“Think she will?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s your interest in it?”
“I don’t want my wife turned into a nervous wreck, for one thing. For another, I don’t want to have a lot of publicity spread about regarding the business. My wife took over the business while it was in probate. We’ve slaved night and day building that business up. I’ve been advised by attorneys that in case fraud is present, together with duress and oppression, the statute of limitations won’t begin to run until the discovery of the fraud.”
“And there was fraud?” Mason asked.
“How the hell do I know?” Dangerfield said. “Estelle made the deal in probate. I’m simply trying to forestall a bunch of lawsuits. I hope you won’t take offense, but you know how it is. Some of these lawyers would do anything on earth to chisel in on a prosperous business such as we have.”
“Is it prosperous?” Mason asked.
“Very.”
Mason looked at Witherspoon.
“You’re the doctor,” Witherspoon told him.
Mason got to his feet. “I think we understand each other perfectly,” he said.
Dangerfield smiled. “I guess you understand me, but I’m not certain I understand you. I’ve given you information. What do I get in return?”
“Our assurance that we’ll give it thoughtful consideration,” Mason said.
Dangerfield got up and started for the door. “I guess that’s about all I can expect,” he announced, grinning.
Witherspoon said hurriedly, “Don’t try to go out until I’ve had the night watchman secure the dogs.”
“What dogs?” Dangerfield asked.
“I have a couple of highly trained police dogs that patrol the grounds. That’s why there was a delay about letting you in. The dogs have to be locked up before visitors go in or out.”
“Guess it’s a good idea.” Dangerfield said, “with things the way they are now. How do you take care of the dogs?”
Witherspoon pressed a button by the side of the door. He explained, “That is a signal to the watchman. When he gets this signal and sounds a buzzer, I’ll know the dogs are tied up.”
They waited for not more than ten seconds; then the buzzer sounded. Witherspoon opened the door, said, “Good night, Mr. Dangerfield, and thank you very much.”
Dangerfield paused halfway to the gate, looked at Mason, and said, “I don’t suppose I’m any closer to what I want to know than I was when I started, but I bet five bucks she doesn’t get anything out of you.”
With that he turned, walked through the heavy iron gate, and climbed in his car. The gate clanged shut. A spring lock snapped into position.
Witherspoon hurried back to press the button signalling the watchman that the dogs could be turned loose once more.
“What’s the name of the detective agency?” Mason asked.
“The Allgood Detective Agency in Los Angeles, Raymond E. Allgood.”
They started back toward the dining room. Mason turned abruptly to the left toward the wing of the building where his room was located.
“Aren’t you going to finish your dinner?” Witherspoon asked in surprise.
“No,” Mason said. “Tell Della Street and Paul Drake I want to see them. We’re driving back to Los Angeles. But you don’t need to tell Mrs. Burr.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Witherspoon said.
Mason said, “I haven’t time to explain now.”
Witherspoon’s face flushed. “I consider that answer unnecessarily short, Mr. Mason.”
Mason’s voice showed his weariness. “I didn’t sleep any last night,” he said. “I probably won’t sleep much tonight. I haven’t time to explain the obvious.”
Witherspoon said with cold dignity. “May I remind you, Mr. Mason, that you are working for me?”
“May I remind you that I’m not?”
“You’re not?”
“No.”
“For whom are you working, then?”
Mason said, “I’m working for a blind woman. They carve her image on courthouses. She has a pair of scales in one hand and a sword in the other. They call her ‘Justice,’ and she’s the one I’m working for, right at the moment.” And Mason swung on down the left corridor, leaving Witherspoon to stand staring at him, puzzled, and more than a little angry.
He was throwing things into his suitcase when Della Street and Paul Drake joined him.
“I should have known this was too good to last,” Drake complained.
“You’ll probably be back,” Mason told him. “Get your things together.”
Della Street opened the drawer in the big writing desk, said abruptly, “Look here, Chief.”
“What is it?” Mason asked.
“Someone’s opened the drawer and moved the transcript.”
“Taken it?” Mason asked.
“No, just moved it — must have been reading it.”
“Anybody leave the dining room while I was out there with Witherspoon?” Mason asked.
“Yes,” Drake said. “Young Adams.”
Mason pushed the lid of his suitcase into place by simply compressing the contents until the lock would snap shut. He said, “Don’t worry about it, Della. It’s in Paul’s department. He’s the detective.”
Drake said, “I’d only need one guess.”
“It would take me two,” Mason announced, jerking his light overcoat out of the closet.
Chapter 6
Mason paused in front of the door which contained on the frosted glass the printed legend, “ALLGOOD DETECTIVE AGENCY, RAYMOND E. ALLGOOD, MANAGER, Connections in All Principal Cities.” Down below in the extreme right-hand corner was the word “Entrance.”
Mason pushed open the door. A blonde who looked fully as dazzling off the screen as most of the picture stars do on it, looked up at him with appraising eyes and smiled. “Good morning. Whom did you wish to see?”
“Mr. Allgood.”
“Did you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I’m afraid he’s...”
“Tell him Perry Mason is here,” Mason said.
Her blue eyes widened as the eyebrows lifted. “You mean Mr. Mason — the lawyer?”
“Yes.”
She said, “Right away, Mr. Mason, if you’ll wait just a moment please.”
She whirled toward a switchboard, picked up a line, started to plug it in, hesitated a moment, thought better of it, got up from her chair, said, “Just a moment, please,” and walked into an inner office. Some few moments later, she was back, holding the door open. “Right this way, Mr. Mason. Mr. Allgood will see you now.”
Raymond E. Allgood was a middle-aged man with deep lines in his face and bushy eyebrows. Eyeglasses were pinched on his nose, and from them dangled a black ribbon. He was virtually bald save for a fringe of cinnamon-colored hair which circled his ears. He seemed both flattered and uneasy.
“Good morning, Counselor,” he said, arising to shake hands. “This is indeed a pleasure. I’ve heard a great deal about you. I am hoping that my agency can be of service.”
Mason dropped into a chair, crossed his long legs, took out a cigarette, tapped it on the arm of his chair, and studied the man behind the desk.
“Wouldn’t you like a cigar?” Allgood asked hospitably, opening a humidor.
“A cigarette suits me.”
Allgood nervously clipped the end from a cigar, scraped a match on the underside of his desk, lit the cigar, and shifted his position in the creaking swivel chair. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked hopefully.
Mason said, “I quite frequently use a detective agency. So far, the Drake Detective Agency has taken care of all of my work.”