The Case of the Stuttering Bishop

"That all of it?" Mason asked.

"That's all of it except the signature. It's an awful scrawl."

"Well," Mason said, "we're commencing to get somewhere. Those are the papers that he…" He broke off as a voice from the door said, "What's coming off here?"

Mason whirled to face a dignified elderly gentleman whose close-cropped white mustache contrasted with the rich red of a florid complexion. The eyes were cold, steely and steady. From all appearances, the man might have been a banker, but there was an ominous menace in his eyes.

Mason said, "Where do you fit into the picture?"

"I'm Victor Stockton," the man said. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"No," Mason told him.

"You don't mean anything to me either."

Sacks, on the couch, had struggled to a sitting position at the sound of Stockton's voice. He pulled the bloody towels from his face. The frosty, gray eyes shifted from Mason to Sacks. "What did he do to you, Pete?" Stockton asked.

Sacks tried to say something, but his swollen lips and broken nose made the words inaudible.

Stockton turned back to Mason. "This man's my partner," he said. "I'm working with him on this case. I don't know who you are, but I'm going to find out."

Mason, his hands at his side, said, "Your friend Mr. Sacks broke into Bishop Mallory's room in the Regal Hotel and stole some papers. Were you in partnership with him on that deal?"

Stockton's eyes remained cold, nor did they so much as falter, but a film seemed to have been drawn over them. "Got any proof?" he asked.

Mason said, "You're damned right I've got proof."

Sacks made a lunge and tried to grab the letter from Della Street's hand. Mason caught his shoulder and pushed him back. Stockton started forward, his hand clawing at his hip.

Mason felt Della Street's body pressed against him, felt his right arm pulled slightly back. She pushed the cold butt of the.38 Mason had knocked from the detective's hand into his fingers. Mason moved his right hand forward. Stockton glimpsed the gun and froze into immobility. Mason said to Della Street, "Take down that phone and ask for police headquarters. Tell them…"

The man with the battered face swung his feet to the floor. Stockton nodded his head. Sacks ran in a staggering rush past Stockton, out of the door and down the corridor. Stockton turned deliberately on his heel and walked slowly from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Mason said to Della Street, "Are you hurt, kid?"

She smiled at him, shook her head, and explored her throat with the tips of her fingers. "The big baboon," she said, "tried to choke me. Then he got a knee in my stomach and got the bedclothes over my head."

"Did he know you were trying to signal me?" Mason asked.

"I don't think so. I tried to blow the whistle when the party got rough. I tell you, Chief, he was desperate. I saw panic and murder in his eyes. He's frightened stiff at something, and he's like a cornered rat."

Mason nodded and said, "Of course he's frightened."

"At what?" she asked.

Mason said, "Janice Seaton is the real granddaughter of Renwold Brownley. These detectives were in on the original crooked substitution and they've got to make it stick. With Brownley dead, they'll get a cut from the fake granddaughter, which'll make them independently wealthy. They're gambling with a fortune on one side and jail on the other."

"Wouldn't it have been logical for them to have killed Brownley?"

"Lots of people could logically have killed him," Mason told her. "My job is to find who did kill him."

"What'll I do with this stuff?"

"Give it to me," Mason said.

"You're going to keep it?"

"I'll hold it for evidence."

"Won't it be larceny? There's money in that purse. He might file a complaint…"

Mason interrupted savagely, "To hell with him! When the time comes, I'll turn these letters over to Jim Pauley, the house dick at the Regal, and he'll make a complaint charging these birds with burgling the bishop's room."

"You caved in the whole front of that man's face, Chief," she said.

His eyes were smoldering as he looked at her, his jaw pushed aggressively forward, "I wish to hell," he said, "that I'd made a better job of it." He crossed to the telephone, called Drake's agency, frowned when informed Drake was at a Turkish bath, and said to Drake's secretary, "Get all the dope you can on a private detective by the name of Peter Sacks. He thought Della Street was the Seaton girl and tried to bump her off… Get your men busy on that angle." Mason hung up the telephone. "Okay, kid," he said, "you go back to the office."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I," he told her grimly, "am going to the Santa Del Rios Hotel to interview the spurious granddaughter of Renwold C. Brownley."

Chapter 11

Mason folded a twenty-dollar bill and slid it into the palm of the girl at the switchboard in the Santa Del Rios Hotel. "All I ask," he said, "is that you get her on the line for me. I'll take care of things after that."

"I have positive orders," she demurred. "She's been deluged by newspaper reporters."

"And she's dodging publicity?"

"I'll say. She's overcome with grief."

"Yeah," Mason said, "overcome with grief because she's inherited a few million and is going to get her paws on it."

"Are you a newspaper man?" the girl at the switchboard asked. Mason shook his head. "What then?"

"To you," Mason told her, "I'm Santa Claus."

She sighed and her fingers closed over the twenty dollars. "If I nod my head," she said, "get in booth two. I'll have her on the line. That's all I can do."

"That's all you have to do," Mason told her. "What's her number?"

"She's in Suite A on the second floor."

"Okay," Mason remarked and stepped back from the desk. The nimble fingers of the girl flew over the switchboard. From time to time she talked into the mouthpiece which was held in position on her chest so that the curved rubber transmitter was within a few inches of her lips. Suddenly she turned to Mason and nodded. Mason entered the booth, picked up the receiver and said, "Hello." A feminine voice of silken texture said, "Yes, what is it?"

Mason said, "I'm Mr. Mason here in the hotel, and I think I should discuss with you arrangements we're perfecting to keep newspaper reporters from bothering you. We've had a perfect swarm of them down here. They've been ordered to get interviews or else, and unless we cooperate I'm afraid you'll be seriously a

The voice said, "That'll be fine, Mr. Mason. I appreciate what you're doing."

"May I come up now?" Mason asked.

"Yes. Go to 209 and tap on the door. I'll let you in through there. Don't come to Suite A. I think that's being watched by the newspaper men."

Mason thanked her, hung up, took the elevator to the second floor and knocked on the door of 209. It was opened by an attractive young woman in green lounging pajamas who flashed him a seductive smile and locked the door behind him. Then she led the way through co

She nodded toward a chair and said, "How about a cigarette and a little Scotch and soda?"

"Thanks," said Mason.

While he selected a cigarette, she poured Scotch from a cut-glass decanter into a tall glass, dropped in ice cubes and squirted carbonated water into the glass. "Have you heard any news?" she asked. "Have they found Grandfather's body?"

"Not yet," he told her. "This must be quite a shock to you."

"It is," she said, "a terrible shock," and placed a jeweled hand to her eyes.