TCOT Absurd Assumption C12
"I'm not looking for applause," Paul Drake Jr. complained, tripping alongside Perry Mason's long-legged strides. "But this is a break in the case, wouldn't you agree?"
Perry didn't answer right away, his mind elsewhere, begrudging Paul's little crisis his total concentration. He'd just returned to the office from his terribly interesting meeting with the grieving widow Paula Gordon and her husband's attorney Ken Braddock and wanted to discuss what he'd found out and what he was beginning to suspect with Della, but the telephone call summoning him to the scene of one Bobby Lynch's violent death demanded his presence immediately. He'd barely been able to issue a satisfied grunt about the miraculous transformation the office had undergone in his absence before heading back out, and couldn't get Della's undisguised disappointment out of his thoughts, because he wasn't sure if she was disappointed with him or upset about Paul being at the scene of what looked suspiciously like another murder. It seemed that whenever they were about to vault a hurdle in creating a livable, workable relationship, something happened that set them back at the starting block. This time it was the intrepid private investigator he'd hired who was to blame for knocking over a gate and resetting the race, as well as possibly with regard to Della's predicament. He could tell Della sensed it as well, and was as frustrated as he.
"It would be a break if we could ask Lynch questions about Arthur Gordon's murder in a visitor's room at the LA County Jail. But we can't, because he's dead."
"Don't blame me. I didn't shoot the guy."
Perry abruptly stopped walking and Paul had to execute an adroit sidestep to avoid a collision with the attorney's broad back. "No, you followed him and he caught on to you. I hope I don't need to remind you how careless that was on your part. This Bobby Lynch fellow has to be connected to Della's case somehow."
"What was I supposed to do? He was tagging me. I made him immediately, led him on, but when he realized I'd made him, he got sloppy and I managed to give him the slip. I tailed him here and he tried to run me over." The last words were delivered almost sullenly, with only a hint of defensiveness. Paul wisely withheld his suspicion that it must have been Bobby Lynch who tried to run him down behind the Jazz Spot, because he hadn't told Perry about that particular incident, and telling him now would be like pouring jet fuel on a fire. He was at minimum smarter than that. The resultant explosion would be quick and violent and lethal in regard to his standing as a private investigator, even with Della's considerable influence over Perry Mason. As it was, the lawyer's temper simmered so close to the surface already Paul was afraid the fumes of his emotional disquiet might spontaneously combust.
"You're lucky Lt. Cooper didn't take you in with him. You have some explaining to do, young man."
"I've already given the police my entire story." Old man, he seethed inwardly. "I didn't do anything wrong here, Perry. I was almost a victim myself, for crying out loud. You know what? This is a huge break in the case, even if you won't admit it. And I wasn't hurt, in case you were wondering."
Perry Mason simply walked away from his best friend's son. "Get all the information you can on this Bobby Lynch. I'll see you at ten o'clock sharp tomorrow in your office. Don't be late."
"He's late," Perry announced, without looking up from the file he was reading. Della's information about the family was thorough and impeccably presented, as per usual, and he couldn't have been more effusive in his praise for her efforts. What a complicated family Della had involved herself in by accepting the position of Arthur Gordon's administrative assistant. Each child's deficiencies and dysfunctions jumped out plainly from every neatly typed page.
Katherine, the eldest, beautiful, cynical, a lush in the making prone to morbid observations presented as deprecating humor, lived alone in a large Malibu beach house. Openly hostile toward her father, she'd spent every cent inherited from her mother's personal wealth on the house, and routinely demanded more than a monthly trust fund allowance by telling anyone who would listen that her father had killed her mother as surely as if he had tied the rope around her neck himself. Arthur Gordon refused to play that game with his daughter and never gave in to her demands.
Laura, the youngest, a delicate, timid, emotional tintype of her mother, touched a soft spot buried deep within Arthur Gordon, because she had once received a rather substantial amount of money from him over and above her allowance. But even with the supplemental income from his father-in-law, her playboy husband, having quickly run through his wife's inheritance, couldn't live within the confines of her monthly trust fund disbursement. Arthur Gordon had forcefully proclaimed his distaste for Laura's husband, a bogus tennis pro who used his limited talent for the sport and his wife's money to wine, dine, and bed as many gullible young women as possible with false promises of stardom on the tennis circuit.
Then there was David, the handsome and feckless middle child and only son, drifting through life on his good looks, a modicum of charm, his trust fund (after blowing through his inheritance in Las Vegas on his twenty-first birthday), and the promise of greater wealth when his father departed this earth. Impatient for that inevitability, he gambled, and lost – badly. Daily life for him now consisted of dodging those he owed significant sums of money to while maintaining the façade he had built within a certain social clique of Los Angeles. Unlike his sisters, David didn't ask his father for more money – at least Della had neither first-hand knowledge of such a request, nor been able to find anyone else who believed David had ever admitted his problems and groveled at the feet of his father.
Paula Gordon's story was held no surprises for Perry. Arthur Gordon had been her third husband by the age of thirty-two, each one wealthier than the last. She had deviated from her methodical pursuit of becoming a socialite of the highest regard while spending money hand-over-fist with her marriage to Arthur Gordon in two respects: he was much younger than her previous husbands, and she actually voluntarily held a job as the Director of her husband's philanthropic foundation, drawing a yearly stipend based upon a small percentage of approved projects. As an administrator Paula Gordon was a DISASTER (Della's own editorial enhancement), and on several occasions her husband's Executive Assistant had to step in and calm the waters. It was one such calming endeavor that introduced Della to professional cause promoter Asher Langlois, Perry knew, but that was nothing to be explored at the present time.
During his brief meeting with Ken Braddock and Paula Gordon the previous day, Perry had asked the widow of Arthur Gordon why her husband was going to remove her as Director of the Foundation. The bemused non-answer he received – it was a 'private matter' – told him more than she had probably intended to reveal, as did her subsequent sarcastic assertion that her husband didn't need a reason to behave badly. Then Perry dared to interject Della into the conversation, and Paula rocketed into a diatribe against her husband's Executive Assistant in which she called Della 'insane' and claimed she had manipulated Arthur because she wanted him for herself. And when she realized she wasn't going to get Arthur, Della had done a 'lunatic, obscene' thing and murdered him. Perry couldn't wait until Paula Gordon took the stand. He wouldn't object to one single outlandish accusation, because she made very little sense and had no concrete evidence of anything she said. He would eat her alive on cross-examination.
"He's late," Perry repeated a bit louder, emerging from his divergent thoughts after realizing Della hadn't responded, even though she was seated directly across the table from him, going over the Property list one more time, two tiny vertical lines between her wide eyes letting him know something worried her.
Paul Drake breezed into the office at that moment. It was ten-oh-five. "I don't think you'll mind I'm a little bit late when you get a look at this report from the police lab." He performed a comical double take at the altered condition of his office, the absence of files and papers, the gleam of fine old wood, the framed picture of his father prominently displayed on the desk. The desk which Perry Mason apparently didn't want to sit at, either. He wondered if Perry didn't want to for the same reasons he didn't want to himself. Maybe the cantankerous attorney had a few human feelings after all. Paul handed Perry a manila folder. "Here's everything there is to know about Bobby Lynch."
Perry immediately buried his nose in the file, barely acknowledging Paul.
"He was shot with a thirty-two caliber handgun, right through the heart," Paul continued. "I saw the flash of a shiny gun, maybe silver plated, before I took a dive off the ramp."
"Bobby Lynch was a naughty boy," Perry observed thoughtfully, almost to himself. "The last time he was in prison he stabbed a fellow inmate while serving time for knifing a tavern-owner." He closed the file and looked up. "Arthur Gordon was stabbed."
"What are you getting at?" Paul asked.
"I'm getting at that I believe Bobby Lynch may have killed Arthur Gordon." A shiver slithered up and down his spine. This felt right. This was something he could work with.
"But Arthur was killed by a woman," Della pointed out, setting aside the evidence report but not the two worry lines.
"No," Perry contradicted slowly, "the killer is assumed to be a woman based on the housekeeper's description. Mrs. Jeffries briefly saw someone of your general description from a distance in poor lighting, wearing a dress she recognized as one she'd seen you wear." He opened the folder again and pulled out Bobby Lynch's most recent mug sheet. "Look here…Bobby Lynch was five feet six, a hundred and forty pounds. He could have fit into that dress and from a distance passed for a woman."
"Are you suggesting that Lynch killed Gordon in drag? Dressed as Della?" Paul asked, excitement creeping into his words at the daring thought.
"Are you going to announce Bobby Lynch's vital statistics in open court?" Della asked in alarm, those two little lines deepening between anxious eyes.
"That's exactly what I'm suggesting, Paul." Perry smiled reassuringly at Della. "How about I refer to him as a 'slightly built man'?"
Paul Drake whistled, and both Perry and Della were startled by how similar the sound was to the one his father had habitually made. "That's quite a theory, Perry."
"Where are you getting information like this, Paul?"
"From a friend in the department. I told you I had good contacts," Paul said quickly, leaving out the details of how deftly he conned Sgt. Stratton, his old high school 'buddy' into giving him everything he wanted, just like in high school when Stratton had been the definition of a dumb jock. "Which reminds me – the police located the hotel Bobby Lynch was staying in and this friend of mine will be there shortly to toss the joint. I should be able to get access to his room while the detectives are there." He looked at his watch. "I'd better get moving."
"What time is the reading of the will, Della?" Perry sat with his back again to Paul, who stood behind him, expectantly. "And what time are we picking up your brother and sister-in-law?"
"The will reading is at eleven." She paused. "And we pick up Carter and Henny at four-forty." She lifted herself slightly from her chair to look over Perry's head as Paul gave up on any acknowledgement from the attorney and headed toward the anteroom. "Nice work, Paul," she called after him.
Paul Drake Jr. gave Della Street a jaunty salute and stuck his tongue out at the back of Perry's head before yanking open the door and plunging into the corridor. Della sat back down with a sigh and regarded her attorney over the typewriter, eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Hmmm?" Perry replied to her silent query, studying the mug shot of Bobby Lynch closely, becoming convinced he had murdered Arthur Gordon. But now the question was, what connection could a two-bit loser like Bobby Lynch have to a tycoon like Arthur Gordon or anyone close to Arthur Gordon?
"Don't you think so?"
"Think what?" Perry set the file down and removed his reading glasses.
"That Paul has done nice work."
"Yes, I think Paul has done nice work."
"Then why didn't you mention it?"
Perry leaned back in the wooden chair, the tiniest of smiles twitching across his lips, trying to be crusty but not quite putting it across. "He's still on the case, isn't he?"
"You couldn't compliment me enough about the background files, but you can't give one lousy 'atta boy' to Paul for all he's done? I'm very satisfied with my detective, but I'm a little bit ticked off at my attorney right now."
Perry gave her a surprised look. "At me? What for?"
Della sprang from the chair and headed quickly for the corner of the office, behind the desk, near the window. She fingered the drapes, remembering how Paul Sr. had howled his protest about them. "For the love of Mike, Della, I'm a detective! It's a rough and tumble profession and I have a certain reputation to live up to. Detectives do not have red flowered curtains!" She had won the skirmish, of course, and on those afternoons when the intense California sun streamed directly onto his back, cutting right through the bent, sagging, circa 1942 metal blinds he considered 'rough and tumble' enough for a detective, Paul Drake was thankful to be able to draw the thermal curtains for a couple hours of relief when they would no longer lower all the way. "You aren't making the slightest attempt to get along with Paul. He's willing to let bygones be bygones, but you're holding on to some grudge like an adolescent." That wasn't technically true, because Paul was holding on to a few of his own grudges, but she doubted Perry would realize that was the basis of the boy's insolence.
"I'm not the one who stuck out my tongue," Perry responded. And I'm not the one holding a grudge over something that's none of my damn business.
Della spun to gape at him. "How could you possibly know…" her words trailed off as a slow, satisfied grin appeared on his face. "You shouldn't be so proud of a lucky guess."
"You shouldn't be so defensive of such an adolescent antic."
She really didn't like it when he turned her own words against her to make a valid point. It was a rudimentary trick of cross-examination and he knew she didn't like it when he used it on her, just like when he answered a question with another question. "You're so concerned about my well-being," she all but grumbled. "But the way you treat Paul is causing me more stress than all I'm up against right now being accused of murder."
"I know what I'm doing, Della," Perry said very quietly. Now that he had something real to work with, a piece of the puzzle that could prove the prosecution had forced other pieces to fit where they didn't belong, his confidence as an effective criminal attorney was gaining traction. And he needed the boy – needed Paul – to live up to his self-glorification, because no matter how history might be written, Perry Mason's accomplishments had often been the direct result of what Paul Drake and Della Street contributed. Now when it counted most, Paul had to deliver, and deliver big.
Della crossed her arms, hugging her waist. "I know you do," she replied, even more quietly. "There is no one better than you when it comes to defending someone accused of murder, but Perry, I don't especially like how you're treating Paul."
"I won't molly-coddle him, Della. You yourself said he wasn't a boy any longer, but when I treat him like an adult you accuse me of being too tough on him. He's doing something very important for me and he has to understand I expect nothing but his best efforts at all times. If he wants to ever be hired again, he needs to please Counsel."
"Counsel needs to knock that chip off his shoulder." If he ever wants to be hired again?
"I don't have a chip on my shoulder. It's the boy who has a chip on his shoulder."
"A Perry Mason-sized chip I'd say," Della drawled with wicked insight.
"Della, I'm not going to put a gold star on the boy's forehead every time he does what I ask him to do. He's still on the case, therefore I must approve of what he's done so far. He's bright enough to figure that out. And so are you."
"He's not a mind-reader and you are one inscrutable s.o.b., Counselor."
"Then by all means you compliment him all you want, Mama Bear." He lifted one side of his mouth in a lopsided smile. "I will withhold my praise until I feel he's legitimately earned it."
"You used to compliment his father. All you had to say was 'Good work, Paul,' and he'd grin like a ten-year old."
"Not when he first started working for me. I rode him hard. He had to prove himself, just like Junior has to prove himself. Paul developed into a topnotch investigator with a lot of confidence, but it took time. He didn't acquire that confidence by making puppy-dog eyes at me, wagging his tail, and begging for a pat on the head. He acquired it with a lot of good, smart, hard work, and I rewarded him handsomely for it."
"You complimented me. From the very first day I worked for you, you complimented almost everything I did, just like this morning."
"I guess you don't remember how I put you through the wringer just like Paul, but I complimented you when you did things that weren't expected of you. And when you ably performed the duties on your job description, I raised your salary more quickly and more often than any other secretary I'd ever had." I also complimented you because I was hopelessly in love with you and wanted you desperately. She might just throw something at him if he admitted that.
Della relaxed against the credenza, resisting the lazy smile nearly as contagious as his dangerously dimpled grin. "You did do that often," she admitted, growing uncomfortably warm with an enlivened awareness of him. "Which I appreciated greatly, by the way."
"You were worth every penny, and more," he said with a vehemence that made her even warmer.
If she explored his response, they could wind up in very dangerous waters indeed – on top of Paul's desk possibly, in flagrant delicto as she'd imagined them atop her kitchen counter. She studied the tips of her shoes in silence, wishing she could fan herself.
"What did you do for dinner last night?"
Della looked up at him, stupendously grateful for the shift in topic. "I went out with Vi to a restaurant at Marineland." She had first hung around the office until past six, hoping he would breeze back in or at least call after pulling Paul out of his situation, making herself late for her dinner date with Vi.
"Vi? Oh yes, your agent friend. How is she, and I mean really?" He had called the office at six-fifteen after finishing with Lt. Cooper at the scene of Bobby Lynch's shooting, and when she didn't answer had called the house. Fourteen times between six-twenty and ten he'd called her house, and each time her recorded voice had greeted him and he had hung up. He'd dined alone in the hotel dining room, taken a long shower, and then sat on the bed obsessively running through the channels on the television between calls to Della.
"Socko," Della said with a quick grin, playing along. She hadn't seen Vi in several weeks, their schedules at odds of late, so dinner had been a lengthy gabfest Della enjoyed thoroughly, and she hadn't returned home until after ten.
"That was a fun night*, Della," Perry said wistfully. "You were such a brat, and so damn funny. You killed me when you one-upped Tragg's one-up of my 'here's to crime' toast."
"We needed a fun night to relieve all the tension of the case. I definitely liked Tragg and Paul fighting over who would dance with me first, and I mean really. Oh, definitely." Vi still peppered her speech with hyperbolic Hollywood adverbs, recently adding 'totally' and 'awesome' to her vocabulary, and Della had laughed heartily at hearing her fifty-five year old friend declare something to be 'totally awesome'.
"Tragg was pining for you, trying to decide if he should marry Mildreth Faulkner, or attempt to lure you away from me one more time."
Della snickered. "Don't be silly. Tragg wasn't pining over me in the least. He married Mildreth six weeks later," Della reminded him. "He wanted information and thought I had the information he wanted, so he flirted and was outrageous in his compliments. It was nice." She let out a small sigh. "A fun night. Things were definitely different then."
"How about tonight? What are the plans after we pick up your brother and Henny?"
Della quickly averted her eyes and shrugged. "Nothing big. Home and a quiet dinner. Henny thinks she's cooking tonight, but I told her she has another think coming. Aggie will stop by to check on me because she and the other girls made a pact that one of them would check on me from now until the preliminary hearing, even though I'll be surrounded by family. As well as cops and reporters. Did you see the unmarked car parked at the curb around the corner with two detectives hunched down in the seat? I walked all the way around the building to get to the deli at noon just so they would have an opportunity to stretch their legs."
Perry grinned. Lucky cops, pulling the detail to keep tabs on Della Street. "Have you spoken with Mae?"
Della's expression brightened. "Yes, actually I called while the cleaning crew was here yesterday and had twenty minutes of lucid conversation with her. She thinks you're crazy for stepping down from the bench, and hopes you remember how to be a lawyer. You'll have her to answer to if I'm not acquitted."
Perry laughed. "That's just the incentive I need to return to form as quickly as possible. I learned many years ago not to disappoint Mae." He locked his gaze with hers. "You will be acquitted, Della."
"Of course I will."
"And I'll get you acquitted my way."
"Of course you will. That's why I decided to hire you after you quit your job." She treated him to her most dazzling smile. "We need to leave now. It's a twenty-five minute drive to the Gordon estate, and we don't want to lose the detectives in traffic."
Perry helped Della into her coat and turned off the lights in the office. "If you don't mind the presumption of inviting myself to dinner, I volunteer my limited culinary talents for the evening. I think I could come up with a passable meal for the weary travelers, and I'll even suspend the rule of 'I cooked, you clean'."
Della placed her hand on his arm briefly. "I don't mind at all," she said quietly.
*The 'fun night' referred to is from TCOT Haunted Husband and is one of my all-time favorite Lt. Tragg scenes. The toast goes as follows:
"Here's to crime," Mason said, looking at Tragg across the rim of his glass.
"And the catching of criminals," Tragg amended before he drank.
"By fair means or foul," Della Street volunteered.