“Then why would she have made any such statement?” Della Street asked.
Witherspoon said grimly, “I’ll tell you exactly why. In January of 1924, Horace Legg Adams was convicted of first-degree murder. In May of 1925, he was executed. The story Mrs. Adams told was a pathetic, last-minute attempt to save the boy the disgrace incidental to having that matter made public, and having him lose the girl he loved. She knew that I was going to try to find out something about the boy’s father. She hoped her story would forestall that investigation, or turn it into a different and unproductive channel.”
“The boy doesn’t know, of course?” Mason asked.
“No.”
“Nor your daughter?” Della Street inquired.
“No.”
Witherspoon waited a moment while he twisted the stem of a brandy glass in his fingers; then said positively, “I am not going to have the son of a murderer in the Witherspoon family. I think even Lois will appreciate the importance of the facts when I tell them to her.”
“What do you want me to do?” Mason asked.
Witherspoon said, “I have a transcript of the evidence in the entire case. To my mind, it proves conclusively that Horace Legg Adams was guilty of willful, first-degree murder. However, I want to be fair. I want to give Marvin the benefit of the doubt. I want you to look over the transcript of that case, Mr. Mason, and give me your opinion. If you think Marvin’s father was guilty, I shall tell my daughter the whole story, give her your opinion, and absolutely forbid her to see or speak with Marvin Adams again. It will be a shock to her, but she’ll do it. You’ll see why when you read the transcript.”
“And if I should think he might have been innocent?” Mason asked.
“Then you’ll have to prove it, reopen the old case, clear the record, and get a public recognition of the miscarriage of justice,” Witherspoon said grimly. “There will be no blot on the Witherspoon family name. I positively won’t have the son of a convicted murderer in the family.”
“A murder that’s eighteen years old,” Mason said thoughtfully. “That’s rather a large order.”
Witherspoon met his eyes. “I will pay rather a large fee,” he announced.
Della Street said, “After all, Mr. Witherspoon, supposing the man was guilty. Do you think that your daughter would change her mind because of that fact?”
Witherspoon said grimly, “If the father was guilty of that murder, there may be certain inherited tendencies in the son. I have already seen some things which indicate there are such tendencies. That boy is a potential murderer, Mr. Mason.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said.
“If those tendencies are there,” Witherspoon went on, “and if my daughter won’t listen to reason, I will put Marvin in such a position that those inherent weaknesses of character will come out. I will do it in such a dramatic way that Lois will see them for herself.”
“Just what do you mean by that?” Mason asked.
Witherspoon said, “Understand me, Mason, I’ll do anything to protect my daughter’s happiness, literally anything.”
“I understand that, but just what do you mean?”
“I’ll put the young man in a position where apparently the only logical way out is to commit murder; then we’ll see what he does.”
“That will be rather tough on both your daughter and the person whom you happen to pick as a prospective victim,” Mason said.
“Don’t worry,” Witherspoon said. “It will be handled very adroitly. No one will actually be killed, but Marvin will think he’s killed someone. Then my daughter will see him in his true light.”
Mason shook his head. “You’re playing with dynamite.”
“It takes dynamite to move rock, Mr. Mason.”
For a moment, there was a silence; then Mason said, “I’ll read over that transcript of the trial. I’ll do that to satisfy my curiosity. And that’s the only reason I will read it, Mr. Witherspoon.”
Witherspoon motioned to the waiter. “Bring me the check,” he said.
Chapter 3
Rays of early-morning sunlight flashed across the desert until, striking the mountain barrier on the west, they burst into a golden sparkle which tinged the towering peaks. The sky was beginning to show that blue-black which is so characteristic of the Southern California desert.
Della Street, attired in tan frontier pants, cowboy riding boots, and a vivid green blouse, paused as she walked past the door of Perry Mason’s room, tapped tentatively on the door.
“Are you up?” she called softly.
She heard the sound of a chair moving back, and then quick steps. The door opened.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “You haven’t even been to bed!”
Mason brushed a hand over his forehead, motioned toward a pile of typewritten manuscript on the table. “That damned murder case,” he said. “It’s got me interested... Come in.”
Della Street looked at her wrist watch, said, “Forget the murder case. Slip into your riding things. I ordered a couple of horses for us — just in case.”
Mason hesitated. “There’s an angle about that case I...”
Della Street walked firmly past him, opened the Venetian blinds, and pulled them up. “Switch off the lights,” she said, “and take a look.”
Mason clicked off the light switch. Already the vivid sunlight was casting sharp, black shadows. The intense illumination reflected back into the room with a brilliance that made the memory of the electric lights seem a sickly, pale substitute.
“Come on,” Della Street coaxed. “A nice brisk canter, a cold shower, and breakfast.”
Mason stood looking out at the clear blue of the sky. He swung open the window to let the crisp air purify the room.
“What’s worrying you?” Della Street asked, sensing his mood. “The case?”
Mason looked toward the pile of transcript and folded, age-yellowed newspaper clippings, and nodded.
“What’s wrong with it?” Della asked.
“Almost everything.”
“Was he guilty?”
“He could have been.”
“Then what’s wrong with it?”
“The way it was handled. He could have been guilty, or he could have been innocent. But the way his lawyer handled it, there was only one verdict the jury could possibly have brought in — murder in the first degree. And there’s nothing at all in the case, as it now stands, which I could point out to John L. Witherspoon, and say, ‘This indicates conclusively that the man was innocent.’ The jury found him guilty on that evidence, and Witherspoon will find him guilty on that evidence. He’ll go about wrecking the lives of two young people — and the man may have been innocent.”
Della Street remained sympathetically silent. Mason stared out at the cruel, jagged ridges of the steep mountains which towered almost two miles above sea level, then turned, smiled, and said, “I should shave.”
“Never mind that. Get into some riding boots and come along. Put on some overall pants and a leather jacket. That’s all you need.”
She went over to Mason’s closet, rummaged around, found his riding boots and jacket, brought them out, and said, “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.” The lawyer changed his clothes hurriedly, met Della in the lobby, and they went out into the cool fresh air of the desert morning. The man who was in charge of the horses indicated two mounts, watched them swing into the saddles, and grinned at Mason.
“You can tell what a man knows about horses the way he gets on one,” he said. “Those are pretty good horses, but you’ll have better ones tomorrow.”