“Look here,” Allred said, “you’re my wife’s lawyer. You can hedge around all you want to. I know that you’re her lawyer. I want you to get in touch with her.”
“What makes you think that I can get in touch with her?”
“I feel confident you can. I want you to tell her that I wish she’d grow up and act her age. Tell her to go to Reno and get a divorce, and it will be all right as far as I’m concerned. And I want you to get in touch with Fleetwood through her and tell Bob Fleetwood to come back and be a man, live up to his responsibilities. If Lola wants him, he can have her. I’m going to play fair with him. I don’t think it was his fault entirely. I want to win that lawsuit! I want Bob Fleetwood here and I want him available as a witness. Is that clear?”
“That seems to be quite clear.”
Allred heaved himself up out of the chair. “That’s all I have to say then.”
“And suppose I should not be your wife’s attorney?”
“You are.”
“But suppose I should not be?”
“Well, I don’t know that it makes any difference, one way or another. I’ve told you what I have to say. I hope I can get in touch with my wife. You know how I feel and you know what to do about it.”
“I’m afraid,” Mason said, “there’s not very much I can do about it.”
“You have this message to transmit to your client. It’s to her advantage to have that message transmitted. I feel sure that you’ll do it. Good morning, Mr. Mason.”
Allred started back toward the door through which he had entered, then saw the exit door to the corridor, made an abrupt half turn, jerked the door open and barged out of the room without even looking back.
Mason glanced at Della Street.
“Well,” she said, “that explains it. Mrs. Allred wants you to represent her. She evidently wrote you a letter telling you what she’d planned to do and what she wanted you to do, and then—” Della’s voice trailed off.
“And then?” Mason demanded.
“Maybe she decided to wait and telephone later on,” Della finished weakly.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Della,” Mason grinned.
3
Ten minutes after Allred had left, Gertie, Mason’s receptionist, tiptoed personally into Mason’s office to announce in an awed voice, “Gee, Mr. Mason, the bank president’s out there.”
“Who?” Mason asked.
“Mr. Mervin Canby, president of the Farmers, Merchants & Mechanics Bank. He wants to see you upon a matter he says is confidential.”
“Well, send him in,” Mason said.
“Right away?”
“Right now!”
“Yes, Mr. Mason. I — well, I thought I’d better tell you instead of telephoning you.”
“That’s fine, Gertie. Send him in.”
Mason and Della Street exchanged glances as Gertie vanished through the door to the outer office.
Mervin Canby, a frosty, gray man with gray hair, gray eyebrows, gray mustache, and gray eyes, had a cordial smile for Della Street, another for Mason. But there was no great warmth about him, and his manner indicated quite plainly that he was calling upon a serious matter of business.
“Sit down,” Mason invited.
Canby settled himself in the chair, said, “I’ll come directly to the point, Mr. Mason. I’m a busy man and I know you’re a busy man.”
Mason nodded.
“You deposited two checks with us, Mr. Mason. One of them was on our bank, was in your favor in an amount of twenty-five hundred dollars and signed by Lola Faxon Allred.”
Mason said nothing, waiting for the banker to go on.
“The other check,” Canby said, “was drawn on the First National Bank of Las Olitas. That too was in your favor. That too was in an amount of twenty-five hundred dollars.
“When you deposited those checks,” Canby said, “you asked the cashier to examine them with great care.”
“Miss Street did that,” Mason said.
“May I ask, Mr. Mason, if that was at your suggestion?”
“It was.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to make certain the checks were good.”
“That is hardly a customary practice.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Did you have some reason to believe those checks were not in order?”
“That’s a difficult question to answer. Suppose you tell me first why you’re here.”
Canby said, “The cashier kept thinking things over. After you had left he came to me and asked my advice. I examined the checks and then sent for our handwriting expert.”
“Isn’t that rather unusual?” Mason asked.
“I found something on one of the checks which puzzled me,” Canby said. “I wanted to have my judgment checked by a professional. Of course, his opinion at the present moment is more or less tentative — that is, on one check. On the other, the situation is different.”
“In what way?”
“The check drawn upon us is apparently signed by Lola Faxon Allred. The check drawn on the First National Bank at Las Olitas is quite possibly forged.”
“The deuce, it is!” Mason ejaculated.
“That’s right. The forgery can be demonstrated.”
“How?”
“By the aid of a microscope. Someone traced the signature on the check with a piece of carbon paper. That’s one of the oldest forms of forgery known and a modification of the tracing formula. A person gets a paper bearing the genuine signature of the one whose name he wants to forge. He puts a sheet of carbon paper under that signature and the document which is to be forged, underneath the carbon paper. Then very gently the forger runs a toothpick or other pointed instrument over the lines of the genuine signature. The pressure is light enough so that it leaves a barely perceptible carbon paper imprint of the signature on the paper beneath.”
“Then what?” Mason asked.
“Then the forger takes a pen, usually a pen with a quite heavy ink, such perhaps as black drawing ink, or any India ink.”
“Go ahead.”
“And traces loop by loop, line by line, over the carbon paper signature. Frankly, Mr. Mason, it makes a most excellent forgery, one which, when skillfully done, can only be detected by an expert — depending somewhat upon the age, the mentality, and the emotions of the person forging the signature. The pen, of course, moves more slowly than in the case of a genuine signature. Therefore, if a person is nervous, there are more apt to be microscopic irregularities in the lines of the signature, due to tremors. But if a person has a steady hand and is free from mental excitement, the forgery can be made quite convincing.”
Mason merely nodded.
“The forged check in this instance,” Canby went on, “was made either by someone who had passed middle age or someone who was under an emotional tension. While the naked eye shows nothing, the microscope does show very distinct tremor lines.”
“Indeed,” Mason said.
“So,” Canby went on, “I wanted to get in touch with you and find out exactly what you know about that check.”
“Why not get in touch with Mrs. Allred?”
“We’ve tried that. It seems that she is not available at the moment.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“She apparently left with friends on a motor trip. Her husband seems to take her absence very lightly, says that he hasn’t the faintest idea where to reach her and won’t have until she sends him word from somewhere. He says she went off with some friends of hers who are interested in photography and they’re just wandering about.”
“Doesn’t seem to be the least bit disturbed about her absence?”
Canby looked at Mason sharply. “Any reason why he should?”
Mason said irritably, “Don’t try that stuff on me, Canby. My questions are for the purpose of trying to help you. If you’re going to adopt that attitude, I’ll simply wash my hands of the whole affair.”