The Case of the Grinning Gorilla

“I cabled the only address that I had as soon as I was advised of Benjamin’s death and a cablegram of condolence was received. Then, as soon as I knew about the will, I cabled him giving him a general terse summary of the terms.”

“And you’re received a reply from him,” Mason said, “suggesting that you are to contest the payment of any money to Josephine Kempton because she is guilty of the murder, and therefore under the law cannot take anything from the estate regardless of what provisions are in the will.”

“I haven’t as yet received any such cablegram. I have received a cablegram instructing me to file the will for probate, and to use my best judgment in representing his interests.”

“Well, you will receive such a cablegram,” Mason said, “and in the event you don’t receive it, as a lawyer who is interested in protecting the interests of his client, you’ll call his attention to that provision of the law and suggest that if Josephine Kempton should be convicted of murder, he’ll profit to the tune of fifty thousand dollars.”

“For certain considerations my client might be willing to forego raising the point.”

“You’ll tell him he has the right to take that fact into consideration?”

“What would you do if you were an attorney in my position?” Hardwick asked.

“I’d tell him, of course,” Mason said. “Now then, I’ll ask you one. What would you do if you were an attorney representing Josephine Kempton, and some attorney who manifestly wanted to see her convicted of the murder of Benjamin Addicks, wanted to question her in private to see if he couldn’t find some grounds for pinning another murder on her?”

Hardwick said, “If I were certain of my premise, which you aren’t, I’d decide what was for the client’s best interests and advise her accordingly.”

Mason said, “You can either put all your cards on the table or go to hell.”

“You’ve gotten tough with the wrong man,” Hardwick said, coldly. “I’m not going to hell — but your client is — now.”

He stalked out of the office.

“Good heavens,” Etna said, “you certainly told him off, Mr. Mason.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “He told us something that was to our advantage — and he’s suspecting something we don’t even know about yet.”

“Of course,” Etna said, “he has a lot of background information we don’t have, and that gives him a terrific advantage.”

“All right,” Mason said, “let him try and keep it. It’s a race now. We’re off to a bad start, but we move fast.”

He turned to Della Street. “Get me Paul Drake on the line, Della.”

When Della Street nodded, Mason took the telephone, said, “Paul, I’m in a rat race. I want some fast action. Helen Cadmus knew more about Benjamin Addicks than any other person except Addicks’ own lawyer.

“She knew something that’s worrying this lawyer. I want to know what it was. Benjamin Addicks apparently was a bachelor. He was along in middle age, but he was stocky, vigorous, virile. I want to find the woman... How the hell do I know what woman? The woman. And when you get the numbers on those phone calls that went through to the yacht, check the numbers and if any are the numbers of hotels or auto courts, rush operatives out there with photographs and see if Addicks was shacked up with some babe.”

Mason slammed up the phone.

James Etna said, “Aren’t you rather jumping at conclusions, Mason? Everyone says Addicks had no women in his life.”

Mason grinned. “Just because some people are liars, Jim, is no reason why we should be fools.”

Chapter number 13

Gertie closed and locked the door to the entrance room promptly at 5:00. By 5:30 Della had the outgoing mail arranged in a pile, and Gertie helped her with stamping the envelopes. Then Gertie went home.

Della Street walked into Mason’s private office.

“Tired, Della?”

“Not particularly. How about you?”

Mason smiled. “I’ve been reading diaries until I’m dizzy. Can you take some more?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“We’ve got to find out what’s in those Cadmus diaries.”

“But we’ve done that.”

“No, we haven’t. We’ve read the lines. Now we have to see what’s written between and behind the lines.”

A knock sounded on the door of the outer office, a long peremptory knock.

“Shall I see who it is?” she asked.

Mason shook his head. “Let it go, Della. We’ve had enough emergency stuff and enough after-hours work.”

She sat down at her secretarial desk. Mason came over to place his hip on a corner of the desk. He put his hand over hers. “Nice to have you around,” he said.

“Nice to be around,” she told him, smiling up at him.

The knock on the outer door became a steady tattoo.

Mason said, “Whoever’s trying to get in that outer office seems to be pretty certain someone’s here, Della. That’s a continued, persistent knocking. Better see who it is.”

Della Street hurried through to the outer office, opened the door. Mason heard her exchange a few words, then she came back with a late edition of the afternoon paper. On the paper had been written, “Mr. Mason. Compliments of Sidney Hardwick. I want you to see that I am a fast worker.”