The Case of the Queenly Contestant

“After the sentence had expired, after the embezzler had paid his debt to society and been released, if he went into business under another name, you couldn’t ferret him out, publish the story of his defalcation and his subsequent rehabilitation as news. That would be an invasion of privacy.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” the editor said, “but surely that’s not the case here. This is the case of a very beautiful young woman of whom the community is proud. There is nothing shameful about winning a beauty contest.”

“Publish all you want to about her winning the beauty contest,” Mason said, “but don’t go in for any twenty-year follow-up. I wish you’d have your attorney call me.”

“No, no, no,” the editor said, “that’s not going to be necessary, Mr. Mason. If you adopt this position, we aren’t going to consider the story important enough to risk a lawsuit. You say you’re representing a Hollywood producer? May I ask if Ellen Calvert is perhaps making a success in films — possibly under another name?”

“You may not,” Mason said.

“May not what?”

“Ask that question,” Mason said.

The editor laughed. “All right; you’ve aroused my interest and you’ve certainly injected an element of mystery into this. We had a lead that would have, I think, paid off. Ellen Calvert’s mother married Henry Leland Berry, and we can check the residence in the marriage license and...”

“And work yourself into a sizable lawsuit,” Mason said, “I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t want to intimidate you.”

“Well, I’m not easily intimidated.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Have your lawyer get in touch with me on the telephone. The name is Perry Mason, and...”

“You don’t need to tell me a second time,” the editor said. “You’re not entirely unknown, Mr. Mason. Many of your cases have been featured in the wire services. We’ve even published some of your spectacular courtroom cross-examinations.”

“All right,” Mason said, “let your attorney talk with me.”

The editor said, “Forget it; the story is killed. Thank you for calling, Mr. Mason.”

“O.K.,” Mason said. “Good-bye.”

Mason hung up, turned to his client. “The story is killed.”

“Mr. Mason,” she said, “I’m eternally grateful.”

She opened her purse, handed him a fifty-dollar bill.

Mason said to Della Street, “Get her address, Della; give her back thirty dollars with a receipt for twenty dollars as a retainer and for services rendered to date. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble. Miss Adair. If you do, get in touch with me.”

“Thank you very much,” she said, “but I cannot leave any address.” She arose with queenly dignity and gave Mason her hand.

“We should be able to reach you in case of complications,” Mason said.

The woman shook her head with quiet finality. “No address,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Mason told her. “I won’t try to reach you unless your own best interests require it, but I’ll have to have a phone number or something.”

Ellen Adair hesitated, then picked up a scratch pad, scribbled a telephone number, handed it to Della Street.

“Don’t let anyone know that number,” she said. “Don’t try to call me except in a real emergency.”

“We’ll be highly discreet,” Mason promised.

Ellen Adair took the receipt and the change Della Street gave her, included both Mason and Della Street in a gracious smile, and started for the door to the outer office.

“You can go out this way,” Mason said, indicating the corridor door of the private office.

Della Street held the door open.

“Thank you,” Ellen Adair said, and made a dignified exit.

When the door had closed, Mason glanced quizzically at Della Street. “Now there, Della,” he said, “is a story.”

“How much of a story?”

“We don’t know,” Mason said, “but the situation is like an iceberg: only a small fraction of it shows above the water.

“Here’s a girl who wins a beauty contest, who thinks she has the world at her feet, when suddenly she discovers she’s pregnant. That was twenty years ago, when people simply didn’t do those things and get away with them. Many a young woman committed suicide rather than face the so-called shame.

“Here was a young woman who took things in her stride, who held her chin up, who severed all connections with her friends and relatives and stood on her own two feet and developed a certain queenly air about her. She wouldn’t knuckle under to anyone.”

“On the other hand,” Delta Street said, “she never dared to get married. She probably felt she couldn’t marry without telling her prospective husband — and there, again, times have changed.”

Mason nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder,” he said, “what became of the baby.”

“It would be nineteen years old now,” Della Street said, “and... Chief, what do you suppose did become of the baby? That’s a story in itself.”

“She didn’t want us to ask that question,” Mason said, “so I didn’t ask it. She wanted the story killed. We’ve killed it.”

The lawyer looked at his watch and said, “And it’s just about time for my next appointment. The life of a lawyer is just one damn thing after another.”

Chapter Two