I want certain things brought out. He’s the one who gave her four thousand dollars to leave Lansing.”

“How do you know?”

“I know because I didn’t give her that money. I know because I was getting ready to ask her to marry me, and my father knew it. My father bitterly disapproved of Fern, not as an individual, but purely because of what he felt was her lack of social position. She was a working girl, a secretary. Dad wanted me to marry an heiress.

“My father came up the hard way. He had to work for everything he got. He has known poverty. He’s known snubs. And now he’s come to know snobs. In fact, he’s in a fair way to become one himself.

“I was interested in Carla Addis. She’s clever, in a brittle, highly artifi-cial sort of way. She’s a sophisticated product of modem wealth. I’ll admit there was a fascination there, a glitter and a glamor, and it was easy to be swept along. There were times when I didn’t know what I wanted. I was badly mixed up.

“When Fern left, I suddenly realized what she meant to me. I tried to find her. I searched in vain. I thought she was still in Lansing somewhere. Then my father told me about her death, and about the autopsy and I was . . . I was crushed! I can’t believe it. I can’t bring myself to believe anything like that about Fern.”

“Autopsies don’t lie,” Mason said.

Baylor shook his head. “Things just don’t add up. However, that’s neither here nor there. It’s too late to do anything now. But I do want you to know that my father must have given her that four thousand dollars, and heaven knows what he told her in order to get her to leave.”

“You don’t trust your father?”

“I admire him. I’m fond of him. I love him as a father and, in a matter of this sort, I wouldn’t trust him for a minute.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to put my father on the witness stand. I want you to make him admit that he is responsible for Fern’s leaving.”

“And what good would that do?”

“It would establish a lot of things.”

“It wouldn’t help my client,” Mason said. “But I’m glad you came in. I wish you’d called several days earlier. As far as that’s concerned, I wish—” He broke off as Paul Drake’s code knock sounded on the door.

Mason hesitated a moment then said to Della Street “Let Paul Drake in.” Della opened the door.

Mason said, “Mr. Drake, this is Forrester Baylor.” 

Paul Drake’s face promptly became a smiling, wooden mask. His eyes completely concealed any emotion. “How are you, Mr. Baylor? Pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking hands, his manner that of one who had just met a person who means only a new face and a new name.

‘I’m Forrester Baylor, the son of Harriman Baylor,” the young man said, apparently stung by Paul Drake’s casual attitude.

“Oh, yes,” Drake said. He nodded to Perry Mason. “Got some news for you, Perry.”

“What about?”

“About the four thousand dollars.”

“What about it?”

“It came from the Midfield National Bank in Midfield, Arkansas. The place was held up on the seventeenth by a slender, boyish-looking individual who stood in line and pushed the usual note through the cashier’s window. The note said to turn over all of the hundred-dollar bills, keep the hands in sight, not press the alarm, and to wait five minutes before reporting anything. You know, the usual type of note.

“The cashier passed over forty hundred-dollar bills. At first he thought it was a young man. Now, the more he thinks of it, he believes it was a young woman in men’s clothes. He never did hear the voice.

“The description matches that of Fern Driscoll.” 

Forrester Baylor lunged at Drake. “You lie!” he shouted. “You—” 

Drake, with the ease of long practice, slipped Baylor’s punch over his right shoulder.

Mason grabbed Baylor from behind, pinioned his arms to his waist.

“Easy does it! Easy does it!” Mason said.

“That’s a lie! That’s a dirty, despicable lie! Fern Driscoll wouldn’t do anything like that any more than . . . any more than you would.” Mason swung Baylor to one side, sent him spinning down into the big, overstaffed chair by the desk.

“Sit there!” he said, his voice cracking like a whip. “Control your damned emotions! Use your head. Give us some help. I want to know about Fern Driscoll. I want a photograph.”

Baylor, somewhat dazed, said, “She wouldn’t! She didn’t!”

“A picture!” Mason shouted at him. “Do you have a picture?” Almost mechanically, Baylor reached in his pocket, took out a wallet and opened it. The smiling portrait of a girl peered up at them from behind a cellophane window.

Mason grabbed the wallet.

“And,” Drake said, “we found Fern Driscoll’s car.”

“Where?” Mason asked.

“Wrecked at the bottom of a canyon between Prescott and Phoenix.”

“Anyone in it?”

“No one.”

“Baggage?”

“None.”

“Anything else?”

“The car apparently just ran off the road, tumbled down the canyon.

There’s no sign anyone was injured. The driver evidently escaped.” Mason’s eyes were hard. “So the car ran off the road and on the way down the driver not only escaped but dragged out her suitcase as well?” 

Drake grinned. “The local authorities don’t seem to have thought of that.”

“What time was the bank held up at Midfield?” Mason asked.

“Ten-thirty in the morning.”

Mason jerked the picture of Fern Driscoll out of Forrester Baylor’s wallet. “Paul,” he said. “I want you to have copies made of this picture. I want you to get a hundred men on the job. I want every newspaper to have a copy of this picture, and I want them to have the story of the bank stick-up in Midfield. You—”

Forrester Baylor came up out of the chair. Mason stiff-armed him back into the cushions.

“What’s the big idea?” Drake asked.

“Never mind the idea,” Mason said. “Get the hell out of here and get started before someone stops you. Cover every motel within a driving distance of three hours east and north of Midfield. Get rid of the lead and start moving. Show this picture. Get it in the press. Notify the F.B.I.”

“You’re playing right into the prosecution’s hands,” Drake protested.

“You—”

Mason, still holding Forrester Baylor in the chair, half-turned toward Paul Drake. “Get started before I fire you,” he said.

Forrester Baylor still struggling to get up said with low earnestness, “Mr. Mason, I’m going to kill you for this if it takes all the rest of my life to do it!”

Chapter 17

JUDGE BOLTON, sitting sternly upright, looked down upon the packed courtroom.

“The Court has seen the morning papers,” he said. “I am going to ask the spectators to refrain from any demonstration of any sort.

“The defendant is in court; counsel are present. The defendant was on the stand being cross-examined by Hamilton Burger. Will the defendant please resume her position on the stand.”

“Just a moment,” Hamilton Burger said. “I find that I have no further questions on cross-examination.”

“No redirect,” Mason said.

“Very well, Mr. Mason. Call your next witness,” Judge Bolton said.

“I will call Mr. Harriman Baylor as my next witness,” Mason said.

“What?” Hamilton Burger shouted, in sheer surprise.

“Mr. Harriman Baylor!” Mason said, raising his voice. “Mr. Baylor, will you come forward and take the stand, please?” 

Baylor jumped up and said, “I know nothing whatever about this case. I am only interested because—”

“You have been called as a witness,” Judge Bolton said. “You will come forward and be sworn.”

Hamilton Burger said, “If the Court please, I resent any attempt on the part of Mr. Mason to try and extricate himself by seeking to involve Mr. Baylor in a matter concerning which he knows nothing. I may state that I have personally interrogated Mr. Baylor in the greatest detail, and I am satisfied he knows nothing whatever concerning the facts of this case. I am satisfied that he does know certain matters concerning the background of Fern Driscoll, and it may be that the prosecution will want to bring out some of those facts when the case comes to trial in the superior court. But at this time, as part of the preliminary examination, there is nothing that Mr. Baylor knows which would be of the slightest value to the defense, and I feel that he should not be called as a witness.”

“The district attorney should know,” Judge Bolton said, “that the defense has it in his power to call any person he wishes as a witness. Mr. Baylor will come forward and take the stand. You will have an opportunity, Mr. District Attorney, to object to any specific question as it is asked.”

Baylor reluctantly came forward.

“Hold up your right hand and be sworn,” Judge Bolton said.

“If the Court please,” Hamilton Burger said, “Mr. Baylor is suffering from bursitis. It will be necessary for him to hold up his left hand.”

“Very well, hold up your left hand and be sworn,” Judge Baylor said.

“Just a moment,” Mason said. “If the Court please, I object to the district attorney giving testimony in this case.” 

Judge Bolton looked at Mason in surprise. “The district attorney has given no testimony in this case, Mr. Mason.”

“I respectfully beg to differ with the Court. The district attorney is making statements which are evidentiary in their character and are of the highest importance.”

“The district attorney said that Miss Street had committed perjury,” Judge Bolton said. “The Court would have rebuked the district attorney if any objection had been made at the time. However, the Court feels that the district attorney is unquestionably sincere and that his statement was made for the purpose of saving a hardworking woman from being arrested on a charge of perjury.”

“I am not referring to that,” Mason said. “I am referring to Mr. Burger’s statement that Mr. Baylor is suffering from bursitis and therefore cannot raise his right hand.”

“Why,” Hamilton Burger said angrily, “I’m not giving any testimony; I am merely explaining to the Court that such is the case.”

“How do you know it’s the case?” Mason asked.

“Why, Mr. Baylor . . . why, Mr. Baylor has been in my office. I have talked with him in detail. He has told me all about his trouble.” Mason grinned. “It now appears, Your Honor, that the district attorney is not only giving testimony before the Court, but that he is giving testimony which is founded purely on hearsay.”

“Just what is all this leading up to?” Judge Bolton asked.

Mason said, “Under the law, a witness is required to raise his right hand and have the oath administered. If this witness refuses to raise his right hand, I demand to know why he can’t raise his right hand.” Judge Bolton regarded Harriman Baylor. “You are unable to raise your right hand because of bursitis which is, I understand, a disease which affects the shoulder?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Or,” Perry Mason said, “is Mr. Baylor unable to raise his right hand because of an infection in the right arm due to the wound of an ice pick?”