Case of the Footloose Doll Read Online Free PDF

first-degree murder.

Chapter 3
    DELLA STREET, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, said, “There is a young woman employed by the Consolidated Sales people down the hall who wants an appointment. She says it will only take a few moments and she’d like to run in and talk with you whenever it’s convenient. She says she can get away for ten or fifteen minutes whenever we phone.”
    “Say what it’s about?” Perry Mason asked.
    “Only that it was a personal matter.”
    Mason looked at his watch, then at his appointment schedule, said, “These things that take only fifteen or twenty minutes quite frequently take an hour, and you don’t like to throw a girl out right in the middle of her story. We have a half-hour, though . . . Give her a ring, Della. Ask her if she can come in right away. What’s her name?”
    “Fern Driscoll.”
    “Do you know her?”
    “I don’t think so. She says she’s seen me in the elevator. I think she’s new with the company.”
    “Give her a buzz,” Mason said, “tell her I can see her right away if she wants to come in now. Tell her that’s with the understanding it will only take twenty minutes; that I have another appointment.” Della Street nodded and went to the telephone.
    A few moments later she was back saying, “She’s coming in right away. I’ll go to the reception office and meet her.”
    “Skip the preliminaries,” Mason said, “getting her name, address and all that. We’ll get them when she comes in. I want to hear her story and rush things along as much as possible.”
    Della Street nodded, went to the reception office and within less than a minute was back. Turning to the young woman she had escorted into the office, Della Street said, “This is Mr. Mason, Miss Driscoll—Fern Driscoll, Mr. Mason.”
    “Sit down. Miss Driscoll,” Mason said. “You’re working for the Consolidated Sales and Distribution Company, I believe.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Where is your residence, Miss Driscoll?”
    “309 Rexmore Apartments.”
    “What did you want to see me about?” Mason asked. And then added in a kindly manner, “I specialize mostly in trial work and a good deal of it is criminal work. I think perhaps you’re in the wrong law office, but I may be able to help you get in touch with the right man.” 
    She nodded briefly, said, “Thank you,” then went on, “you’ll have to pardon my dark glasses. Ever since I came to California some two weeks ago I’ve been having eye trouble—I hitchhiked and I feel as if the retina of my eyes became sunburned. Did you happen to read in the paper some two weeks ago about a Mildred Crest of Oceanside who was killed in an automobile accident?”
    Mason smiled and shook his head. “These automobile accidents are a dime a dozen. They are usually all grouped together on an inside page. Was there something special about Mildred Crest’s death?”
    “I was riding with her when she was killed.”
    “I see,” Mason said, eying her sharply. “Were you hurt?”
    “Fortunately I was only bruised a little. I was sore for a day or two, but that was all.”
    Mason nodded. “Mr. Mason,” she said, “so that you can understand the situation, I have to tell you certain things. 
    “I lived in Lansing, Michigan. I wanted to disappear for reasons of my own. I can assure you I haven’t violated any laws. I just wanted to get away where I could begin all over again. I was restless and nervous. I had sufficient funds to buy a ticket to any place I wanted to go, but the point was I didn’t know where I wanted to go. I was drifting aimlessly. I was hitchhiking.”
    “Go on,” Mason said.
    “I went to Phoenix, stayed there for a few days, then went to San Diego, stayed there for only a few hours, got a ride out of San Diego and got as far as a little place called Vista and I was, for the moment, stranded there. It was about . . . oh, I don’t know, seven-thirty or eight o’clock in the evening. It was dark and this