The Case of the Mischievous Doll

An atmosphere of tense expectancy hung over Perry Mason’s office until a few minutes before five o’clock when Perry Mason said, “Well, Della, I guess our client has decided she doesn’t need an attorney — and I’m hanged if I know why.”

“Do you suppose they’ve been interrogating her and won’t let her get to a phone to put through a call?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I can think of a lot of explanations but none of them is logical. However, I’m not going to worry about it. Let’s close up shop, go home and call it a day. We should have closed the office at four-thirty and— Wait a minute, Della, it’s almost five. Let’s tune in on the five o’clock newscast and see if there is some mention made of what happened. It’ll be worth something to find out whether I’m going to have to try to defend a client on a charge of shooting up an airport with blank cartridges.”

“About the only defence to that would be not guilty by reason of insanity,” Della Street said.

Mason grinned.

Della Street brought out the portable radio, tuned it in to the station and promptly at five o’clock twisted the knob, turning up the volume.

There were comments on the international situation, on the stock market, and then the announcer said, “The local airport was thrown into a near panic today when an attractive young woman brandished a revolver, shouted ‘This is a stick-up!’ and then proceeded to fire three shots before retreating into the women’s rest room.

“While police were organizing to storm the citadel, the woman in question casually emerged. Upon being identified by spectators and taken into custody by the police, the woman at first professed her innocence, then finally smilingly admitted that she had done the act as a prank. Frankly skeptical, police soon determined two facts which lent strong support to the young woman’s statement. One fact was that the revolver was loaded only with blank cartridges and apparently the three shells which had been fired were blanks. The other fact was that an inspection of the woman’s driving licence identified her as Minerva Minden, who has been designated in the past by at least one newspaper as the madcap heiress of Montrose.

“Miss Minden has from time to time paid visits to Police Headquarters; once for deliberately smashing dishes in a restaurant in order to get the attention of a waiter; once for reckless driving and resisting an officer; once for driving while intoxicated; in addition to which she has received several citations for speeding.

“The young heiress seemed to regard the entire matter as something in the nature of a lark, but Municipal Judge Carl Baldwin took a different view. When the defendant was brought before him to fix bail on charges of disturbing the peace and of discharging firearms in a public place, Judge Baldwin promptly proceeded to fix bail at two thousand dollars upon each count.

“A somewhat chastened Miss Minden said she would plead guilty to the charges, put up cash bail and left the courtroom. She is to appear tomorrow morning at nine-thirty for a hearing on her application for probation and for receiving sentence.”

The broadcaster then went on to discuss the weather, the barometric pressure and the temperature of the ocean water.

“Well,” Della Street said, as she switched off the radio, “would you say our Miss Ambler is a double of Minerva Minden, the madcap heiress?”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “The crime,” he said, “was evidently premeditated, and the driving licence and the thumbprint were most certainly those of Dorrie Ambler — so now the scar of the appendectomy may assume considerable importance.”

“But how?” Della Street asked. “What could be the explanation?”

Mason said, “I can’t think of one, Della, but somehow I’m willing to bet...”

The lawyer broke off as timid knuckles sounded against the door from his private office to the corridor.

Mason glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes past five. Don’t open that door, Della. Go out through the door from the reception room and tell whoever it is that the office is closed for the day, that I’m not available; to telephone tomorrow morning at nine o’clock and ask you for an appointment.”

Della Street nodded, slipped out of Mason’s private office into the reception room.

A moment later she was back. “Guess who?” she asked.

“Who?” Mason asked.

“Dorrie Ambler.”

“Did she see you?”

Della Street shook her head. “I just opened the door from the reception room into the corridor and started to step out when I saw her. I thought perhaps you’d want to talk with her even if it is after hours.”

Mason grinned, stepped to the door and opened it just as the young woman was dejectedly turning away.

“Miss Ambler,” Mason said.

She jumped and whirled.

“The office is closed,” Mason said, “and I was on the point of leaving for the night, but if it’s a matter of some importance I’ll see you briefly.”

“It’s a matter of great importance,” she said.

“Come in,” Mason invited, holding the door open.

Della Street smiled and nodded.