Marvin Adams hastily interposed, “I want to know something about my parents. And I don’t want to marry Lois, if...”
“That’s just it,” Lois Witherspoon interrupted. “All this is making Marvin conscious of a possibility that... that I don’t like. If you uncover evidence that his father was a millionaire who was sent to jail for rigging the stock market, or that one of his distant ancestors was hung in chains from the Tower of London for being a pirate, he’ll go noble on me, and I’ll have to lasso him and hog-tie him in order to get my brand on him. In case you don’t know it, it’s an embarrassing experience for all of us. It’s making me feel like doing something rash... Now that we all understand each other, can we please dispense with all subterfuge?”
Mason nodded prompt agreement. “Except when it’s necessary to humor your father. After all, Miss Witherspoon, this is giving him an opportunity to discharge what he considers a family duty, and get something off his mind. It may relieve the pressure somewhat.”
She said, “Yes. It’s his toy. I suppose I should let him play with it.”
“How’s Mr. Burr getting along?” Mason asked, changing the subject.
“Apparently all right. They filled him full of dope. He’s sleeping. His wife... isn’t sleeping.”
Marvin said, “She’s out there pacing the corridor. I presume she feels rather helpless.”
Lois Witherspoon flashed him a swift glance. “Helpless! In that gown?”
“You know what I mean, Lois.”
“I do, and I know what she means. That woman is altogether too man-conscious to suit me.”
Marvin Adams said reproachfully, “Now, youngster!”
Lois turned abruptly, gave Mason her hand. “Thanks for understanding,” she said. “I thought we’d — break the ice all around.”
Paul Drake gave a low whistle as the door closed on the pair. “That,” he announced, “is personality. Sort of puts you on the spot, doesn’t it, Perry? Is she in on this old murder case — affected by it?”
Mason pushed his hands down into his pockets. “Naturally,” he said, “it looks like a lot of foolish and wasted effort to her. She thinks Marvin Adams was kidnaped when he was a child of three, and that her father’s concern is all caused by his desire to investigate the family of his future son-in-law.”
“Well,” Drake asked curiously, “where does the murder came come in?”
Mason said, “Marvin Adams doesn’t suspect it, but he’s the son of the man who was executed for that murder seventeen years ago, and if either one of those high-strung, nervous kids had any idea of what we’re investigating, it would turn loose some emotional dynamite that would blast the Witherspoon family wide open.”
Drake slid down on the davenport, surrendering to a characteristic muscular relaxation that left him limp as a piece of loose string. “Witherspoon knows all about it?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mason said. “He’s had a copy of the transcript of the old trial made. It’s there in the desk. You’re going to have to read it over tonight.”
Drake said, “I’m betting that kid finds it all out before we’ve been working on the case for two weeks.”
“No takers,” Mason told him. “And we won’t have two weeks. If we don’t turn up something definite within about forty-eight hours, Witherspoon is going to conduct an original experiment in murder psychology. Think that one out!”
Drake grinned. “I’m damned if I do — not until after dinner. Jiggle that cocktail shaker, Della. I think it’s full.”
Chapter 5
Della Street stood by the entrance to the dining room watching Perry Mason with amused eyes as the lawyer was presented to Mrs. Roland Burr.
A woman would have placed Mrs. Burr in the thirties. A man would have made it somewhere in the twenties. Her hair was the color of reddish oat straw when the sun glints upon it at just the right angle to bring out the sheen. Her white gown, although far from conservative, was not daring in cut. It was the manner in which it clung to her body that assured her of the rapt attention of every man in the room.
As Drake was being presented to Mrs. Burr, Lois Witherspoon came in.
Compared with the lush beauty of Mrs. Burr’s figure, Lois was girlishly athletic. Her dress was of a different type. Nor did she walk with the swaying, seductive rhythm which made Mrs. Burr’s every action so noticeable. She moved swiftly with the natural verve of a dynamic young woman who is entirely free from self-consciousness. Her presence gave the room a wholesome freshness, and in some way flattened out the high-lights of Mrs. Burr’s more seductive personality.
Della Street tried very much to keep in the background, watching what was going on with eyes which took in every move. But she was able to keep in the background only during the first part of the meal. Abruptly, Lois flung a question at her, and when Della’s well-modulated voice answered that question, attention focused upon Mason’s secretary, and somehow seemed to stay there.
“How’s Roland coming along?” Witherspoon asked, abruptly.
That gave Mrs. Burr her opportunity to be the devoted wife. “I’d better take a peek and see,” she said. “Excuse me, please,” and she glided from the room, walking softly as if anxious not to interrupt their conversation — and as though she were oblivious of the smooth swaying of her supple figure.
She was still out when the doorbell rang. Witherspoon summoned one of the Mexican servants. “That will be a nurse from El Templo,” he said, “who’s to relieve the nurse the doctor left in charge. You may take her directly to Mr. Burr’s room.”
The Mexican said in a low, musical voice, “Si, señor,” and went to the door.
Mrs. Burr came gliding back. “Resting easily, the nurse says,” she reported.
The Mexican servant returned, moved over to Witherspoon’s chair, handed him a tray on which was an envelope. “For you, señor,” he said.
“Wasn’t that the nurse?” Witherspoon asked.
“No, señor. A man.”
Witherspoon said, “Pardon me. We don’t ordinarily have unexpected callers.”
He slit the envelope open, read the brief note, looked across at Mason, and frowned. For a moment, he seemed on the point of saying something directly to the lawyer; then he said, “Excuse me, please. It’s a man I’ll have to see. Go right ahead with your coffee and brandy.”
From outside the house, the barking of the dogs gradually quieted. There was a moment during which an awkward silence fell over the table; then Mrs. Burr asked Drake, “Are you interested in color photography, Mr. Drake?”
“He’s a detective,” Lois Witherspoon announced bluntly, “and he’s here on business. So you won’t have to beat around the bush.”
“A detective! My, how interesting! Tell me, do you put on disguises and shadow people, or...”
“I live a very prosaic life,” Drake said. “Most of the time I’m scared to death.”
Mrs. Burr’s eyes were naïvely innocent, but her face seemed carved of brittle chalk. She said, “Dear me, how interesting! First, one of the most noted attorneys in the country, and now a detective. I suppose, of course, there’s some connection.”
Drake glanced at Mason.
Mason looked directly at Mrs. Burr. “Purely financial, madam.”