The Case of the Queenly Contestant

“Call her back,” Mason said. “Tell her to wait right there until I get there. We’ll be there within twenty minutes. She can tell these people that Perry Mason is coming to represent her. That probably will frighten them out. In case it doesn’t, we’ll see what they have to say when we get there.”

Mason slammed down the receiver, said to Della Street, “Grab a notebook, Della; let’s go.”

The lawyer paused, looking at Garland.

“All right, Garland,” he said; “you’ve been casing an apartment in the Rosa Lee Apartments. A woman known to you as Ellen Smith is in there, and some people have forced their way into the apartment.”

“That probably will be Duncan Z. Lovett,” Garland said. “He’s clever and he’s fast. He has a private detective on the job who knows as much as I do. We were casing the apartment together. You’re bucking money in this thing, Mason, and you’re bucking brains.”

“All right,” Mason said; “if you want a free ride, come along. I may want a witness to what’s going to happen.”

“Remember I’m biased,” Garland said.

“You’re biased,” Mason told him, “but you’re not going to commit perjury and you’re not going to testify to something that didn’t happen. I have an idea you’re a square shooter.”

Garland said, “All right, since we’re putting cards on the table, Mason, I’ll tell you this. I try to shoot square, but I have loyalty to the people I represent and I’m tricky.”

Mason grinned, said, “Come on, let’s go. I’m tricky myself.”

“Jarmen Dayton is already out there casing the apartment,” Garland said.

“Fine; we’ll pick him up and let him come in. We need an audience. The more the merrier. You can go with us in my car. I’m going to push pretty hard on the throttle.”

Garland got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Seven

Mason parked his car at the curb in front of the Rosa Lee Apartments and slid from behind the steering wheel.

His two passengers jerked open the doors and got out. Della carried a briefcase filled with notebooks and ballpoint pens.

Stephen Garland looked swiftly around. “There’s Dayton,” he said. “Do you want him?”

“We want him,” Mason said.

Garland gave a signal.

The heavyset private detective opened the door on the side of the curb and stepped to the sidewalk.

Mason walked up to him. “We’re going up, Dayton. You want to go with us?”

Dayton hesitated a moment, then said, “Why not?” He looked inquisitively at Garland.

“Mason is hep,” Garland said. “I think we’re starting a brand-new deal. Let’s each one of us go his own way from here on in.”

“Suits me,” Dayton said.

The four of them entered the apartment house, climbed the stairs to the Drake apartment where Drake’s operative was living under the name of Ellen Smith.

Mason knocked on the door.

The door was opened a cautious two inches, then held in place by a chain.

Drake’s operative looked out at them, then, her face showing relief, threw the chain back and opened the door.

“Come in,” she invited.

Mason said, “I am Perry Mason. These men are Stephen Lockley Garland and Jarmen Dayton. The young woman is my secretary. Miss Della Street.”

A wiry, pinched-faced man in the fifties, with a sharp-pointed nose and beady black eyes which were quite close together, came rushing forward with extended hand.

“Mr. Mason,” he said, “this is really a pleasure and an honor. I am Duncan Z. Lovett of the firm of Lovett, Price and Maxwell. I am representing Brace Jasper and Norman Jasper, who are half brothers of Harmon Haslett, who has recently been lost at sea in a tragic shipwreck.

“I am investigating a fraud. I know of your reputation. I know of your outstanding ability, and I also know that you are too ethical to want to be mixed up in a fraud. I am glad indeed that this woman telephoned for you to come.

“I know the two gentlemen with you. I am glad to meet you. Miss Street. And may I introduce this lady with me? She is Maxine Edfield. She resides in Cloverville. She is — and has been for some time — a client of mine. I have represented her in several matters.

“You will note that I am giving you all of the facts.

“Now, then, if we can all sit down, I would like to have Miss Edfield tell you a story. I think when she finishes her recital we will have the atmosphere cleared and will perhaps be in a position to talk business and perhaps to become good friends.”

Maxine Edfield, a woman of about forty — with sharp gray eyes; an alert, aggressive manner; a spare frame; and a long, thin mouth which even copious lipstick couldn’t quite turn into a rosebud — said in a harsh, metallic voice, “Hello, everybody.”

“Tell them your story, Maxine,” Lovett said.

“All of it?” she asked.

“All of it.”

Maxine Edfield said somewhat defiantly, “I’m a working girl.”

Mason smiled encouragingly.

“So am I,” Della Street said with a friendly smile.

Maxine said, “I never had enough money to put me through a secretarial school or to get any kind of a decent education. I’ve waited tables. I’ve worked up to being a cashier at the Cloverville Café. It’s a pretty good job.”

“And how do you happen to be here?” Mason asked.