The Case of the Stuttering Bishop by Erle Stanley Gardner Page B

inquiry.
    "Bishop Mallory. He wasn't a bishop when I knew him, but he's a bishop now."
    "And he suggested you come here?"
    "Yes."
    "Then you've seen the bishop since your arrival?"
    She hesitated and said slowly, "I can't see that that makes any difference, Mr. Mason."
    Mason smiled and said, "Well, perhaps you're right, particularly since I don't think I'm going to be able to handle your case. You see, I'm very busy with a lot of important matters and…"
    "Oh, but you must. I… you'll just have to, that's all."
    "When did you see Bishop Mallory?" Mason asked.
    She sighed and said, "A few hours ago."
    "But you've been here since morning?"
    "Yes."
    "Why didn't you come to see me during office hours?"
    She shifted her position uneasily. Resentment flared for a moment in her reddish-brown eyes. Then she took a deep breath and said slowly, "Bishop Mallory suggested I come to you. I couldn't see the bishop until a short time ago. He'd been injured and was in a hospital."
    "And he suggested you come to me?"
    "Yes, of course."
    "Did he give you a letter to me?"
    "No."
    "Then," Mason said, making his tone carry an implied accusation, "you have absolutely nothing to show that you actually know Bishop Mallory, that you actually saw him, or that he suggested you come to me." She fought back resentment in her eyes and shook her head. Mason said, "Under those circumstances I'm quite certain I couldn't interest myself in your problems."
    She seemed to debate with herself for a moment, then snapped open the black handbag which had been reposing in her lap. "I think," she said, "this may answer your question." Her gloved fingers fumbled around in the inside of the purse. Mason's eyes suddenly glinted with interest as the lights reflected from the blued steel barrel of an automatic which nestled within the black bag. As though sensing his scrutiny, she pivoted her body in a half-turn so that her shoulder was between Mason's eyes and the bag. Then she pulled out a yellow envelope, took from it a Western Union telegram, carefully snapped the bag shut and handed the telegram to Mason.
    The telegram had been sent from San Francisco and was addressed to Julia Branner, care of The Sisters' Hospital, Salt Lake City, Utah, and read simply: MEET ME REGAL HOTEL LOS ANGELES AFTERNOON OF THE FOURTH. BRING ALL DOCUMENTS – WILLIAM MALLORY.
    Mason frowned thoughtfully at the telegram and said, "You didn't meet Bishop Mallory this afternoon?"
    "No. I told you he'd been injured."
    "You saw him this evening, a few hours ago?"
    "Yes."
    "Did he say anything to you about his future plans?"
    "No."
    "Just what did he say?"
    "He suggested I should see you and tell you my entire story."
    Mason sat back in his swivel chair and said, "Go ahead."
    "Do you," she asked, "know of Renwold C. Brownley?"
    "I've heard of him," Mason said noncommittally.
    "Did you know of an Oscar Brownley?"
    "I've heard of him."
    "I," she announced, "am Mrs. Oscar Brownley!"
    She paused dramatically. Mason took a cigarette from the case on his desk and said, "And you are, I believe, a fugitive from justice under an old felony warrant for manslaughter issued in Orange County."
    Her jaw sagged as though he had struck her unexpectedly in the solar plexus. "How… how did you know that? The bishop wasn't to tell you that!"
    Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, "I merely mentioned it so you'd realize it wouldn't be worthwhile to misrepresent matters to me. Suppose you go ahead and tell me your story and make sure you tell me all of it."
    She took a deep breath and rushed headlong into an account which poured from her lips with such glib alacrity that it might have been memorized or, on the other hand, might have been the result of long brooding over wrongs. "Twenty-two years ago," she said, "I was wild – plenty wild. Renwold Brownley was in the real estate business and didn't have very much money. Oscar was the apple of his eye, but Oscar liked to step around in the white lights. I was a