Della Street glanced at Mason quizzically.
Mason indicated the petty-cash drawer.
Della opened it, took out a dollar bill, gravely handed it to Ellen Adair.
“Now then,” Mason said, “Della Street is a resident of Hollywood who is thinking of producing a play. She may want to give you a part in that play. She...”
The telephone rang.
Della Street picked up the receiver, nodded to Mason.
“Hello,” Mason said, “is this the managing editor of The Cloverville Gazette?... I see. I’m Perry Mason, an attorney in Los Angeles, and I am representing a Hollywood party who is interested in a deal with Ellen Calvert, who was the subject of an article which appeared a short time ago in your paper.”
“Well, well, well,” the voice at the other end of the line said, “this is indeed an honor. We’re attracting attention quite far away from our local sphere of influence.”
“You are, indeed,” Mason said. “Have you got anywhere with the story of Ellen Calvert?”
“We’re doing some research. We’ve got some very fine photographs of her when she won the contest. There was a banquet by the Chamber of Commerce — lots of copy. We’ve got photographs and files and...”
“Kill it!” Mason said.
“What was that?”
“I said kill it!”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,” the managing editor said.
“I mean kill it. Take your men off it. Forget it. Stop it. Don’t touch it with a ten-foot pole,” Mason said.
“May I ask why not?”
“Primarily because I’m telling you not to touch it. If you do, you’re going to get into a whole mess of trouble.”
“We are not accustomed to having the editorial policies of this newspaper dictated by persons who ring up and make threats.”
“I’m not making threats,” Mason said, “and I have no desire to intimidate you. I’m simply representing a client and taking the first step which is necessary to protect the interests of that client — to wit, telling you to kill the story.
“Now then, you probably have some attorney who represents you. I would much prefer to deal direct with your attorney. I will explain to him the legal reasons back of the position I am taking.”
“If you could tell me the legal reason, if you could give me just one good legal reason,” the editor said, “I’d feel a lot different about all of this.”
“Ever heard about the invasion of privacy?” Mason asked.
“What newspaperman hasn’t?” the editor said. “Although I understand it’s rather hazy as far as the legal applications are concerned. But the doctrine is well known.”
“Well,” Mason said, “the law of invasion of privacy protects a person against having her privacy invaded. It is the right of a person to be let alone.”
“Now just a minute,” the editor said. “I’m no lawyer, but there are certain exceptions to this rule. When a person becomes newsworthy, the right of privacy no longer exists. When a person deliberately puts himself in a position where he is newsworthy, the doctrine...”
“Don’t waste my time telling me the law,” Mason said. “Ask your attorney to call me on the phone.”
“Do you dispute the legal points I am making?” the editor asked.
“Certainly not,” Mason said. “Those legal points are all right, but after the particular events which made a person newsworthy have terminated, the right of privacy again exists.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” the editor said.
“If the cashier of your local bank embezzled a hundred thousand dollars, that would be news,” Mason said. “You could publish photographs of the embezzler. You could cover the trial of the embezzler. You could cover the sentence.
“After the sentence had expired, after the embezzler had paid his debt to society and been released, if he went into business under another name, you couldn’t ferret him out, publish the story of his defalcation and his subsequent rehabilitation as news. That would be an invasion of privacy.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” the editor said, “but surely that’s not the case here. This is the case of a very beautiful young woman of whom the community is proud. There is nothing shameful about winning a beauty contest.”
“Publish all you want to about her winning the beauty contest,” Mason said, “but don’t go in for any twenty-year follow-up. I wish you’d have your attorney call me.”
“No, no, no,” the editor said, “that’s not going to be necessary, Mr. Mason. If you adopt this position, we aren’t going to consider the story important enough to risk a lawsuit. You say you’re representing a Hollywood producer? May I ask if Ellen Calvert is perhaps making a success in films — possibly under another name?”
“You may not,” Mason said.
“May not what?”
“Ask that question,” Mason said.
The editor laughed. “All right; you’ve aroused my interest and you’ve certainly injected an element of mystery into this. We had a lead that would have, I think, paid off. Ellen Calvert’s mother married Henry Leland Berry, and we can check the residence in the marriage license and...”
“And work yourself into a sizable lawsuit,” Mason said, “I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t want to intimidate you.”
“Well, I’m not easily intimidated.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Have your lawyer get in touch with me on the telephone. The name is Perry Mason, and...”
“You don’t need to tell me a second time,” the editor said. “You’re not entirely unknown, Mr. Mason. Many of your cases have been featured in the wire services. We’ve even published some of your spectacular courtroom cross-examinations.”
“All right,” Mason said, “let your attorney talk with me.”
The editor said, “Forget it; the story is killed. Thank you for calling, Mr. Mason.”
“O.K.,” Mason said. “Good-bye.”
Mason hung up, turned to his client. “The story is killed.”
“Mr. Mason,” she said, “I’m eternally grateful.”
She opened her purse, handed him a fifty-dollar bill.
Mason said to Della Street, “Get her address, Della; give her back thirty dollars with a receipt for twenty dollars as a retainer and for services rendered to date. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble. Miss Adair. If you do, get in touch with me.”
“Thank you very much,” she said, “but I cannot leave any address.” She arose with queenly dignity and gave Mason her hand.
“We should be able to reach you in case of complications,” Mason said.
The woman shook her head with quiet finality. “No address,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Mason told her. “I won’t try to reach you unless your own best interests require it, but I’ll have to have a phone number or something.”
Ellen Adair hesitated, then picked up a scratch pad, scribbled a telephone number, handed it to Della Street.
“Don’t let anyone know that number,” she said. “Don’t try to call me except in a real emergency.”
“We’ll be highly discreet,” Mason promised.
Ellen Adair took the receipt and the change Della Street gave her, included both Mason and Della Street in a gracious smile, and started for the door to the outer office.
“You can go out this way,” Mason said, indicating the corridor door of the private office.
Della Street held the door open.
“Thank you,” Ellen Adair said, and made a dignified exit.
When the door had closed, Mason glanced quizzically at Della Street. “Now there, Della,” he said, “is a story.”
“How much of a story?”
“We don’t know,” Mason said, “but the situation is like an iceberg: only a small fraction of it shows above the water.