Mason said, “I don’t want to go to your sister until I know more about this. I’m afraid it’s a trap. Lieutenant Tragg is clever.”
“But, good heavens, I know my own sister’s voice. I heard...”
She broke off as Harry Peavis, accompanied by a weasel-faced, narrow-shouldered man in a flashy suit, opened the door and started rapidly toward the enclosed office.
“That’s Peavis. He...”
“I know,” Mason interrupted.
Peavis reached the door of the office, opened it, said, “I’m sorry to do this, Mildreth.” He turned to the little, nervous individual at his side. “That’s her.”
The man stepped forward. “Mildreth Faulkner, as president of the Faulkner Flower Shops, Inc., I hand you this complaint, summons, order to show cause, preliminary injunction and restraining order.”
Mildreth shrank back.
“Go ahead and take them,” Mason instructed her, and to Peavis, “What’s the suit?”
“Civil suit,” Peavis said, watching Mildreth’s face. “I don’t want anyone else to show up with that stock certificate before I’ve had a chance to present my claims.”
“What are your claims?” Mason asked as Mildreth Faulkner uncertainly extended her hand to receive the documents which the bright-eyed, nervous man was holding out to her.
The process server said glibly, “An action to declare a certificate of stock lost or destroyed, and have a new one issued in its place; an indemnity bond protecting the corporation and the officers thereof against any liability in the event the old certificate, properly endorsed, should be presented; a summons and order to show cause returnable at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon with the defendant corporation having the right to have a continuance at its option; a restraining order preventing the corporation from transferring the stock in the meantime to anyone except Peavis. That’s all for now, Miss Faulkner.”
Mildreth Faulkner seemed dazed at the barrage of legal phraseology.
“Sounds complicated,” Mason said to her, “but don’t worry about it.”
“It’s really simple,” Peavis explained. “I own those shares of stock. Something happened to the stock certificate. The man who held it for me was murdered. The stock certificate seems to have vanished.”
“He was your agent?” Mason asked.
“Read the papers I’ve just served.”
Mildreth Faulkner said, “Harry Peavis, do you mean to stand there and admit that you hired gamblers to entice my brother-in-law...”
“I didn’t hire anybody to entice anyone,” Peavis said doggedly. “I found out that Lawley was playing the ponies, running into debt, and cutting a wide swath. I found out he’d hocked everything your sister had given him once before in order to get out of a financial jam. He’d come out on top of the heap that time, and had kept right on with his gambling. I knew that it would be only a short time before he’d do it again. Someone was going to be lucky and get this flower shop stock. I decided it might as well be me.”
Mildreth said scornfully, “That was setting a trap.”
“All right,” Peavis said, “have it your own way. I may have baited it, but he set it himself.”
Mason, looking toward the door, saw Della Street returning. “All right, Peavis, you’ve made your service. We’ll be in court and thresh the matter out there.”
Peavis said, “We might be able to work out some sort of a settlement.”
“No,” Mildreth Faulkner exclaimed indignantly.
Della Street, standing outside the door, took a notebook from her purse, scribbled a brief note, and entered the office. Peavis said, “Good afternoon, Miss. Looks as though I’d interrupted a conference.”
“You did,” Mildreth told him.
Della handed the folded sheet of notebook paper to Mason. He opened it and read, “Mrs. Dunkurk checked out. A man called for her about an hour ago.”
Mason passed the message on to Mildreth.
She read it, glanced swiftly at Mason, then averted her eyes.
Peavis said, “I’m sorry, Mason, but I can’t leave yet because I’m not finished.”
“Why not?”
“I’m waiting for some more papers. Here they come now.”
The door of the flower shop swung open. Lieutenant Tragg, accompanied by a woman in the middle forties, entered.
“No,” Peavis said, “my mistake. I’m waiting for a messenger.”
“What are those other papers?” Mason asked.
Peavis smiled and shook his head.
Della Street, moving closer to Mason, squeezed his arm — hard. Mason, feeling the force of those digging fingers, flashed her a smiling reassuring glance. At what he saw on her face, he turned quickly to study the woman who was being escorted into the shop by Lieutenant Tragg.
She had high cheekbones, stiff, lackluster, black hair, and a rather wide mouth with thin lips. Her eyes looked out through large-lensed spectacles with calm competence.
“The cashier?” Mason mumbled.
“Yes.”
“Any other door out of here?” Mason asked, moving casually so that he interposed his shoulders between Della and the door.
Mildreth Faulkner shook her head.
Peavis studied Mason curiously.
The office was in the back of the store. Two of its sides were the side and back walls of the flower shop. The other two sides were of wood to a height of about three feet from the floor the rest being composed of glass windows divided into panes of about ten inches by twelve.
Tragg’s progress down the long aisle of the store was utterly devoid of haste, nor did he seem to pay the slightest attention to the group that was gathered in the office. There was, in the very calmness of his unhurried approach, the element of remorseless pursuit. Nothing Tragg could have done could have been more calculated to upset the nerves of anyone who had a guilty conscience than the even-paced, ominous rhythm of his march.
He reached the door of the office, held it open for the woman. She entered.
Tragg said, “Hello, you seem to have a little gathering here.”
No one said anything.
Tragg said, “I had a matter I wanted to take up with Perry Mason, and I...”
“That’s the woman!”
The startled voice of the cashier, raised in high-pitched accusation, showed that Lieutenant Tragg had not advised her of what he expected to find.
Mason slipped his arm protectingly around Della Street’s shoulders, held her to silence by the pressure of his hand on her arm. “Meaning the woman who tried to cash the travelers’ check?” he asked conversationally.
“Let’s let Miss Street tell about that,” Tragg said.
Mason shook his head. “There’s no need for that.”
Tragg’s face showed his irritation.
“That is she,” the cashier said in a lower voice this time, but with the ring of conviction.
“Of course it is,” Mason remarked casually.
“I’m afraid,” Tragg said, “that unless Miss Street can explain matters, I’ll have to arrest her.”
“On what ground?”
“Intent to defraud and forgery.”
Mason said, “You’d better read up on your law before you get your fingers burnt, Lieutenant.”
Tragg was unable to keep some of the irritation out of his voice. It was plain that he had hoped to get some admission directly from Della Street. “You’re a pretty good lawyer, Mason,” he said. “I don’t know much law. I’m just a dumb cop. I suppose that there’s a section in some law some place providing that your secretary can walk into a store, say she’s Carlotta Lawley, and forge Carlotta Lawley’s name to a check on which she gets money without violating any law in the world.”