The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“You can wait down in the lobby,” the clerk told him.

Mason shook his head. “If we’re going to be put out, I’ll stay here and help the girls pack.”

“Oh, no you won’t.”

“Oh, yes I will.”

The clerk said, “Then I’ll stay.” He jerked his head at the girls. “Get your clothes on.”

Sally Madison said, “You’ll have to get out while I get something on. I’m sleeping in the raw.”

The night clerk said to Mason, “Come on. Let’s go down to the lobby.”

Mason shook his head.

Della Street flashed an inquiring glance at Mason.

The lawyer’s right eye slowly closed in a wink.

Almost imperceptibly, Della Street motioned her head toward the door.

Mason shook his head.

Della Street said suddenly, “Well, I’m not going to be put out of here at this hour of the morning. I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s bad enough to be disturbed in a night’s sleep without getting put out of a second-rate hotel because your boss wants to give you some orders. I’m going back to bed. If you don’t like it, call the police and see what they have to say about it.”

Della Street pulled back the covers, kicked off her slippers and jumped into bed. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Mason, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement.

The clerk said gloomily, “I’m sorry but it won’t work. I suppose if we hadn’t had any trouble before this you could bluff us out, but the way it is right now, you either get out or I call the police. Make up your mind which you want.”

“Call the police,” Mason said.

The clerk said, “Okay, if you want it that way, that’s the way you’ll have it.” He walked over to the telephone, picked it up, held the receiver to his ear, said, “Police headquarters,” and then after a moment, “this is the night clerk at the Kellinger Hotel on Sixth Street. We’ve got some disorderly tenants in Room 613. I’ve tried to put them out and they won’t go. Send a car around right away, will you? I’ll be up here in the room... That’s right. The Kellinger Hotel, and the room number is 613.”

The clerk slammed the receiver back into place, said, “I’m keeping my nose clean. Let me give you folks a friendly tip. You’ll just about have time to take a powder before the police get here. Take my advice and beat it.”

Perry Mason settled himself comfortably on the foot of Della Street’s bed. He took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled a note to Della Street. “Remember that the telephones are only connected through the downstairs switchboard. My best guess is it’s a bluff. Stick it out.”

Mason tore the page from his notebook, handed it to Della Street.

She read it, smiled, and settled back against the pillow.

Sally Madison said, “Well, I’m going to get out. You two can do whatever you want to,” and without more ado she jumped out of bed, snatched her clothes from the chair and ran into the little dressing room.

Mason casually leaned over and raised the pillow on her bed.

She had taken her purse with her.

Mason took a cigarette case from his pocket, handed Della Street a cigarette, took one himself. They lit up, and Mason once more settled back comfortably. From the little dressing room, came the sounds of Sally Madison hurriedly putting on her clothes.

Mason waited for nearly two minutes, then said to the clerk, “Okay, you win. Better get dressed, Della.”

Della Street slid out of the bed, adjusting the house coat around her. She picked up her overnight bag, entered the dressing room and said to Sally Madison, “Okay, Sally, I’m going with you.”

“You’re not going with me,” Sally Madison said, the sound of her shod foot hitting the floor. “Personally, I don’t like cops. As far as I’m concerned, you stuck around just a little bit too long. I’m on my way.”

She had dressed herself with the facility of a lightning change artist and now she stepped out from the dressing room ready for the street. Her hair was the only thing about her that bore witness to her hasty toilet.

“Wait a minute,” Mason said. “We’re all going.”

Sally Madison, clutching the purse under her arm with the tenacity of a football player holding an intercepted pass, said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, but I’m not waiting for anyone.”

Mason played his trump card. “Don’t let him bluff you,” he said. “There isn’t any dial on that telephone. It would have to be connected through the downstairs switchboard before he could call anyone. He was just pretending to call the police.”

The clerk, in a dispirited voice, said, “Don’t think I haven’t had to go through with this before. The minute I decided you were in 613, I plugged the line from this room through the switchboard to an outside line. I did that before I came up. Don’t ever kid yourself that telephone wasn’t connected.”

Something in the man’s manner carried conviction.

Mason said, “Okay, Della, do the best you can. I’m leaving you to take the rap. I’m going with Sally. Come on, Sally.”

Sally eyed him with disfavor. “Wouldn’t it be better if I went alone?”

“No,” Mason said, and piloted her to the door.

The clerk hesitated a moment, deciding what to do.