Erle Gardner - he Case of the Stuttering Bishop

Perry Mason's eyes came to a hard focus on the figure which paused uncertainly in the doorway of his private office. "Come in, Bishop," he said.

The stocky figure, clad in loose-fitting black broadcloth, bowed slightly and strode toward the chair which Mason indicated. Above the white expanse of the ecclesiastical collar, a sun-burned face set off the cool gray of glinting eyes. The short, sturdy legs, terminating in well-worn black shoes, marched briskly enough, but, watching the man, Mason knew those legs would have marched just as steadily had they been propelling the rugged torso toward the electric chair.

The bishop sat down and turned to face the lawyer.

"Cigarette?" Mason asked, pushing a case toward his visitor.

The bishop reached toward the cigarettes, then paused and said, "I've been smoking them for an hour. Two puffs and I'm f-f-finished." As his lips stumbled over the first syllable of the last word, the bishop lapsed into abrupt silence for the space of two deep breaths, as though trying to control himself. After a moment, he said, his voice firm as the fingers of a pianist which, having fumbled, atone for the slip by an added emphasis, "If you don't mind, I'd like to light up my pipe."

"Not at all," Mason said, and noticed that the stubby pipe which the man produced from his left pocket was somehow very like the man himself.

"My secretary tells me you're Bishop William Mallory, of Sydney, Australia, and you want to see me about a manslaughter case," the lawyer said, breaking the ice for his visitor.

Bishop Mallory nodded, took a leather pouch from his pocket, stuffed fragrant grains of tobacco into the encrusted bowl of the polished briar, clamped his teeth firmly on the curved stem and struck a match. Watching him, Mason couldn't tell whether he cupped the match in both hands to keep his fingers from shaking, or from a mechanical habit of shielding a match against the wind.

As the flickering flame illuminated the high forehead, the somewhat flat face with its high cheekbones and determined jaw. Mason's eyes narrowed into thoughtful scrutiny. "Go ahead," he said.

Bishop Mallory puffed out several little clouds of smoke. He wasn't the sort of man who would squirm uneasily in a chair, but his manner gave every indication of mental uneasiness. "I'm afraid," Bishop Mallory said, "that my legal education is a little rusty, but I'd like to know about the limitations of a m-m-manslaughter case."

As he stuttered for the second time, his teeth clamped firmly on the pipe stem, and the rapidity with which he puffed out little spurts of smoke bore evidence both of his nervousness and of his irritation at the defect in his speech.

Mason said slowly, "We have, in this state, what is known as a statute of limitations. All felonies, other than murder and the embezzlement of public money, or the falsification of public records, must be prosecuted within three years after the crime has been committed."

"Suppose the person who committed the crime can't be found?" Bishop Mallory asked, and his gray eyes peered eagerly at the lawyer through the blue haze of tobacco smoke.

"If the defendant's out of the state," Mason said, "the time during which he is absent from the state isn't counted."

The bishop hastily averted his eyes, but not in time to avoid the expression of disappointment which clouded them.

Mason went on talking smoothly and easily, after the manner of a doctor who seeks to set the mind of a patient at ease before an operation. "You see, it's difficult for a defendant to secure evidence in his own behalf after a period of years, just as it's difficult for the prosecution to get the evidence of witnesses to a stale crime. For that reason, in all crimes, save those of the greatest importance, the law fixes this limitation. That's the legal limitation, but there's a practical limitation as well. Therefore, even if a district attorney technically is permitted to prosecute a crime, he might hesitate to do so after the lapse of several years."

During the ensuing moment of silence, the bishop seemed to be groping in his mind for the proper words with which to clothe an idea. The lawyer brought matters to a head by laughing and saying, "After all, Bishop, a client consulting an attorney is somewhat in the position of a patient consulting a doctor. Suppose you tell me just what's on your mind, instead of beating around the bush with abstract questions."

Bishop Mallory said eagerly, "Do you mean that if a crime had been committed twenty-two years ago, a district attorney wouldn't p-p-prosecute, even if the defendant hadn't been in the state?" And this time, so eager was he to hear the answer to his question that he showed no embarrassment at the impediment which manifested itself in his speech.

"What you would consider manslaughter," Mason said, "might be considered murder by a district attorney."

"No, this is manslaughter. A warrant of arrest was issued, but was never served because the person skipped out."

"What were the circumstances?" Mason asked.

"A person was driving an automobile and struck another car. The claim was made that she this p-p-person was drunk."

"Twenty-two years ago?" Mason exclaimed.

The bishop nodded.

"There weren't many of those cases twenty-two years ago," Mason observed, studying his visitor's features.

"I know that," the bishop agreed, "but this was in one of the outlying counties where a district attorney was overly zealous."

"What do you mean by that?" Mason asked.

"I mean that he tried to take advantage of every technicality the law offered."

Mason nodded and said, "Were you, by any chance, the defendant, Bishop?"

The look of surprise on the bishop's face was unmistakably genuine. "I was in Australia at the time," he said.

"Twenty-two years," Mason said, watching the bishop with thought-slitted eyes, "is a long time, even for a zealous district attorney. What's more, district attorneys come, and district attorneys go. There have probably been quite a few changes in the political set-up of that county during the last twenty-two years."

The bishop nodded absently, as though political changes had but little to do with the question under discussion.

"Therefore," Mason said, "since you are still concerned about the case, I gather there's more behind it than an overzealous district attorney."

Bishop Mallory's eyes snapped wide open. He stared at Mason and then said, "You're a very c-c-c-clever lawyer, Mr. Mason."

Mason waited several silent seconds before saying, "Suppose you tell me the rest of it, Bishop."

Bishop Mallory puffed at his pipe, then said abruptly, "Do you take cases on a contingency basis?"

"Yes, sometimes."

"Would you fight for a poor person against a millionaire?"

Mason said grimly, "I'd fight for a client against the devil himself."

The bishop smoked in meditative silence for several seconds, apparently trying to find just the right method of approach. Then he cupped the warm bowl of the pipe in his hand and said, "Do you know a Renwold C. Brownley?"

"I know of him," Mason said.

"Have you ever done any work for him I mean, are you his lawyer?"

"No."

Bishop Mallory said, "You're going to be consulted about a case against Renwold Brownley. There's a great deal of money involved. I don't know how much, perhaps a million, perhaps more. You will have to fight the case from scratch. If you win it, you can get a large fee, two or three hundred thousand dollars. I warn you that Brownley is going to be hard to h-h-h-handle. It's going to be a mean case. You'll be protecting the rights of a woman who has been greatly wronged. And the only chance you stand of winning the case is through my testimony as a witness."