The case of the ice cold.., p.1
The Case of the Ice-Cold Hands, page 1
part #68 of Perry Mason Series
The Case of the
Ice-Cold Hands
Erle Stanley Gardner
Foreword
My good friend, Dick Ford (Richard Ford, M.D., Massachusetts State Police Pathologist, Senior Medical Examiner of Suffolk County (Boston), Head of the Department of Legal Medicine at Harvard Medical School, and to whom I have already dedicated a Perry Mason book), has pointed out from time to time the necessity for closer liaison between law enforcement, forensic pathology and legal medicine.
Heaven knows how many murders Dr. Ford has investigated. No one knows how many times he has been able to give to the police a clue to a crime, suggest a suspect, or point out a line of thought resulting in the solution of the case. And in several instances that I know of, his shrewd counsel has resulted in sparing an innocent man from being charged with a murder which turned out to be no murder at all, but an accidental death or a suicide.
For some sixteen years now, Dr. Ford has been working with Joseph B. Fallon of the Boston Police Department. Fallon has recently, by his own decision, retired with the rank of Deputy Superintendent at the age of sixty-three.
From time to time over the past years, Dr. Ford has told me about Fallon, about his skill in interrogation, about his insistence that a man must in fact be held innocent until the evidence conclusively proves his guilt.
Dr. Ford insists that Fallon is one of the shrewdest interrogators he has ever encountered: a man who doesn’t resort to browbeating, who remains a gentleman at all times, who is patient and considerate, careful but tenacious.
Fallon has the rare gift of being able to teach and at the same time to put his theories into execution. He leaves behind him in the Boston Police Department well-trained investigators, hand-picked by himself, of whom he can be proud. He has taught them and he has taught them well.
Despite his retirement, his influence will continue to be felt in the department through the activities of these well-trained investigators.
The point I wish to make is that legal medicine is of great value to the public, that its value can be enhanced by police officers who have the ability and the mentality to work hand in hand with the brightest brains in the field of legal medicine—men who are big enough to share the credit where there is credit, and who are strong enough to stand up and say that the police haven’t a case when circumstances are such that the police do not have a case.
For some years now I have had firsthand information concerning many of Joe Fallon’s cases, the manner in which he works, his thoroughness, his courtesy, his uncanny ability as an interrogator and his unswerving integrity to his uniform and to his ideals.
It is for these admirable qualities that, on his retirement, I dedicate this book to an outstanding officer, JOSEPH B. FALLON, Deputy Superintendent of the Boston Police Department.
-Erle Stanley Gardner
Chapter One
Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, said, “This is a brand-new one, Chief.”
Mason looked up from the book he was studying, shook his head and said, “There aren’t any really new ones, Della.”
“This one is,” Della Street said. “You have a client waiting in the outer office who says she can give you twenty minutes and no more.”
“She can give me twenty minutes?” Mason asked.
“That’s right.”
“Well, that is a new wrinkle,” Mason admitted. “What’s her name, Della?”
“Audrey Bicknell.”
“Age?”
“Late twenties.”
“Blonde, brunette, redhead?”
“Very much the brunette,” Della said. “Very fiery, very strong personality—something of a black opal. You’ll like her.”
“Honest?” Mason asked.
“I’d say she was on the up and up, but she’s laboring under a terrific strain. She looked at her wrist watch five times in the two or three minutes I was talking with her, finding out her name and address. She’s a secretary who is at present out of work, unmarried, living in an apartment which she has kept up by herself but is now looking for some other young woman similarly employed to share expenses.”
“Did you ask her what she wanted to see me about?”
“Yes. She said she had time to explain it only once and that she’d prefer to go over it with you. She said it was a matter of some importance.”
“All right,” Mason said, “let’s get her in, Della, and see what it’s all about. I take it she’s good-looking.”
Della Street slowly moved her hands in a line signifying curves and contours.
Mason grinned. “What are we waiting for, Della? What’s holding us back?”
“Just feminine intuition,” Della Street said, “the expression on her face when she said she couldn’t tell me what she wanted to see you about. I have an idea that this girl is accustomed to putting things across with the aid of her dynamic, colorful personality, and she felt this particular approach would be more effective with a man than with a woman.”
“All right, we’ll see her,” Mason said. “You have now aroused my curiosity to such a point that I’d never let her leave the office, even if she does come in conflict with our four o’clock appointment.”
“You have ten minutes,” Della Street said.
“And she’s willing to give me twenty,” Mason observed.
“About seventeen now!” Della Street said, looking at her wrist watch, and then retreating to the outer office to return shortly with Audrey Bicknell in tow.
“Miss Bicknell, Mr. Mason,” she said.
Audrey Bicknell came forward with a quick, impulsive motion, giving Mason her hand and smiling up at him with dark, intense eyes. “So nice of you to see me, Mr. Mason. I know that it ordinarily takes an appointment, but this is a matter of the greatest urgency, and I . She broke off to look at her wrist watch, then smiled, said, “ . . . have to cut this exceedingly fine. Would you mind if I just began talking and . . . well, sort of skipped all the preliminaries?”
“Go ahead,” Mason said.
“I’ve given your secretary my name and address,” she said. “I can tell you very quickly what I want. I take it you’ve been to the races?”
“I’ve been to the races.”
“And are familiar with the procedure of betting at the track?”
Mason nodded.
“I have here five one-hundred-dollar tickets on horse number four, whose name is Dough Boy and who is in the third race this afternoon,” she said. “At the time the tickets were purchased the estimated odds were nearly fifty to one. I suppose that a bet of this size will pull the odds down somewhat, and of course I know the estimated odds aren’t controlling, but—Well, the horse will pay off big.”
“If he wins,” Mason said. “Or perhaps I should say if he has won, since the race is undoubtedly over by this time.”
“If he has won,” she repeated.
“And what do you want me to do?” Mason asked.
“I want you to take these tickets and hold them. If the horse has won, I want you to cash the tickets and deliver the cash to me in accordance with instructions.”
“Now, just a minute,” Mason said. “You purchased these tickets yourself?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask if you play the races regularly, if this is something you do —”
“This is the third time in my life that I ever made a bet—that is, in this manner. I have sometimes placed two-dollar bets through . . . “ Her eyes lowered. “Through bookies.”
“How did you find the bookies?” Mason asked.
“There was a young man in the office where I worked who knew where to place bets, and sometimes we’d go in on a pool, or sometimes . . . well, sometimes I’d bet.”
“Never more than two dollars?”
“No.”
“You must have had some pretty hot information on this horse,” Mason said.
“Does that make any difference?”
“It doesn’t make any difference in the cashing of the tickets,” Mason said, “but I’m trying to get the complete picture so I can protect you and so I can . . . well, frankly, so I can protect myself.”
“There’s no protection needed as far as you are concerned,” she said.
“All you have to do is go to the window tomorrow afternoon—the window that is reserved for bets on winning horses that came in the day before—present your tickets, get the money and then wait for my instructions.”
“And if the horse has lost?” Mason asked.
“Then you won’t have to go to the race track,” she said, smiling.
“You seem fairly confident the horse is going to win or has won.”
“I certainly wouldn’t bet on a horse I thought was going to lose,” she said. “But you’re wrong if you feel I have any advance information. I pick my horses by hunches, intuitively, mostly by their names. I pick a horse with a nice-sounding name, one that indicates he’ll make an honest effort to win.”
“All right,” Mason said, “now I’m going to ask you some questions. You must have been at the race track in order to place the bets and get the tickets?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes.”
“And you left the race track before the race was run?”
Again she hesitated, then said, “Yes.”
“So you now have no knowledge of whether this horse won or not?”
“That’s right.”
“But at odds of this sort your
“I would assume so. Really, Mr. Mason, these matters are all so obvious. Is it necessary to take my limited time to go over all this? Can’t you take it for granted that all of these things are so?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I had them in mind,” Mason said, “because I am now going to ask you why you left the race track before the race was run? In making a bet of this size, you must have burned a lot of bridges. You took a desperate gamble, even assuming that you had some very accurate advance information. The winning of these bets certainly means a lot to you.”
“You may also take that for granted.”
“Then why did you leave the race track?”
“That,” she said, “is something I don’t have the time to discuss at the present moment. I am asking you please to act as my attorney. I want you to collect this money for me. I have here twenty dollars as a retainer. In the event the horse has won, I will make adjustments with you covering compensation for the time you have used in going to the race track and collecting on the tickets.
“In the event the horse has not won, there is nothing for you to do except toss the tickets in the waste-basket. In that event you have twenty dollars for the time you have given me.”
“How do I get in touch with you—if I get the money?” Mason asked.
“I’ll get in touch with you.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Is there a number where I can reach you?”
“Tomorrow is Saturday. The office won’t be open. The Drake Detective Agency with offices on this floor is open twenty-four hours a day. Call that number and ask for Paul Drake. He can always reach me.
“However, if the horse should win, I don’t want to be carrying a whole wad of currency around with me. I could deposit it and get a cashier’s check—”
“No checks,” she interrupted. “Cash. No bills larger than a hundred dollars. There shouldn’t be much risk to a big man like you. I suppose you have a permit to carry a gun.”
“I have a permit,” Mason said.
“Better use it then,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I’d dislike having you held up and relieved of my money. Be careful.”
She rose abruptly, flashed him a dazzling smile, said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Mason,” turned, gave her hand to Della Street and said, “You’ve been so kind and considerate, Miss Street, I certainly appreciate it.” With that, she swept across the office to the exit door, opened it and started out into the corridor.
“Just a moment,” Mason said, “I want to . . . “ His words were lost in the closing of the door.
“Shall I get her back?” Della asked.
Mason smiled and shook his head. “We’ll ask her when we see her again.”
“You think you’ll see her again?”
Mason nodded.
“How much chance does that horse stand of winning?” Della Street asked.
“The horse,” Mason said, “has already won.”
“What makes you think so?”
“She didn’t leave the race track,” Mason said, “until after the race had been run. She’s too excited, too keyed up—and I don’t think there’s any power on earth except personal danger that could have dragged her from the race track after she had placed five hundred dollars in bets on the nose of a horse that was estimated to pay odds of fifty to one.”
“There’s a broadcast of the races at five-thirty,” Della Street said. “It’s very realistic. They tape it right at the track and then broadcast it on the radio later on. We can listen and find out what horse won.”
“We can listen,” Mason said, “but I’ll now give you odds that Dough Boy won the race.”
Della Street raised inquiring eyebrows. “You’re that certain?”
Mason said, “The bets had to be placed at the track. The bets couldn’t be placed until after the previous race had been completed. So we have our mysterious client placing five hundred dollars on a horse that is down pretty much at the foot of the list. Now, can you imagine any circumstances which would cause her to leave the track before that race was run?”
“Nothing short of a murder,” Della Street admitted.
Mason gave that remark frowning contemplation.
“Well?” she asked.
“I was going to say,” Mason said, “that we could take it for granted that Dough Boy won the race; we could take it for granted that our client must have remained at the track until the result was certain and, for some reason best known to herself, doesn’t dare to present the winning tickets at the window. I was going to add that we could clinch our theory by pointing out that a young woman in moderate circumstances would hardly go to a lawyer’s office and pay twenty dollars to have him made the custodian of losing horse-race tickets.
“Moreover, if something had happened and our client had had to leave the track before the race was run, she would have saved herself twenty dollars by waiting until the results of the race were broadcast and then going to the attorney . . . only by that time law offices could be closed—this is Friday afternoon.”
“All that is so logical,” Della Street said, “that you’ve convinced me.”
“The trouble is,” Mason told her, “this is all on a take-it-for-granted basis. One of the most dangerous things anyone can do in the practice of law is to take things for granted.”
The telephone rang and Della answered. After a moment, she replaced its receiver, turned to Mason and said, “It appears your four-thirty appointment has been held up, so may I suggest we work on correspondence until five-thirty and then tune in the race broadcast?”
Mason nodded.
Della smiled. “I’m glad we’re going to get some of this correspondence caught up,” she said. “It’s high time.”
Mason opened a file marked with a red sticker, urgent, picked up a letter, scanned it briefly, tossed it to Della Street, said, “Write this man that I’m not interested.”
He read the next letter, handed it to her, said, “Tell this man I’ve got to know more about the circumstances of the case and particularly about the witness who made the positive identification.”
Della Street took each letter as Mason handed it to her, made shorthand notes indicating the nature of the reply, and by five-fifteen they had cleaned up the urgent pile of correspondence. “There’s another one that’s not urgent but is rather important,” Della said.
Mason shook his head. “I’ve had enough correspondence for the night,” he said. “I like to write letters to friends but I hate business letters. You write them, and then you get an answer. It’s a treadmill operation. The answers come in as fast as the letters go out. You never get anywhere.
“Bring out the electric percolator, Della. We’ll make some coffee. Give Paul Drake a ring and ask him if he wants to come on down the hall and join us for a cup of coffee. Tell him we’re going to listen to a rebroadcast, or whatever it is, of the horse races.”
Della nodded, moved over to the closet where they kept the electric coffee percolator, coffee cups, sugar and cream; then telephoned Paul Drake.
“He’s coming,” she said. “He says he had a hot tip on the third race and managed to get a small bet down.”
“The third?” Mason said. “That’s the one Dough Boy is in.”
Della nodded again.
“Now, wouldn’t it be just too charming if it should turn out Paul Drake has a tip on Dough Boy to win?”
“Well,” Della said, as Drake’s knock sounded on the door, “here’s the gambler now.”
She opened the door and Drake said, “Hi, Beautiful. Why the sudden interest in horse races?”
Della looked in Perry Mason’s direction and said, “No comment.”
Mason grinned. “Just wanted to relax a bit, Paul. We get in a terrific grind here in the office. Our days become strait-jacketed into a pattern of come-to-the-office-in-the-morning, wrestle-with-telephone-calls-and-correspondence, dash-up-to-court for-a-brief-hearing, then back-to-the-office-and-handle-correspondence and—”
“You’re breaking my heart,” Drake said, “but you haven’t answered the question.”
“How come you’re interested in horse racing?” Mason asked.
“A hobby,” Drake said. “I use it to take my mind off my business. I violate the law by patronizing a bookie. I can’t get out to the track. Occasionally I get a hot tip. However, you’re avoiding the question. How about your interest in horse racing?”
