As Perry Mason entered his office, Della Street motioned toward the door which led to the outer offices and said, “Abner Dimmick, of Dimmick, Gray & Peabody, and a young assistant by the name of Rodney Cuff are waiting for you.”
Mason whistled.
“Why the whistle?” she inquired.
“Dimmick, Gray & Peabody are about the last word in legal aristocracy,” he told her. “They’re attorneys for some of the big banks. Their practice is mostly corporate and probate work. Now, what the devil do you suppose they want with me?”
“Perhaps it’s nothing important,” she said.
“Don’t fool yourself,” he told her. “Anytime Abner Dimmick makes a trip to my office, you can bet it’s important.”
“Do we show them in?”
“Right away,” Mason said, “and with all the little flourishes and fanfare of trumpets royalty is supposed to command.”
Halfway to the door, Della Street said, “You don’t suppose they represent the bank do you, Chief?”
“You mean the Second Fidelity Savings & Loan?”
“Yes.”
“Now that,” he told her, “is a thought. Stay around and listen to what they have to say, Della. If I cough loudly, start taking notes of the conversation.”
Della nodded, vanished through the door, to return in a matter of seconds, ushering in a white-haired man with an acrimonious countenance, a heavy cane in his right hand punctuating his steps as he walked. Slightly behind him was a young man in the late twenties, in whose china-blue eyes glittered a devil-may-care twinkle which belied the self-effacing manner with which he kept a step or two behind the older man.
The white-haired man in the lead pounded his way across the office. “How d’ye do,” he said explosively. “You’re Mason. I’m Dimmick — Dimmick, Gray & Peabody. Perhaps you’ve heard of us. I’ve heard of you.”
He shifted his cane to his left hand, pushed forward his right, said, “Careful now. Remember, I’m an old man. I’ve got rheumatism in that hand. Don’t try to crush my bones. This is Cuff, Rodney Cuff, my assistant. In the office with me. Don’t know yet whether or not he’s any good. Isn’t fitted for our type of work, anyway. We’re in a mess, a devil of a mess. Perhaps you’ve heard about it.”
Mason shook hands with Cuff, motioned his visitors to chairs, and assured Dimmick he hadn’t heard of it.
Dimmick clasped his interlocked fingers about the head of the heavy cane, lowered himself gingerly into the overstuffed leather chair. Cuff dropped into one of the plain wooden chairs, crossed his legs, hooked an elbow over the back of the chair, and gazed approvingly at Della Street.
Abner Dimmick had a high forehead, fringed with gray hair, bushy eyebrows which raised and lowered, punctuating his remarks. There were heavy pouches under his eyes. His mouth was as decisive as the jaws of a steel trap. A stubby mustache, matching the bushy eyebrows, gave his face an appearance of frosty austerity.
“What’s the matter?” Mason asked.
“Dimmick, Gray & Peabody mixed up in a criminal case! Can you imagine it? Damnedest thing I ever heard of!”
“You thought perhaps I could be of some help?” Mason asked.
Dimmick nodded.
Rodney Cuff coughed disapprovingly. Dimmick flashed him a glance and said, “Go ahead, young man, cough your head off. I know what I’m doing.”
Cuff lapsed into silence and lit a cigarette. Della Street let her amused eyes drift toward Perry Mason.
“We’re counsel for Second Fidelity Savings & Loan,” Dimmick said. “They’re trustees under a probate trust. The sole beneficiary is a chap by the name of James Driscoll. Now then, do you get the picture?”
Mason settled back in his swivel chair, lit a cigarette and regarded his visitors with wary eyes. “I’m beginning,” he said, “to get the sketch.”
“All right,” Dimmick went on. “Under the provisions of the probate trust we’re to give Driscoll such legal advice as he needs. He isn’t at liberty to employ any other counsel except with the permission of the trustee. Now then, he goes and gets himself mixed up in a murder case and there’s hell to pay.”
“Just why did you come to me?” Mason asked.
“We want you to help.”
Again Rodney Cuff coughed.
“You mean you want me to act as attorney for James Driscoll?”
“Not exactly that,” Dimmick said. “We want you to co-operate with us. We’ll represent him. You’re representing Rosalind Prescott. Their interests are identical and—”
“Pardon me for interrupting,” Mason said, “but I’m not satisfied their interests are identical.”
“Just as I was telling Mr. Dimmick,” Rodney Cuff said eagerly. “It’s very evident that—”
“Shut up, Rodney!” Dimmick said, without taking his eyes from Mason’s face. “What makes you say their interests aren’t identical, Mr. Mason?”
“Because I don’t think they are.”
“You mean you think Rosalind Prescott might have been guilty of some crime that James Driscoll isn’t guilty of? That’s impossible.”
“No,” Mason said, “I meant it the other way.”
Dimmick said, “This is embarrassing to me personally, Mr. Mason. Very embarrassing. I never thought my name would be connected with a criminal case. But the bank insists I must supervise the defense personally. I can get some attorney who specializes in that sort of thing to sit in with me if I want, but under the terms of the trust I suppose I’m obligated to take personal charge. You can see where that leaves me.”
Mason nodded.
“Now, then, we’re willing to co-operate with you,” Dimmick said insinuatingly.
Mason coughed loudly and Della Street, picking up a pen, casually slid around in her chair so that her right elbow was propped on the desk. Rodney Cuff said. “He signaled his secretary to take down what you’re saying, Mr. Dimmick.”
Dimmick shot his eyebrows down into a level line, shifted his eyes to glare ferociously at Della Street’s poised pen, then turned back to Mason and said, “I don’t give a damn if she does. Shut up, Rodney.”
There was a moment of tense silence. Then Abner Dimmick wrapped his hands more tightly about the head of the cane and said, “The bank telephoned me you were down there asking questions.”
Mason nodded.
“It might be a good plan to pool our information,” Dimmick said, “to work out a joint plan of campaign.”
“Thank you, I don’t think I’d care to do that,” Mason told him. “I want to be free to represent my client in whatever way seems best as the situation develops.”
“Can’t you see, Mr. Dimmick,” Rodney Cuff said impatiently, “he’s going to pin the whole thing on Driscoll if he has a chance.”
Dimmick continued to stare steadily at Perry Mason. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I usually let the other man come to me. This time I’m coming to you. I know something of your skill in a courtroom. I know you’d be a valuable ally and a dangerous enemy. Now, if you could see your way clear to—”
“I’m sorry,” Mason told him, “but I can’t commit myself. I’m going to walk into that courtroom perfectly free to do anything which seems expedient. I’m not going to jeopardize the interests of my client by making any agreement with anyone.”
Cuff said, “Do you mean by that, Mr. Mason, that you’re going to try to pin the murder on Driscoll?”
“If I think Driscoll’s guilty, yes.”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he’s guilty, your client is guilty.”
“Not necessarily,” Mason said.
Abner Dimmick brought the head of the cane close to the chair, pulled himself slowly to his feet. Rodney Cuff said ominously, “Don’t think we’re going to sit back and let you pin this thing on Driscoll, Mr. Mason.”
“I don’t,” Mason told him.
Dimmick said irritably, “Well, I’ll tell you frankly, I don’t like this sort of thing. I don’t like courtrooms. I don’t like juries. I don’t like criminal cases, and I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks. But Rodney likes it. Rodney’s father’s an old friend of mine. I promised him I’d take the boy in. He doesn’t like our practice. He’s a great admirer of yours, Mason. All he talks about is trying cases, how things will look to a jury. All right, Rodney, this is your chance to do your stuff”
Cuff drew himself up and said, “Please don’t think I’m completely inexperienced, Mr. Mason. I did quite a bit of trial work in one of the outlying counties. My father wanted me to get started in the city, and Mr. Dimmick promised to take me on. I think you’ll find I know my way around in a courtroom.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mason said. “Glad to have met you both.”
Dimmick started stamping toward the doorway, paused to wait for Rodney Cuff to open the door. “Well,” he said, “I don’t like it. What’s more, the doctor tells me I mustn’t get excited. Keep calm. Take it easy. Don’t get angry. Don’t get excited. That’s what they tell me. Bah! Here I am, seventy-one, thrown into a criminal case, and if I get excited, it may kill me. Come on, Rodney. No need to take up more of Mason’s time. Glad I met you, Mr. Mason. Good-by!”
He stormed out of the door, and the sound of his cane banging down the corridor was distinctly audible until he reached the elevator. Della Street looked at Perry Mason and burst out laughing. “Now that,” she said, “is a situation.”
“I’ll tell the world it’s a situation,” Mason said, grinning, “and one not very much to my liking.”
“Why didn’t you agree to play ball with them?”
“Because I’m not going to tie myself up to Jimmy Driscoll — not until I know a lot more about where he fits into the picture. He shows too much natural aptitude to hide behind a woman’s skirts to suit me.”
“Emil Scanlon, the coroner, telephoned and left a message,” she said. “The inquest is going to be held tonight at eight o’clock and Scanlon says he’ll give you an opportunity to ask an occasional question if you want. He says as far as he’s concerned, he’s going to throw the whole case wide open.”
Mason nodded thoughtfully.
“Won’t that irritate the district attorney’s office?” Della Street asked.
“Ordinarily it would,” Mason told her, “but I have an idea the district attorney may be back of the move this time. He’s in something of a spot. He must smell a rat, or he wouldn’t have grabbed the canary as evidence. If Rosalind took the gun instead of Rita, he’d hate to charge Rita with murder. If the evidence gets mixed up, and he prosecutes the wrong person, he’s going to have a hard time backing up and going after the right one. It would suit him just as well if we all started fighting.”
“Then you’re playing right into his hands?” she asked.
“Doing what?”
“Refusing to co-operate with Driscoll’s attorneys?”
“That,” he told her, “remains to be seen. I’m not going to let anyone tie my hands.”
“Well,” she said, “right now you have an appointment to go down and have your passport pictures taken. There’s a Mr. Smith over in the Federal Building who was on one of your juries once. He’ll rush through the application.”
Mason nodded, grinned, and said, “Okay, Della, I’m going down to have my picture taken and get my passport.”
“I’ll let you see my passport picture if you’ll let me see yours,” she promised.
“Maybe we should get enlargements and hang ’em side by side in the office so the clients could have a treat,” Mason suggested.
She shook her head. “You know how passport pictures are. We’d look like a couple of crooks.”
Mason paused with his hand on the knob of the door and grinned across at her. “Well,” he asked, “aren’t we?”