“Who’s the doctor the Court is appointing, Paul?”
“I don’t know as yet,” Drake said, “but I’ve got a line out so I can find out just as soon as—” He was interrupted by the telephone.
Della Street picked up the phone, said, “It’s for you, Paul. Your office is calling on the unlisted line.”
Drake took the call, said, “Give me that name again,” said, “thanks,” hung up and turned to Perry Mason. “Okay, Perry,” he said, “the question is answered. The Court has appointed Dr. Grantland Alma as the Court’s doctor.”
Della Street immediately started riffling through the pages of the phone book, then furnished the supplemental information. “Here he is,” she said. “His office is 602 Center Building and his phone is Lavine 23681.”
“And,” Mason said, “any attempt to influence him will make him mad but there’s no reason why I, as an attorney, can’t try to see Horace Shelby before the doctor does.”
“You stand absolutely no chance,” Paul Drake said.
Mason grinned. “If they’ve got him shut off from all of his friends, it might be a good thing to know.”
The lawyer looked at his watch. “It’s a cinch the doctor is in his office now. He probably won’t try to see Shelby until tomorrow morning. Give his nurse a ring, Della.”
“The nurse?”
“Yes. One should always communicate with a doctor through his nurse.”
Della Street put through the call and nodded to Mason.
Mason said, “Hello, this is Perry Mason, the attorney, talking and I would like very much to talk with Dr. Alma on the telephone. If that is not possible, I would like to ask a question which he could answer. It is a matter of some urgency.”
The feminine voice at the ether end of the line said, “Well, this is his nurse. Perhaps you’d better give me the question. The doctor is busy now and has an office full of patients.”
Mason said, “Dr. Alma, who’s been appointed by Judge Ballinger to examine Horace Shelby sometime before a court hearing which is to take place—”
“Oh, I’m sure the doctor wouldn’t discuss that with you or with anyone,” the nurse said.
“I don’t want him to,” Mason said. “I am simply trying to find out if it would interfere with the doctor’s plans in any way if I went out to the Goodwill Sanitarium to visit Mr. Shelby.”
“Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t,” the nurse said. “Just so you don’t do anything to upset him or alarm him. You’re one of the attorneys in the case?”
“In the general case, yes,” Mason said.
“Just be careful not to disturb him in case he should be excitable.”
“Thank you,” Mason said. “What room is he in, by the way?”
“He’s in one of the isolation units, I believe. Just a minute... Unit 17.”
“Thank you very much,” Mason said.
“You’re entirely welcome.”
“Please tell Dr. Alma I called.”
“I will.”
“Well,” Mason said, grinning as he hung up the phone, “if you want information, the way to go about it is to get it openly.”
Drake grinned. “A good private detective could have put in two days at fifty dollars a day getting you that information, Perry... You want me to go with you?”
“No,” Mason said, “I think I’ll go alone.”
“The party may get rough out there,” Drake warned.
“Under proper circumstances,” Mason said, “I have been known to get rough myself.”
Chapter 7
The Goodwill Sanitarium and Rest Home at El Mirar was apparently the combination of a reconverted motel and a large old fashioned three-story dwelling on an adjoining lot.
The properties had been united, a board fence put around the property, and on the windows of the motel units as well as on the windows on the lower floor of the big building were unobtrusive iron work — either ornamental grillwork or straight rectangular bars.
Perry Mason sized up the property, then made no effort to be surreptitious but walked through the gate, up the wide driveway and through the front door where a sign said OFFICE.
The lawyer noticed a sign on the gate reading, “Wanted Young, well-adjusted woman with agreeable personality for general work.” There was a similar sign in a frame on the side of the office door. Since these signs had been hand lettered by a professional, it was apparent that the institution had quite a turnover in domestic help and experienced considerable trouble in getting replacements.
Mason entered the office.
There was a long counter across the room dividing it into two parts. Behind this counter was a switchboard and a chair to one side, a desk littered with papers, a tilting swivel chair, two straight-backed swivel chairs and a shelf of square cubbyholes, with room numbers over each partition.
A light was on at the switchboard and there was the customary loud buzzing sound indicating an incoming call.
Mason walked to the counter.
A middle-aged woman came hurrying through a door which opened from the back of the office. She hardly looked at Mason but went to the switchboard, picked up the headset and said, “Yes, Hello. This is the Goodwill Sanitarium.”
She listened for a minute, then said, “Well, he isn’t in now. I’ve left word with his secretary. He’ll call as soon as he gets back... No, I don’t know just when he’ll be back... Yes, I hope so. Yes, sometime today... Yes, he’ll call you, Doctor. As soon as he gets back, he’ll call... Goodbye.”
She pulled out the plug, turned wearily and somewhat truculently to the counter.
“What can I do for you?” she asked Mason.
“You have a Horace Shelby here,” Mason said.
Instantly, the woman stiffened. Her eyes grew wary.
“What about it?” she asked.
“I want to see him,” Mason said.
“You a relative?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“You representing him?”
“I’m representing a relative.”
“It’s past visiting hours today,” she said.
“But it’s rather important that I see him,” Mason said.
She shook her head firmly. “You have to come during visiting hours.”
“And when are they?”
“Two to three in the afternoon.”
“You mean I can’t see him until tomorrow afternoon?”
“I’m not certain you can see him then. You’re going to have to talk to Doctor. He’s been having a little trouble. There’s been a ‘No Visitors’ sign on his door... What did you say your name was?”
“Mason. Perry Mason.”
“I’ll tell Doctor you called.”
“Doctor who?” Mason asked.
“Doctor Baxter,” she said. “Tillman Baxter. He runs the place.”
“He’s a medical doctor?” Mason asked.
“He has a license to run the place,” she said. “That’s all I know and I don’t think it’s going to do you any good to come back. I don’t think Horace Shelby is going to be in any condition to receive visitors.”
She abruptly turned her back on him and walked through the door leading from the office into the back room.
Mason turned away, made a quick survey of the place, and walked back to where he had parked his car.
A man was standing by the car. “You’re the Court appointed doctor?” the man asked.
Mason regarded the man thoughtfully. “What Court-appointed doctor?” he asked.
“The Shelby case.”
“Why?” Mason asked.
“I want to talk with you,” the man said.
“May I ask what about?”
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you the Court-appointed doctor?”
“No,” Mason said. “I’m Perry Mason, an attorney. Now, why did you want to talk with the—”
The man didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence, but walked rapidly to a car which was parked ahead of Mason’s, jumped in, said something to the driver of the car, and the car took off down the street.