The Case of the Stuttering Bishop (6 page)

"You've got a man trailing the bishop?" Mason asked.

"Two men," Drake said. "Two men in two separate cars. We're not letting him out of our sight."

Mason said thoughtfully, "Let's go talk with this Seaton girl again, and let's take Della along. The kid's a redheaded spitfire, but she may loosen up if Della talks to her."

Drake's voice showed resentment. "We'll never get anything out of her now," he said.

"Why the accent on the now?" Mason asked.

"I don't like the way you handled it, Perry. I know her type. We should have kept her on the run, made her think the bishop had been murdered, pretended she was a logical suspect, and then she'd have told the truth in order to clear her skirts."

"She told some of the truth, anyway," Mason said, "about getting in touch with him through an ad, for instance." Mason motioned to Della Street, who handed over the ads she had clipped from the personal columns. Mason gave them to the detective who stared at them frowningly and said, "What the devil's the idea, Perry?"

"I don't know, Paul, unless it's the way I outlined to you. Have you heard anything more from Australia, Paul?"

"No. I've wired my correspondents for a description and asked them to cable the bishop's present address."

Mason said thoughtfully, "I keep thinking that Seaton girl holds the key to this thing. We'll drop in on her, ask a few more questions, and then go see His Nibs, the Stuttering Bishop. And by that time I think we'll have an earful."

Paul Drake said, "Of course, Perry, it's none of my business but why go to all this trouble over a case which probably isn't going to amount to anything, which hasn't paid you any fee and where no one seems to be in particularly urgent need of your services?"

He shrugged and said, "I'm afraid, Paul, you overlook the potential possibilities of the situation. In the first place, it's a mystery, and you know how I feel about mysteries. In the second place, unless all signs fail, what we're having so far is what is technically known as the 'build-up.'"

"Build-up to what?" Drake asked in his slow drawl.

Mason looked at his wristwatch and said, "My guess is the within twelve hours I'll receive a call from a woman who gives her name either as Julia Branner or Mrs. Oscar Brownley."

The detective said, "You may, at that, Perry. And she may be phoney. If she isn't – well, you might have lots of action."

Mason put on his hat and said, "Come on. Let's go."

They went in Drake's car to the apartment house on West Adams. Behind the windshield of a battered car, a little spot of light marked the glowing end of a cigarette. A figure detached itself from the black shadows and proved to be that of Charlie Downes. "All clear?" Drake asked.

"Everything's under control," the man grinned. "How long do I stay here?"

"You'll be relieved at midnight," Drake said. "Until then, stick on the job. We're going up. She may go out as soon as we leave. If she does, we want to know where she goes."

They took the elevator to the third floor. Drake led the way to Apartment 328 and tapped gently on the panels. There was no answer. He knocked more loudly.

Mason whispered, "Wait a minute, Paul. I've got an idea." He said to Della Street, "Call out, 'Open the door, Janice, this is I.'"

Della Street nodded, placed her mouth close to the door and said, "Open up, Janice. It's I."

Again there was no sound of motion. Mason dropped to his knees, took a long envelope from his pocket, inserted it under the door, moved it back and forth and said, "There's no light in there, Paul."

"The devil!" Paul Drake said.

They stood in a silent, compact group for a moment. Then Drake said, "I'm going down and make certain the back end of the place is covered, and has been covered ever since we left."

"We'll wait here," Mason told him. Drake didn't wait to use the elevator, but ran down the stairs.

"Suppose," Della Street ventured. "that she really couldn't have left the building."

"Well?" Mason asked.

"Then she's in there."

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps she's… you know."

"You mean committed suicide?"

"Yes."

Mason said, "She didn't look like that kind to me, Della. She looked like a fighter. But of course there's some chance she's wise enough to have gone into some friend's apartment here in the same building. That's one thing we may have to figure on. Or, she may be inside, playing possum."

They stood in uncomfortable silence, waiting.

Drake came back, panting from his exertion in taking the stairs two at a time, and said, "She's sewed up in the place. It's a cinch she hasn't left by either the front or the rear. She's bound to be inside. You know, Perry, there's just a chance…"

His voice trailed away into silence and Perry said, "Yes, Della was wondering about that. But, somehow, I can't figure her for that sort of a play."

Drake grinned and said, "I know a way we can find out."

"Speaking as a lawyer," Mason observed, "I'd say such a method would be highly illegal."

Drake produced a folding leather tool kit from his pocket and took out some skeleton keys.

"Which'll it be," he asked, "conscience or curiosity?"

Mason said, "Curiosity."

Drake fitted a key in the lock and Mason said to Della. "You'd better keep out of this, Della. Stand in the corridor and don't come in. Then you won't be guilty of anything in case there's a squawk."

Drake clicked back the lock and said, "If you see anybody coming, Della, start knocking on the door. We'll lock it from the inside. When we hear you knock that'll be our signal to keep quiet."

"Suppose it should be the girl herself?" Della Street asked.

"It won't be. She can't have left. But if it should be, she's about twenty-one or twenty-two, with dark copper hair that's alive, eyes that have plenty of fire, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. She's easy on the eyes. Try and think up some stall which will take her away and give us a chance to get out. Tell her there's someone waiting in the car downstairs who is very anxious to see her. Don't mention any names, but let her think it's the bishop, and see what her reaction is to that."

"Okay," Della said, "don't worry. I'll work out some thing."

"She's dynamite," Mason warned. "Don't start an argument with her because I wouldn't put it past her to start hair pulling."

"Do we switch on the lights?" Drake asked.

"Sure," Mason said.

"Okay, here goes."

"Close the door first," Mason warned.

They closed the door. Drake groped for the light switch and clicked the room into brilliance. Apparently it was exactly as they had seen it earlier in the day. The clothes were piled on the bed, the wardrobe trunk was open in the center of the floor and partially packed.

Mason said in a low voice, "If she did anything, Paul, she did it right after we were here talking with her. You take a look in the bathroom; I'll take the kitchenette."

"Don't forget the big closet behind the bed, either," Drake said. "My God, Perry, I'm afraid to take a look. If we find her dead, it's going to put us in one hell of a spot."

"Are you," asked Perry Mason, "telling me?"

They separated, made a hasty search of the apartment, and met once more by the bed, with sheepish grins.

"Well, Perry," Drake said, "she out-smarted us. Of course, there's a chance she has a friend here in the building and has gone in with her."

Mason shook his head and said, "If she'd been doing that she'd probably have finished her packing so she'd be all ready to come back, grab her stuff and make a dash for it just as soon as the coast was clear. No, Paul, she walked out on us through the back door within five minutes of the time we left the place and before your second man had time to get on the job."

Drake sighed and said, "I guess you're right, Perry. But it makes me sore to think she took me as easily as that. Here I've been sewing the place up tight while she's been on the loose."

Mason said grimly, "Well, we'll go and see the bishop. Della, you go back to the office and stick around. Keep the light on and the outer door open." As he saw the look of inquiry on her face, he said, "I want you to wait for Julia Branner, or Mrs. Oscar Brownley, whatever name she's going under. We'll drive you over to the boulevard and you can get a taxi. Then we'll go on to the Regal Hotel."

Drake left orders his men were to keep a watch of the apartment and report as soon as Janice Seaton returned. They drove Della Street to the boulevard, saw her headed for the office in a cab, and drove directly to the Regal Hotel. In the hotel, Drake looked around in the lobby and said, "I don't see either of the boys here."

"What does that mean?" Mason asked.

"Probably that he's gone out."

"Meeting the Seaton girl somewhere," Mason surmised.

"I'll hunt up Jim Pauley and see if he knows anything," Drake said. "There he is now, over… Hey, Jim!"

The house detective, looking ponderously incongruous in a tuxedo, ducked his bald head in a grinning greeting and came strutting across the lobby. "This Mallory is a Church of England bishop," he said, "and right now he's nursing a mighty sore head. But he's a good sport. He says there is nothing missing and he isn't going to make a squawk about it so we can hush it up. Under the circumstances, we're ready to meet him halfway. By the way, he went out a while ago and left a letter for Mr. Mason."

Mason and Drake exchanged glances. "A letter for me?" Mason asked.

"Yeah. It's at the desk. I'll get it."

"Take any baggage with him?" Drake asked.

"No. He was just going out for dinner, I think."

The detective stepped behind the counter and took a sealed envelope from a pigeon-hole. The envelope was addressed: "Perry Mason, Attorney at Law. To be delivered to Mr. Mason when he calls this evening."

Mason slit open the envelope. A five-dollar bill was clipped to a sheet of hotel stationery. A brief note read:

"DEAR MR. MASON: I realized I was being followed shortly after I left your office, so I got the janitor to let me out through the basement and alley. I subsequently telephoned to try and locate my cab, and found that you had paid it off. I am, therefore, reimbursing you herewith.

Insofar as the advice which you have given me is concerned, I beg you to consider it as bread cast upon the waters, and believe I can assure you that it will be returned a thousandfold. WILLIAM MALLORY"

Mason sighed, pulled the five-dollar bill from the clip, folded it, and slipped it in his vest pocket. "The bishop didn't say when he'd be back, did he?" Mason asked.

Jim Pauley shook his head, said, "A mighty nice chap, the bishop. Didn't seem to resent things at all. He got a lulu of a crack on his head. Couldn't even wear his hat. Had to be all bandaged up like a turban."

Mason nodded to Drake and said significantly, "Suppose you call your office, Paul."

Drake went into the telephone booth and talked for several moments into the transmitter. Then he opened the door of the booth and beckoned to Mason. "My operatives have reported back," he said in a low monotone, keeping his head back in the shadows of the booth. "They followed the bishop to Piers 157-158, Los Angeles harbor. He stopped at a pawnshop on the way, and bought two suitcases and some clothes. They followed him from there to the pier. He went up the gangplank of the S.S. Monterey, and he didn't come down again. The Monterey sailed tonight for Australia via Honolulu and Pago Pago. My men followed the ship in a speed launch well beyond the breakwater, to make sure the bishop didn't get off. Looks like your friend has taken a run-out powder. Watch your step, Perry. He's a phoney."

Mason shrugged and said, "Let me at that phone, Paul."

Della Street's voice on the line was excited, "Hello, Chief," she said. "You win."

"On what?" he asked.

"Julia Branner is here at the office, waiting for you; says she must see you at once."

"It's rather unusual for me to see clients at this hour," Mason said.

"I just got in," she told him. "I saw a light in your office, so I came in. Your secretary said you might see me."

"Live here in the city?" Mason asked.

"I'm staying with a friend at 214-A West Beechwood. I'm going to share an apartment with her."

"Married or single?" Mason asked casually.

"I go by the name of Miss Branner."

"You're working?"

"Not at present, but I've been working until recently. I have a little money."

"You've been working here in this city?"

"No, not here."

"Where?"

"Does that make any difference?"

"Yes," Mason told her.

"In Salt Lake City."

"And you say you're sharing an apartment with a woman here?"

"Yes."

"Someone you've known for some time?"

"Yes, I knew her in Salt Lake City. I've known her for years. We shared an apartment in Salt Lake."

"Telephone?"

"Yes, Gladstone eight-seven-one-nine."

"What's your occupation?"

"I'm a nurse… But wouldn't it be better for me to tell you what I want to see you about, Mr. Mason, before we go into all of these incidental matters?"

Mason shook his head slowly and said, "I always like to get the picture. How did you happen to consult me?"

"I heard you were a very fine lawyer."

"So you came on here from Salt Lake City to see me?"

"Well, not exactly."

"You came by train?"

"No, by plane."

"When?"

"Recently."

"Precisely when did you arrive?"

"At ten o'clock this morning – if you have to know."

"Who recommended me to you?"

"A man I knew in Australia."

Mason raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

"Bishop Mallory. He wasn't a bishop when I knew him, but he's a bishop now."

"And he suggested you come here?"

"Yes."

"Then you've seen the bishop since your arrival?"

She hesitated and said slowly, "I can't see that that makes any difference, Mr. Mason."

Mason smiled and said, "Well, perhaps you're right, particularly since I don't think I'm going to be able to handle your case. You see, I'm very busy with a lot of important matters and…"

"Oh, but you must. I… you'll just have to, that's all."

"When did you see Bishop Mallory?" Mason asked.

She sighed and said, "A few hours ago."

"But you've been here since morning?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you come to see me during office hours?"

She shifted her position uneasily. Resentment flared for a moment in her reddish-brown eyes. Then she took a deep breath and said slowly, "Bishop Mallory suggested I come to you. I couldn't see the bishop until a short time ago. He'd been injured and was in a hospital."

"And he suggested you come to me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Did he give you a letter to me?"

"No."

"Then," Mason said, making his tone carry an implied accusation, "you have absolutely nothing to show that you actually know Bishop Mallory, that you actually saw him, or that he suggested you come to me." She fought back resentment in her eyes and shook her head. Mason said, "Under those circumstances I'm quite certain I couldn't interest myself in your problems."

She seemed to debate with herself for a moment, then snapped open the black handbag which had been reposing in her lap. "I think," she said, "this may answer your question." Her gloved fingers fumbled around in the inside of the purse. Mason's eyes suddenly glinted with interest as the lights reflected from the blued steel barrel of an automatic which nestled within the black bag. As though sensing his scrutiny, she pivoted her body in a half-turn so that her shoulder was between Mason's eyes and the bag. Then she pulled out a yellow envelope, took from it a Western Union telegram, carefully snapped the bag shut and handed the telegram to Mason.

The telegram had been sent from San Francisco and was addressed to Julia Branner, care of The Sisters' Hospital, Salt Lake City, Utah, and read simply: MEET ME REGAL HOTEL LOS ANGELES AFTERNOON OF THE FOURTH. BRING ALL DOCUMENTS – WILLIAM MALLORY.

Mason frowned thoughtfully at the telegram and said, "You didn't meet Bishop Mallory this afternoon?"

"No. I told you he'd been injured."

"You saw him this evening, a few hours ago?"

"Yes."

"Did he say anything to you about his future plans?"

"No."

"Just what did he say?"

"He suggested I should see you and tell you my entire story."

Mason sat back in his swivel chair and said, "Go ahead."

"Do you," she asked, "know of Renwold C. Brownley?"

"I've heard of him," Mason said noncommittally.

"Did you know of an Oscar Brownley?"

"I've heard of him."

"I," she announced, "am Mrs. Oscar Brownley!"

She paused dramatically. Mason took a cigarette from the case on his desk and said, "And you are, I believe, a fugitive from justice under an old felony warrant for manslaughter issued in Orange County."

Her jaw sagged as though he had struck her unexpectedly in the solar plexus. "How… how did you know that? The bishop wasn't to tell you that!"

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, "I merely mentioned it so you'd realize it wouldn't be worthwhile to misrepresent matters to me. Suppose you go ahead and tell me your story and make sure you tell me all of it."

She took a deep breath and rushed headlong into an account which poured from her lips with such glib alacrity that it might have been memorized or, on the other hand, might have been the result of long brooding over wrongs. "Twenty-two years ago," she said, "I was wild – plenty wild. Renwold Brownley was in the real estate business and didn't have very much money. Oscar was the apple of his eye, but Oscar liked to step around in the white lights. I was a nurse. I met Oscar at a party. He fell in love with me, and we were married. It was one of those hectic affairs which sometimes happen.

"The old man was furious because we hadn't consulted him; but I think it would have been all right if it hadn't been for the auto accident. That was a mess. We'd had a few drinks but I wasn't drunk. An old man, whose reactions were so sluggish he shouldn't have been driving a car anyway, came around the corner on the wrong side. I tried to avoid him by swinging over sharply to the left. If he'd stayed on his left side, everything would have been all right, but he got rattled and pulled back to the right. As a result, when the accident took place I was apparently entirely in the wrong. I wasn't tight, but I'd been drinking. Oscar was good and tight. That's why I was driving the car.

"You know how they used to be in Orange County. They'd put you in jail for going thirty miles an hour. Oscar made a touch from his dad, and we skipped out. We were going on a honeymoon, anyway. We went to Australia.

"Then was when I got double-crossed and didn't know it. Oscar asked his dad to hush the thing up and make a cash settlement, but, the way it looks now, the old man did just the opposite. It was right about that time he commenced to make money – big money. Oscar was the apple of his eye. He thought that Oscar had thrown himself away on a wild, harum-scarum woman who would have given herself to him or to anyone else without marriage as easily as with marriage. We were in a strange country. I had the very devil of a time getting work. Oscar couldn't get anything. The old man evidently pulled political wires, not to hush the accident up, but to get a manslaughter warrant issued for me so I could never come back. Then he corresponded secretly with Oscar.

"I didn't know all this at the time. I came home one day and found Oscar gone. His father had cabled him money to come home. I worked for a few months after that and then couldn't work any longer until my child was born. Oscar didn't even know about her, and I swore that he never should. I hated him and hated his family and hated all they stood for. At that time I didn't know how much money Renwold Brownley was making. It wouldn't have made much difference if I had. I determined to stand on my own two feet… But I couldn't keep the child, and I was damned if I'd let him have her.

"Bishop Mallory was a rector Church of England, you know – and one of the most human ministers I've ever known. He didn't have the smug, self-righteous attitude so many preachers have. He was a man who wanted to help people – and he helped me. I confided in him, and one day he came to me and told me he had a chance to get a good home for Janice. He said the people weren't particularly wealthy but they were comfortably situated and could give Janice an education. But they insisted that I must never know who had taken her and must never try to follow her. Bishop Mallory had to promise by everything he held sacred he'd never tell me anything about her or where she was."

"He's kept that promise?" Mason asked.

"Absolutely," Julia Branner said, and there were tears in her eyes. "When we're young we're impulsive. We do things without thinking that we're bound to regret them afterwards. I got married on impulse and I released all claims on my daughter on impulse. I've regretted doing both…" Her lips quivered. She blinked rapidly and said, "Not that it makes a d-d-damned bit of difference – regrets, I mean." She tossed her head and went on, "Don't worry, Mr. Mason, I'm not going to bawl. I've fought my way through life. I've violated damn near all the conventions at one time or another, and I've paid the price. I haven't whimpered and I'm not going to whimper."

"Go on," Mason said.

"After several years I came back to the States. I found that Renwold Brownley was wallowing in money. Apparently Oscar didn't have anything except what Renwold wanted to give him. Naturally, I thought Oscar should do something for me. I got in touch with him. He wrote me a very short letter. So far as he was concerned, I was merely a fugitive from justice. The old man was very bitter. If I returned to California, I'd be prosecuted on that manslaughter charge… Oh, I saw the sketch, all right, but what could I do? I was a nurse working for wages. Oscar'd got a divorce on some charge or another. Renwold Brownley had millions. There was a manslaughter warrant out for me. Not that I cared particularly about coming to California. I didn't want Oscar back. I did think he might make some sort of settlement, but my hands were tied. The charge against me wasn't just one of drunken driving; it was a manslaughter charge and, with Renwold Brownley's money and political backing against me, I'd have been railroaded to the penitentiary, lost my citizenship, lost my standing as a nurse, lost my ability to earn a living… Anyway, that's the way I felt about it. I was too frightened even to consult a lawyer because I didn't dare to confide in one."

"Go on," Mason said, his voice showing interest.

"The only thing I wanted was to have my daughter get something of what was rightfully hers. So I wrote to Australia. The Reverend William Mallory had become a bishop by that time, but he couldn't give me any help. He reminded me of my promise and of his. My daughter had been taken by people who were good to her. She thought they were her own father and mother. They were so attached to her they'd have died rather than let her think differently. They didn't have any great amount of money but they were fairly well fixed. I learned the my daughter had a natural aptitude for nursing and had wanted to do that more than anything else on earth. She was in a hospital, studying. She wanted to train herself to nurse children – she would. She came by it honestly. Mr. Mason, I moved heaven and earth to find her. I'd made a promise, but what the hell's a promise when it's the case of a mother trying to find her own daughter? I spent every cent I could get, hiring detectives. They couldn't find her. Bishop Mallory had been too smart. He'd covered the trail too well, and he wouldn't talk. And then I got this wire from Bishop Mallory. I though he was going to tell me everything. My girl is of age now. There's no reason why she shouldn't know, and I think the people who adopted her have died, but the bishop wouldn't tell me anything. He only said I was to see you. But I did find out that after Oscar died, Renwold realized there was a grandchild somewhere, and he'd employed detectives to find her. He'd taken a girl named Janice in to live with him… But, Bishop Mallory tells me she isn't the real Janice. She's fraud." She paused, staring with hot, defiant eyes at the lawyer.

"What do you want me to do?" Mason asked.

"Nothing for me, but I want you to rip the mask off of the spurious granddaughter. I want you to find my daughter and see that she's recognized as a Brownley."

"That wouldn't necessarily mean anything," Mason said. "Renwold could make a will disinheriting her. I think there's another grandchild, isn't there – a grandson?"