The Case of the Stuttering Bishop (10 page)

"Then what happened?" Drake asked.

"Bixler started running, looking for a telephone or help of some kind. And I figured he was plenty rattled. He ran along the boulevard for a ways, then he went down to the car track, ran along it for a while, got mixed up on some sidings, came stumbling back, and saw my headlights. He said that must have been about five or ten minutes after the shooting. I picked him up, and he was rattled, so nervous he could hardly talk. He tried to direct me back to the place where the shooting had taken place and couldn't find it. We drove around and around, and I thought the bird was nuts. I'd have passed it all off as a pipe dream if I hadn't been trailing old Renwold Brownley myself and known that he must have been somewhere around.

"So this bird kept yelping he wanted to telephone the police, and I figured I might not be in so good with the law if I kept running around in circles, so I ran him up to a telephone and we called the cops."

"Then what happened?" Mason asked.

"The cops showed up and listened to what we had to say and…"

"You didn't tell 'em you'd been tailing Brownley, did you?" Drake interrupted.

"Not a chance," the man said scornfully as though resenting the question. "I said I was just driving along, trying to find a party who was on a yacht. I said I was working on a divorce case."

"They ask you who the party was, or anything of that sort?"

"Not yet. They will later. They were too busy then. I let on she was a blonde."

"Could the police find the car?"

"No; now this is the funny thing: They figured, and I figured, that this guy Bixler was all mixed up and confused and just hadn't pointed out the right spot, but then one of the cops, prowling around with a flashlight, saw a reddish stain in the rain water on the pavement at almost the exact spot where Bixler said he'd seen the shooting. They kept looking around, and picked up a.32 automatic cartridge. You know, one of the empty shells which had been ejected from the gun. That made things look different. It was still raining, but not as hard as it is now, and they were able to follow the little pools of red-tinted water in the surface of the road. The road's a little rough, and there was enough rain to wash blood from the running board of the car to the surface of the road, but not enough to wash away all the stains. The trail pointed in the direction of one of the docks, and they're figuring the car might have been run off the dock."

Mason said, "Where is this dock?"

"Drive on," the detective told them, "and I'll show you. I was just waiting here until you showed up, because this was the place I'd said I'd meet you. Go straight ahead until I tell you to turn."

Drake eased the car into motion, ran for several hundred yards and then the detective said, "Turn to the right here."

As soon as Drake turned, he encountered a string of parked automobiles. Several flood-lights gave a dazzling illumination. A portable searchlight had its beam focused on the water. A wrecking car, equipped with derrick and windlass, was parked at the edge of the wharf. The drums were winding slowly on a taut cable which stretched down into the darkness. From the flattened springs of the wrecking automobile, it was apparent it was lifting some heavy weight. Drake ran the car as far as he could, stopped and said to the operative, "Find a parking place, Harry. Come on, Perry."

The lawyer was already out in the rain. Together, the two men sloshed through the moisture underfoot. Sheeted rain lashed their faces. They joined a small knot of men who were clustered about a corner of the wharf, too engrossed in what they were watching to notice the two newcomers.

Mason peered over the edge. The cable, taut as a bowstring stretched down into the inky waters, the blackness of which was intensified by the glare of light which beat down through the rain-filled darkness, etching the tense faces of the spectators into a white brilliance. The power-driven winches of the huge wrecking car moved regularly. Occasionally the cable gave forth little snapping noises and sent showers of water spattering from its oily surface.

A man's voice yelled, "There she comes!"

A photographer pushed past Mason and pointed a camera downward. A flashlight puffed blinding illumination into the lawyer's eyes as the top of a coupe moved slowly upward from the rain-lashed waters. Men crowded and jostled. Someone yelled, "Don't raise it any farther until we get another hook on it! It'll weigh more when it gets out of the water. We can't afford to have it break loose."

Men in overalls, with grease-stained faces glistening in the searchlights, sunk a grappling hook into position. From somewhere on the wharf a donkey engine coughed into rhythmic explosions. A derrick arm swung outward. More flashlight photographs were taken. A voice yelled, "Go ahead!" Slowly, the coupe was raised, until it was entirely clear of the water. The right-hand door was jammed wide open. Water seeped out through the cracks in the floorboards, to strike the surface of the bay in splashing rivulets. The man who was in charge yelled, "We're going to raise it with this derrick and swing it inboard. Everyone look out!"

Mason was conscious of a long derrick arm which appeared in the darkness over his head. He saw rope slings being thrown under the body of the car, then winches rattled, a new cable snapped taut as it took up the strain, and the coupe was raised above his head and swung in over the wharf. Just as the car was about to be lowered, a uniformed policeman roped off a space, and the winchmen lowered the coupe within this roped enclosure.

Mason pushed against the rope, peered over the shoulder of an officer whose wet rubber rain coat rubbed against his chin. He saw policemen inspecting the interior of the car, heard one of them yell, "Here's the gun, a.32 automatic. There's still blood left on the seats." There was, Mason saw, no trace of a body.

Someone said, "Get the people off the wharf. Don't let anyone through unless he has proper credentials."

New cars had been arriving. Mason saw a uniformed man bearing down upon him. An officer's rain-spattered face grinned cheerfully as he said with firm insistence, "Go on, buddy, get back off the wharf. You can read about it in the papers." Mason permitted himself to be shoved toward the far end of the wharf. As he passed Paul Drake, he said, "Flash your badge, Paul, and try to get an earful. I'll wait in the car."

The lawyer walked through the driving rain until he found Drake's car, shook what moisture he could from his coat, and climbed into the interior, still steamy with the odors of human occupancy.

Five minutes later, Drake showed up and said, "Not a chance. They're searching for the body. It must have spilled out of the car. There's a bottle of whiskey in that side pocket, Perry."

"My God," Mason said, "never mind the body – why didn't you tell me about the whiskey sooner?" He pulled out the flask, uncorked it and passed it to Drake. "Age before beauty," he said.

Drake took three big gulps, passed the bottle back to Mason, who raised it to his lips and lowered it as Drake's operative came toward the car, the water in his shoes making an audible squish, squish with every step.

"Have a drink," Mason said, "and tell us what's new. Could you get anywhere with your badge, Paul?"

"They laughed at me," the detective said. "Then some hard-boiled dick wanted to know what my interest in the case was and whom I was representing, how long I'd been there, and what I knew about it and how I happened to be there. I figured it was a good time to beat it. How about you, Harry? What did you find out?"

The rubber-coated detective swiped the back of his hand across his lips and said, "I didn't try to force things any, but just stuck around and picked up a word here and there. I found out that it was Brownley's car, all right. The gearshift showed the car was in low gear when it went over the edge of the wharf, and the hand throttle was pulled wide open."

"The hand throttle?" Mason asked.

"That's right. They got the gun, and recovered a couple of bullets which had stuck in the cushions of the front seat. They figured one of the car doors was open when it took the plunge and the body spilled out. They're sending for divers and are going to search the bottom of the bay."

"Any better description of that woman than that she wore a white rain coat?"

"No description that's worth a damn," Harry said. "But they got the number on the gun, and they think they can tell more when they find the body. That taxicab driver evidently took some message to Brownley. Whatever was in the message made him excited as the very devil. It was urgent enough to bring him down here on the run, alone – and it would take something to do that to Renwold C. Brownley at two o'clock in the morning on a night like this."

Drake said, "I'll say so… Let's finish up that bottle of whiskey."

Mason said, "Naughty, naughty, Paul. You're driving. Harry and I will finish it."

On the third floor he could hear a sound of snoring from one of the apartments, the beat of rain on the roof, the sound of wind moaning around the corners of the building. He walked the length of the corridor and tapped gently on the door from beneath which appeared a faint ribbon of golden light. A woman's voice, sounding thin and frightened, said, "What is it?"

"A message from Miss Branner," Mason said.

There were several seconds of silence while the woman on the other side of the door seemed to be debating whether to accept this statement at its face value. Then Mason heard the sound of shuffling motion, and a bolt clicked back. A thin woman, clad in dressing gown and slippers, her hair done up in curlers, her somewhat sallow face devoid of make-up, contemplated Mason with anxious eyes.

"May I come in?" Mason asked.

She stood in the doorway saying nothing, watching him with a strained anxiety which showed only too well the state of her mind.

Mason laughed reassuringly and said, "After all, you know, I can't give this message to the whole apartment house, and I'm afraid the walls of this corridor are rather thin."

The woman said tonelessly, "Come in."

"I am wondering," Mason said, as he entered the room, "if you're the woman to whom I was to give the message. Would you mind telling me just who you are?"

"If Julia Branner gave you a message," the woman said, "it's for me. I'm Stella Kenwood."

"Oh, yes," Mason said, "you've known Miss Branner for some time, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Know anything about her past?"

"I know all about it."

"For how far back?"

"Ever since she came to the States."

"Know anything about her life in Australia?"

"Some. Why do you ask?"

"Because," Mason said, "I'm trying to help Miss Branner, and I'll want you to help me, and for that I'll have to know just exactly how well you know her."

"If she gave you a message for me," Stella Kenwood said, making an attempt to assert herself, "you can give it to me. There's no need for any questions."

"Unfortunately," Mason said, "the situation isn't quite that simple. You see, I'm afraid Julia's in trouble."

She gave a quick gasping intake of her breath, then sat down in a chair and said weakly, "Oh."

Mason made a quick survey of the apartment. It was a single-room affair with what was evidently a wall bed on the side to the left of the door. It was a bed which pivoted on a mirrored doorway, and now the full-length mirror was in place, indicating either that the bed had not been slept in or that the woman had arisen, made the bed and raised it into place before Mason had knocked. The apartment was heated by a gas heater molded in the form of a steam radiator covered with aluminum paint, but containing no vent. The atmosphere of the room was warm, steamy and devitalized Coming in from the open air, Mason was keenly conscious of the close, stale atmosphere. Moisture filmed the windows and the mirror. "Had the radiator going all night?" he asked. The woman said nothing, but stared at him with faded blue eyes in which her anxiety showed all too plainly. She was, Mason decided, somewhere in the late forties. Life had not been particularly kind to her, and under the impact of adversity she had learned to turn the other cheek until her manner showed an utter non-resistance. "What time did Miss Branner leave here?" Mason asked.

"Who are you, and why do you want to know?"

"I'm trying to help her."

"That's what you say."

"It's the truth."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Perry Mason."

"The lawyer she went to see?"

"Yes."

"Then I answered you when you called on the telephone last night?"

"Yes."

She nodded without any particular emphasis.

"Where's Julia now?"

"She went out."

"She went out right after I telephoned, didn't she?"

"Not right afterwards."

Mason stared steadily at her and she avoided his eyes.

"When did she go out?" Mason asked.

"Not until around quarter past one o'clock."

"Where did she go?"

"I don't know."

"How did she go?"

"In my car. I gave her the key to it."

"What kind of a car is it?"

"A Chevrolet."

"What did she go out for?"

"I don't think," Stella Kenwood said, "that I should be talking to you like this." But her voice failed to carry conviction and Mason merely waited expectantly. "You know something, don't you?" she went on. "Something's happened. You're keeping it from me. Tell me."

Mason pressed his advantage by saying, "I'll tell you what's happened as soon as I know how you stand. I can't tell that until after you've answered my questions. Why did Julia go out? What did she want?"

"I don't know."

"Did she have her gun with her?"

The woman gasped, placed a thin hand to her throat. The blue veins showed in a corrugated network over the skin.

"Did she have her gun?" Mason repeated.

"I don't know. Why, what's happened? How did you know about her gun?"

"Never mind that. Answer my questions. You stayed here waiting for her?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you go to bed?"

"I don't know. I was worried about her. I kept thinking she'd be coming in."

"Do you know why she came out here from Salt Lake?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why?"

"You know. Why should I tell you?"

"I want to see if she told you the same thing she did me."

"If you're her lawyer, you'd ought to know."

"I know I should," Mason said grimly. "Why did she come?"

"About her daughter and her marriage."

"You know that?"

"Oh, of course."

"How long have you known about it?"

"For some time."

"Julia Branner told you about her marriage to Oscar Brownley?"

"Yes, of course." The woman seemed to warm to the subject. "You see," she said, with the first sign of spontaneity she had shown, "we lived together in Salt Lake three year ago. She told me all about Oscar Brownley, all about the tricks the old man played getting Oscar away from her, and all about how she'd fixed things so the old man could never steal her daughter. You see, I had a daughter of my own just about the same age as Julia's girl, and I could appreciate how she felt. Only, of course, I knew where my daughter was. I could write to her and see her once in a while. Julia didn't even know whether her daughter was still alive…" Her face clouded as she averted her eyes and said, "My daughter died since then, a couple of years ago. So now I know just how Julia must have felt, not being able to see or hear from her loved one."

"Did Julia tell you why she couldn't come back to California?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because of the manslaughter charge."

"All right," Mason said, "let's get down to brass tacks. I want to know why Julia sent a message to Brownley to meet her down at the waterfront."

Stella Kenwood shook her head blankly.

"Don't know?" Mason asked.

"I don't want to talk with you about Julia's affairs."

"You do know," Mason charged, "and that's the reason you're sitting up here waiting for Julia to come back. You've had that gas radiator going ever since before midnight. You haven't been to bed. Come on now, tell me the truth and tell it fast. We haven't got all day."

Her eyes faltered away from his. She twisted her fingers nervously. At that moment Mason heard the sound of rapid steps in the corridor. He stepped swiftly to the left of the door standing where he would be concealed for the moment from anyone entering the room.

The doorknob turned. The door opened, then closed. Julia Branner, wearing a white rain coat which stretched almost to her ankles, her shoes soggy with water, her hair, as it showed beneath her hat, stringy and wet, clinging to the back of her neck, the curl completely removed, said in a high-pitched, almost hysterical voice, "Christ, Stella, I've got to get out of here! I'm in an awful jam. Let's get my things together, and you can drive me to the airport. I'm going back to Salt Lake. The most awful thing happened, I…" She broke off at what she saw in the other woman's eyes and whirled to stare at Perry Mason. "You!" she exclaimed.

Mason nodded and said calmly, "Suppose you sit down, Julia, and tell me just what did happen. It may help a lot if I know."

"Nothing happened."

Mason said, "Sit down, Julia, I want to talk with you."

"Listen, I'm in a hurry. I haven't any time to waste talking to you. It's too late for you to do any good now."

"Why is it too late?"

"Never mind."

She tossed her handbag on the table, fumbled with the buttons at the neck of her rain coat. Mason stepped forward, picked up her handbag, weighed it judiciously and said, "What happened to the gun you were carrying?"

Her face showed surprise. "Why, isn't it in there?"

"Listen," Mason told her, "if you want to waste time playing guessing games with me, that's your funeral, but Renwold Brownley was shot tonight by some woman wearing a white rain coat and driving a Chevrolet automobile. I think the police have a pretty good description of the automobile. Now, do you want me to try and help you, or do you want to play wise?"

Julia Branner stared at him speculatively, but Stella Kenwood gave a low moan and said, "Oh, Julia! I knew you'd do it!" and began to sob softly.

Mason met the hard-eyed defiance of Julia Branner's eyes and said, "Speak up."

"Why should I talk to you?" she asked, her voice bitter.

"I can help you," Mason told her.

"You could have helped me," she said, "but you didn't do a very good job of it and now it's too late."

"Why is it too late?"

"You know – but I don't know how you know."

Mason's voice showed his impatience. "Now listen, you two, seconds are precious and you're yapping around here like a couple of boobs. Snap out of it and get down to brass tacks. I'm going to help you, Julia."

"Why?" she asked. "I've got no money, not more than one hundred and fifty dollars altogether."

Stella Kenwood half rose from her chair and said hopefully, "I've got two hundred. You can have that, Julia."

"Let's forget about the money right now," Mason said. "I'm going to help you, Julia, but I must know what happened. I figure there's a lot to be said on your side of this thing no matter what you did. Brownley was absolutely cold and utterly remorseless. He'd framed a charge of manslaughter on you and held it over your head for years. He'd broken up any chance for domestic happiness you might have had and wouldn't give you even a thin dime. You had to work your way through life and there's a hell of a lot to be said on your side of this thing, but I want to know how bad it is. I won't guarantee that I'm going to stay with you all the way, but I'm going to start. Now go ahead and give me the lowdown. Did you kill Brownley?"

"No."

"Who did?"

"I don't know."

"You saw him tonight?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Down near the waterfront."

"Tell me what happened."

She shook her head and, in a voice which sounded suddenly flat and weary, said, "What's the difference? You wouldn't believe me. No one will believe me. Cut out the sobbing Stella. I'm going to beat it. It's my funeral. You're not mixed up In it."

Mason said irritably, "Snap out of it! Tell me what happened. If anyone can help you, I can."

Julia Branner said, "Well, if you've got to know, I tried to bring some pressure to bear on Brownley."

"What pressure?"

"There was a watch he'd given Oscar when Oscar graduated from high school. The case was a family heirloom. Renwold had had new works put in it. He thought the world of it. I had the watch. I was carrying it the day Oscar skipped out to go back to his father The old man wanted that watch about as much as he wanted anything on earth. I sent him a message by a cab driver and told him I wanted to talk with him for ten minutes, that if he'd come alone and at once to a certain place down at the beach and let me talk to him for ten minutes without interrupting me, I'd give him the watch."