The Case of the Mischievous Doll

“All right,” Mason told him, “let’s hog traffic.”

They hurried to the elevator. The officer escorted them to a curb where another officer was sitting behind the wheel of a police automobile, the motor running.

Perry Mason held the rear door open for Della Street, assisted her in, jumped in beside her and almost immediately the car whipped out into traffic.

“Good heavens,” Della Street said under her breath as they went through the first intersection.

“It’s their business,” Mason told her reassuringly. “They drive in traffic all the time and they’re in a hurry.”

“I’ll say they’re in a hurry,” Della Street said.

The car wove its way through traffic, crowded signals; twice the driver turned on the red light. Once he gave a light tap on the button of the siren. Aside from that they used no official prerogatives except the skill born of long practice and a deft, daring technique.

There had been no need for Mason’s admonition about conversation. The occupants of the automobile had been far too busy to engage in any small talk. As the car glided in to the reserved parking place at Police Headquarters, the driver said, “Just take that elevator to the third floor. Tragg’s office.”

“I know,” Mason said.

The elevator operator was waiting for them. As they entered, the door was slammed shut and they were taken directly to the third floor without intermediate stops.

Mason exchanged a meaningful glance with Della Street.

As the operator came to a stop they left the elevator, crossed the corridor and opened the door to Tragg’s office.

A uniformed officer sitting at the desk jerked his thumb toward the inner office. “Go right on in,” he said.

“Tragg there?” Mason asked.

“He said for you to go in,” the officer said.

Mason crossed over to the door, held it open for Della Street, then followed her into the room and came to an abrupt stop.

“Good heavens, Miss Ambler,” he said, “you certainly had me worried. Can you tell me what happened to—”

Della Street tugged at Mason’s coat.

The young woman who sat in the chair on the far side of Lt. Tragg’s desk swept Mason with cool, appraising eyes, then said in a deep, throaty voice, “Mr. Mason, I presume, and I suppose this young woman with you is your secretary I’ve heard so much about?”

Mason bowed. “Miss Della Street.”

“I’m Minerva Minden,” she said. “You’ve been trying to see me and I didn’t want to see you. I didn’t know that you had enough pull with the police department to arrange an interview under circumstances of this sort.”

“I didn’t either,” Mason said.

“However,” she said, “the results seem to speak for themselves.”

Mason said, “Actually, Miss Minden, I didn’t have any idea that you would be here. Lieutenant Tragg called me and asked me to come to his office. He said that if he wasn’t in we were to go to the private office and wait. I assume that he intends to interview us together.”

“I would assume so,” she said, in the same low, throaty voice.

“All right,” Mason said, turning to Della Street, “is this the woman who was in our office, Della?”

Della Street shook her head. “There are some things that only a woman would notice,” she said, “but it’s not the same one.”

“All right,” Mason said, turning to Minerva Minden, “but there’s a startling resemblance.”

“I am quite familiar with the resemblance,” she said. “In case you’re interested, Mr. Mason, it has been used to try and blackmail me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Dorrie Ambler feels that she is related to the relative from whom I received a large inheritance. She has been importuning me to make her a very substantial cash settlement and when I told her I wouldn’t do anything of the sort, she threatened to put me in such a position that I’d find myself on the defensive and would be only too glad to as she put it — pay through the nose in order to get out.”

“You’ve seen her?” Mason asked.

“I haven’t met her personally but I’ve talked with her on the telephone and I have— Well, frankly, I’ve had detectives on her trail.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t think I care to answer that question, Mr. Mason.”

“All right,” Mason said, “that’s not the story I heard.”

“I’m satisfied it isn’t,” she said. “I’m satisfied that Dorrie Ambler, who apparently is a remarkably intelligent and ingenious young woman, and who is being masterminded by a very clever manager, has arranged a series of circumstances so that she would have a very convincing background against which to reassert her claims.

“I may tell you, Mr. Mason, that that stunt she pulled following me to the airport, of getting clothes that were the exact duplicates of the clothes I had, of waiting until I had gone to the rest room, then firing a revolver loaded with blank cartridges and dashing into the rest room, jumping into the shower compartment and closing the door, was a remarkably ingenious bit of work.

“If I hadn’t kept my head I would have found myself in quite a sorry situation.”

“Just how?” Mason asked.