The Case of the Mischievous Doll

“That,” Mason said, “makes sense. That’s what I’d do under the circumstances if she were my client, Paul. However, let’s go phone your office and see what the reports are.”

They drove half a dozen blocks before Mason found a gasoline station with a telephone booth which seemed sufficiently removed from the scene of operations.

Drake put through the call, came back and said, “Everything checks, Perry. She was whisked away from the courthouse by her attorney. She went into the telephone booth to make some jubilee calls, but he caught up with her after the first two and dragged her out of there. He put her in his car and personally drove her to Montrose. Presumably they’re both there now.”

“Who’s her attorney?” Mason asked.

“Herbert Knox,” Drake said, “of Gambit, Knox & Belam.”

“Old Herb Knox, huh?” Mason said. “He’s a smooth article. Tell me, did he act as her attorney when she received her inheritance?”

“I don’t know,” Drake said, “but I don’t think so. As I remember it she’s done a little shopping around with attorneys.”

“Well, she couldn’t have had a better one than Herbert Knox for this particular job,” Mason said. “He’s smooth and suave and a wily veteran of the courtroom.”

“All right, what do we do now?” Drake said.

Mason thought for a moment, then said, “We get busy on the telephone. Let’s call Minerva at her place in Montrose and see what we can get.”

“It’ll be an unlisted number,” Drake said.

Mason shook his head. “They’ll have two or three telephones, Paul. Two of them will be unlisted but there’ll be one telephone that’s listed. That will be answered by a secretary or a business manager but we can at least use it to get a message through to her.”

“Will getting a message through do any good?” Drake asked.

“I think it will,” Mason said. “I think I can convey a message which will make her sit up and take notice.”

Drake, who had been looking through the telephone book, said, “Okay, here’s the number. You were right. There’s a listed telephone.”

Mason put through the call and heard a well-modulated feminine voice saying, “May I help you? This is the Minden residence.”

“This is Perry Mason, the attorney,” Mason said. “I want to talk with Miss Minden.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mr. Mason, but I might be able to take a message.”

“Tell her,” Mason said, “that I know who fired the shots at the airport and that I want to talk with her about it.”

“I’ll convey that message to her. And where can I communicate with you, Mr. Mason?”

“I’ll hang on the line.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not possible. I can’t reach her that soon.”

“Why not? Isn’t she there?” Mason asked.

“I’ll call you later at your office. Thank you,” the feminine voice said, and the connection clicked.

Mason said, “Paul, there’s just a chance we can get out to her place at Montrose before Herbert Knox leaves. If I can talk with her, I may be able to clear up certain things and we may be able to get some information that will save Dorrie Ambler’s life. I don’t want to tell the police all that I know but I have a feeling that— Come on, Paul, let’s go.”

“On our way,” Drake said, “but I’ll bet you old Herb Knox won’t let you get within a mile of his client.”

“Don’t bet too much,” Mason said. “You may lose.”

They made good time over the freeways which at this time of the day were free of congestion and handling a stream of swiftly moving traffic which was a trickle compared to the masses of cars that would crowd through during the afternoon rush hour.

The Montrose estate of Minerva Minden was an imposing edifice on a hill, and Mason, driving up the sweeping graveled driveway through the beautifully landscaped grounds, swung his car into a parking place which contained an even dozen automobiles.

“Looks like there might be a lot of other people with the same idea,” Drake said.

“Probably some of them are reporters, some are employees,” Mason said. “You don’t know what kind of a car Herbert Knox drives, do you, Paul?”

“No.”

“I have an idea one of these cars may be his. I hope so.”

The men parked their car, went up the stairs to the broad porch. Mason rang the bell.

A burly individual who looked more like a bodyguard than a butler opened the door and stood silent.

“I would like to see Minerva Minden’s confidential secretary or business manager,” Mason said. “I am Perry Mason and I’m calling in connection with an emergency.”

The man said, “Wait there,” turned to a telephone in the wall and relayed a message into a mouthpiece so constructed that it was impossible for bystanders to hear what was being said.

After a moment, he said, “Who’s the gentleman with you?”

“Paul Drake, a private detective.”

Again the man turned to the phone, then after a moment hung up and said, “This way, please.”