Case of the Footloose Doll (4 page)

“I mention this in case you should consult with some private detective agency, a lawyer, or even, in fact, the police. All I am asking for is a signed statement as to what happened. I would like to have you tell me this in your words.

“Anyone will tell you that is a customary procedure in cases of this sort.“Thank you very much, Miss Driscoll. I’ve enjoyed our little visit. I’ll see you again. Good night.” Harrod eased himself out of the door.

Mildred stood watching the closed door with sickening apprehension.

She had, indeed, burned her bridges.

What Harrod evidently didn’t know as yet, but would probably find out, was about the forty hundred-dollar bills in Fern Driscoll’s purse.

In view of her actions, it would now be impossible to explain how the fire had started. Harrod quite naturally assumed she had rifled the other girl’s purse and had then started the fire to conceal the theft.

Either in the identity of Mildred Crest, who had stolen four thousand dollars from Fern Driscoll, or in the borrowed identity of Fern Driscoll, who had stolen some five hundred dollars from Mildred Crest, she was between two fires.

And, in the background, was the possibility of her being charged with first-degree murder.

Chapter 3

DELLA STREET, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, said, “There is a young woman employed by the Consolidated Sales people down the hall who wants an appointment. She says it will only take a few moments and she’d like to run in and talk with you whenever it’s convenient. She says she can get away for ten or fifteen minutes whenever we phone.”

“Say what it’s about?” Perry Mason asked.

“Only that it was a personal matter.”

Mason looked at his watch, then at his appointment schedule, said, “These things that take only fifteen or twenty minutes quite frequently take an hour, and you don’t like to throw a girl out right in the middle of her story. We have a half-hour, though . . . Give her a ring, Della. Ask her if she can come in right away. What’s her name?”

“Fern Driscoll.”

“Do you know her?”

“I don’t think so. She says she’s seen me in the elevator. I think she’s new with the company.”

“Give her a buzz,” Mason said, “tell her I can see her right away if she wants to come in now. Tell her that’s with the understanding it will only take twenty minutes; that I have another appointment.” Della Street nodded and went to the telephone.

A few moments later she was back saying, “She’s coming in right away. I’ll go to the reception office and meet her.”

“Skip the preliminaries,” Mason said, “getting her name, address and all that. We’ll get them when she comes in. I want to hear her story and rush things along as much as possible.”

Della Street nodded, went to the reception office and within less than a minute was back. Turning to the young woman she had escorted into the office, Della Street said, “This is Mr. Mason, Miss Driscoll—Fern Driscoll, Mr. Mason.”

“Sit down. Miss Driscoll,” Mason said. “You’re working for the Consolidated Sales and Distribution Company, I believe.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is your residence, Miss Driscoll?”

“309 Rexmore Apartments.”

“What did you want to see me about?” Mason asked. And then added in a kindly manner, “I specialize mostly in trial work and a good deal of it is criminal work. I think perhaps you’re in the wrong law office, but I may be able to help you get in touch with the right man.” 

She nodded briefly, said, “Thank you,” then went on, “you’ll have to pardon my dark glasses. Ever since I came to California some two weeks ago I’ve been having eye trouble—I hitchhiked and I feel as if the retina of my eyes became sunburned. Did you happen to read in the paper some two weeks ago about a Mildred Crest of Oceanside who was killed in an automobile accident?”

Mason smiled and shook his head. “These automobile accidents are a dime a dozen. They are usually all grouped together on an inside page. Was there something special about Mildred Crest’s death?”

“I was riding with her when she was killed.”

“I see,” Mason said, eying her sharply. “Were you hurt?”

“Fortunately I was only bruised a little. I was sore for a day or two, but that was all.”

Mason nodded. “Mr. Mason,” she said, “so that you can understand the situation, I have to tell you certain things. 

“I lived in Lansing, Michigan. I wanted to disappear for reasons of my own. I can assure you I haven’t violated any laws. I just wanted to get away where I could begin all over again. I was restless and nervous. I had sufficient funds to buy a ticket to any place I wanted to go, but the point was I didn’t know where I wanted to go. I was drifting aimlessly. I was hitchhiking.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“I went to Phoenix, stayed there for a few days, then went to San Diego, stayed there for only a few hours, got a ride out of San Diego and got as far as a little place called Vista and I was, for the moment, stranded there. It was about . . . oh, I don’t know, seven-thirty or eight o’clock in the evening. It was dark and this Mildred Crest drove up.”

“You knew her?” Mason asked.

“No, I was simply waiting there at the service station for a ride. You see, a young woman on the highway is a little different from a man. A man will stand out by a boulevard stop and try to thumb a ride. Anyone who stops is a good ride. But not many people stop.

“However, a young woman on the highway has plenty of rides. Almost every car stops and offers her a lift, but—well, I don’t care to play it that way. I like to be at a service station where I can size up the person and then ask if I may ride.”

“So you asked Mildred Crest for a ride?”

“Yes.”

“And what happened?”

“I sensed at the time that Mildred Crest was running away from something, that she was very much upset and—well, for instance, I asked her where she was going and she said, ‘Away.’“

“So what did you do?”

“Well, that was so exactly my own case, I asked her if I could go along with her, and she said, ‘All right.’ I don’t know. I think we might have confided in each other after a while. I had troubles of my own and she certainly had plenty on her mind.

“However, we drove down to Pala and then turned on the road going up from Pala and there was an accident.”

“What happened?”

“There was an accident. Another car met us right on a hairpin turn. I tried to avoid—I mean, it was impossible to avoid the other car entirely. It was going too fast. It just barely sideswiped us, just a little bit, but enough to put the car out of control and over the embankment. The car went down and Mildred, I guess, opened the door and tried to get out of the car before it went over, but she didn’t have time. The door was unlatched and she was halfway out when the car went over. She struck her head against a rock and—Well, she died instantly.”

Mason thought for a moment. “Who was driving the car?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “At the time, I was.”

“How did that happen?”

“Well, after we started out we talked a little bit and I could sense that Mildred was emotionally upset. She asked me if I drove and I said I did and she started to cry and tried to wipe the tears from her eyes while she was driving. So I offered to take the wheel and she said perhaps I’d better for a little while.”

“Did you pick the roads or did she?”

“She told me where to go.”

Mason said, “If you went from Vista to Pala and then turned at Pala and started back up the grade, you were just doubling back on yourself and—”

“I know. I think eventually she intended to return to Oceanside, but—well, as it afterward turned out, there were reasons why—”

“Oh, I remember the case now,” Della Street interjected. She turned to Perry Mason and said, “You may remember it. Chief. We commented briefly about it. The girl had just learned her fiance was wanted for embezzlement. The autopsy showed she was pregnant.”

“Oh, yes,” Mason said, looking at his visitor with renewed interest.

“She didn’t tell you anything about this?”

“No. I think she would have, but, as I say, there wasn’t time. We were just getting acquainted when the accident happened.”

“All right,” Mason said, “why did you come to me?”

“Because I . . . I was trying to disappear. I certainly didn’t want my name in the paper and I was afraid that, if the newspapers published that Fern Driscoll of Lansing, Michigan, was in the car, there would be an exchange item, or however it is they work those things, and the Lansing paper would get hold of it and—Well, you know the way they do, publish a little paragraph under headlines: ‘LOCAL GIRL INVOLVED IN CALIFORNIA TRAFFIC ACCIDENT.’ I just didn’t want that. I wanted to keep out of the whole thing.”

“So what did you do?” Mason asked.

She hesitated a moment, said, “I—well, I’m afraid I was negligent. I am responsible for the car catching fire.”

“How did it happen?”

“I found that I wasn’t hurt. I squirmed out through the window on the left-hand side of the car. The door wouldn’t open but the window was down. I was pretty badly shaken up and I guess pretty rattled. I struck a match and took stock of the situation. I wanted to see if I could help the other girl.”

“Mildred?”

“Mildred.”

“And what happened?”

“As soon as I saw the way she was lying, half-in and half-out of the door and he head—I . . . I just became terribly nauseated. It was frightful. She had been half-out of the car and her head had been—Well, it was smashed! Just a pulp!”

Mason nodded.

“After that it took me a little while to get myself together and, of course, all of that time gasoline was running out of the car. Apparently it was leaking out of the tank at the rear of the car and trickling down toward the front. I didn’t know just what was happening and I’m afraid I’m responsible for not appreciating the danger. Anyhow, I struck a second match am that second match burned my fingers, so dropped it. There was a flash and I jumped back and the whole thing started blazing into flame.”

“You didn’t have your hair or eyebrows singed?” Mason asked.

“No, I was holding the match down and—Well, that’s the way it was.”

“So then what did you do?”

“I had my purse with me, fortunately. I—My suitcase, with everything I own, was in the car. I started running from the fire and then I found myself at the bottom of a little canyon . . . And then I guess I got in something of a panic. There was a rattlesnake that I almost stepped on and—Well, by the time I got up to the road, I just wanted to get away from there without having my name in the papers or anything, so—Well, that’s what I did.”

“You didn’t report the accident to anyone?”

She shook her head.

“How long ago was that?”

“About two weeks, not quite. It was the twenty-second.” Mason’s eyes narrowed.

“And some development has caused you to come to see me?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A man by the name of Carl Harrod called on me last night. He’s an investigator for the insurance company. From the position of the car and the manner in which the doors were jammed, it was apparent that only the person who was in the driver’s seat could have squirmed out through the window. My suitcase was in the car, it wasn’t entirely consumed by the fire. The fire burned uphill and some of the things in the front of the car weren’t even damaged. A motorist with a fire extinguisher saved the car. Mildred’s purse wasn’t burned up . . . Well, anyway, this man Harrod had put two and two together. He found out that Mildred had picked up a hitchhiker at Vista and then he traced the hitchhiker back from Vista, which wasn’t too difficult to do.

“You see, a woman hitchhiker who is—” She broke off to smile at Mason and said, “All right, I’ll use the term good—looking, naturally attracts some attention. I had given my right name to one of the people who picked me up and then there was the clue of the suitcase and—Well, that’s the way it was.”

“And what did Harrod want?” Mason asked.

“He wanted me to sign a statement.”

“In regard to the accident?”

“Yes.”

“Did you do it?”

“No.” ‘Why?”

“Because I . . . I have the feeling Mr. Harrod wants that statement not on behalf of the insurance company but—I think he wants to do something with it.”

“Blackmail?” Mason asked.

“I wouldn’t be too surprised.”

“Did he make any overtures along that line?”

“He intimated something like that. Later on, he was very careful to point out that he actually had asked for nothing except a written statement.”

Mason drummed with the tips of his fingers on the top of his desk. His eyes were squinted thoughtfully.

“So,” she asked, “what do I do?”

Mason said, “You’ve gone this long without reporting an accident. That is bad. But sit tight and wait for another twenty-four or forty-eight hours. If Mr. Harrod calls to see you again, I want you to tell him only what I shall tell you to tell him.”

“What’s that?”

“You have a pencil?”

She shook her head. Mason nodded to Della Street.

Della Street handed the young woman a shorthand notebook and pencil.

“You take shorthand?” Mason asked.

“Oh yes.”

“All right, take this down,” Mason said. “Here is what you tell Mr. Harrod. Simply say, quote, Mr. Harrod, I have consulted my attorney, Mr. Mason, about all matters in connection with your previous visit. Mr. Mason has advised me that, if you call on me again, I am to ask you to get in touch with him. So, therefore, I ask you to call Mr. Perry Mason, who is representing me in the matter. If his office doesn’t answer or if it is night, call the Drake Detective Agency and leave word with Mr. Paul Drake. Mr. Mason is my lawyer. Aside from that, I have nothing to say. I don’t care to discuss the matter with you. I don’t care either to confirm or deny any deductions you may have made. I am, in short, referring you to Mr. Mason for all information concerning the matter under discussion.” Mason watched the pencil fly over the page of the notebook with deft, sure strokes.

“You’re evidently a pretty good stenographer,” Mason said.

She smiled. “I think I am. I’m fast and accurate.”