Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Counterfeit Eye

"I was going in a taxicab."

"Well, well, well," Sergeant Holcomb said. "That's too bad. We can't have the leading trial lawyer of our city waiting around while we get taxicabs. Good Lord, no. His time's too valuable. One of you boys put him in a police car and take him up to his office. See that he gets delivered right away and without any delay and bring Mrs. Basset in here, before he goes, and we'll find out what she knows about this."

Perry Mason ground out his cigarette in an ash tray.

"For a man who gets as few real results as you do, Sergeant, you're remarkably cunning in your methods."

And the lawyer bowed his way out while Sergeant Holcomb was trying to think up an answer.

Perry Mason unlocked his private office, switched on the lights, and walked through the suite until he came to the entrance room, the door of which bore the words:

PERRY MASON

Lawyer

entrance

Della Street, seated behind a desk reading at law book, looked up at him with a grin.

"I'm studying law, Chief," she said.

She wore a fur coat which buttoned tightly about her. A length of stockinged leg protruded through the opening in the fur coat.

"The police been here?" the lawyer asked.

"I'll say. They did a lot of wisecracking."

Mason's face clouded.

"Did they get rough with the girl?" he asked.

She let her eyes get wide.

"Why, I thought you ditched the girl some place. She didn't show up."

"She didn't show up here?" Mason inquired.

Della Street shook her head.

"What did you tell the cops?" he asked.

"They cracked wise," she told him, "and I cracked wise back at them. I figured you'd found out the police were coming here, so you'd ditched the girl. That gave me a chance to be sassy. I told them I'd just dropped in to study a little; that I did a lot of night studying because you wanted me to become a detective; that you said so many of the detectives were incompetent there should be lots of room for a real intelligent one."

"How soon did you get here?"

"The cab was at my place in about two minutes after I hung up the phone. I was down on the street waiting. I gave him a tip to make a fast run. We got here in nothing flat. I came in and switched on the lights in this room, and left the door unlocked. I also told the night watchman that a young woman was coming up to the office, and to see that she got here if she made any inquiries."

Perry Mason gave a low whistle.

"Paul Drake was looking for you," she said. "The watchman told him I was in when Paul started home. So he came back to the office and left a package for you." She indicated a pasteboard package on the table, tied with string and sealed in several places with red sealing wax.

The lawyer took out his knife, slit the string, and said, "Did you have any trouble with the officers?"

"No. I let them look through the whole place. They thought I was holding a woman up my sleeve."

"Hard to convince?" the lawyer asked, lifting the cover from the box.

"No," she said. "They were delightfully easy to convince. They figured it out that you'd told the detectives you'd sent the girl here. Therefore, they figured it was the last place on earth where she'd really be. Not finding her here was not only exactly what they expected, but gave them a chance to make their wise cracks."

Mason lifted the top layer of cotton from the box, took out six bloodshot glass eyes, which he spread on the desk, where they stared up unwinkingly.

"We've got Brunold's address?" he asked.

"Yes. It's in the file."

"Was there a telephone number?"

"I think so. I'll see."

She opened a file of card indexes and pulled out a card.

"Telephone?" he asked.

"Yes. It's here."

"Get him."

She looked at her wristwatch, but Mason said impatiently, "Never mind the time. Go ahead and get him."

She plugged in a line, dialed a number, waited for almost a minute, then said, "Hello, is this Mr. Brunold?"

She glanced across the desk at the lawyer, and nodded.

"Tell him to come up here," Mason said. "No, wait a minute; I'd better tell him myself."

He took the telephone from her and said, "This is Perry Mason talking. I want you to come up to my office right away."

Brunold's voice was sulky.

"Listen," he said. "You haven't any business that's important enough to make me…"

"You paid me fifteen hundred dollars," the lawyer said, "because you had confidence in my ability to get you out of a mess. That was before you got in the mess. You're in it now. My best judgment is that you should come up here. If you don't follow my advice, you've made a poor guess and thrown away fifteen hundred dollars backing it. I'll be in my office for ten minutes. If you don't stop to shave, you can make it."

Perry Mason dropped the receiver back on the hook without waiting for Brunold to make any further comments.

Della Street looked at him, speculatively, and said, "Is he in a mess?"

"I'll say he is. Hartley Basset was murdered tonight. He was holding a bloodshot glass eye clutched in his hand when they found the body."

"But, does Brunold know Basset?"

"That's what I want to find out."

"He should be in the clear," she said slowly. "He complained of the loss of the eye this morning."

Mason stared at the six bloodshot eyes which glowered so redly up at him, and nodded his head slowly.

"It's a point," he said, "to take into consideration. But don't overlook this fact: Harry McLane worked for Basset. Brunold was acquainted with Harry McLane. Where did Brunold and Harry McLane get acquainted? Did the McLanes come here by accident, or did Brunold send them?"

"Whom are we representing?" she inquired.

"Brunold, for one," he said, "Miss McLane, for another, perhaps Mrs. Basset."

"How was the murder committed?" she asked.

"So it might have looked like a suicide, but it was pretty clumsy. Then Mrs. Basset complicated things by planting a gun. A quilt and a blanket had been used to muffle the sound of the shot. One gun was under them. Mrs. Basset—planted a second gun. She, said it was because she didn't see the first gun, and she wanted the thing to look like a suicide."

"Well?" Della Street asked.

"Well," Mason said, "that may have been it, or it may have been that she knew the concealed gun hadn't been the one that did the shooting, and she realized the police would check it up by comparing bullets."

"Did she leave fingerprints on the second gun?" Della Street asked.

"Yes," Mason said, "hers and mine."

"Yours!"

"Yes."

"How did yours get on it?"

"I took the gun away from Dick Basset, her son."

"And then gave it to her?"

"Yes."

"Gee, Chief, do you suppose that was a play to get your fingerprints on the gun?"

"I can't tell, yet."

She pursed her lips and whistled silently. After a moment she said, "Can you tell me all about it?"

"I got a call about midnight to rush out to Basset's place. Mrs. Basset told me her son, Dick, was threatening to kill her husband. I stalled around for a while, but she made it sound urgent, so I went.

"When I got there, this Fenwick woman was lying on the couch, apparently unconscious. Mrs. Basset said Hartley Basset had hit her. Dick Basset had a gun. I took the gun. They said the woman was Dick's wife, but the marriage mustn't be mentioned. A redheaded woman about fifty, probably a servant, was putting wet towels on the girl's head. Dick Basset was talking big.

"I figured Mrs. Basset wanted a divorce; that her husband would deny hitting the girl, in a divorce court, but he might have a hard time withstanding the rough treatment of two detectives who wanted the facts, so I put in a call for the cops.

"Then the girl came to, and said Basset hadn't hit her but that a masked man, with an empty eyesocket, had slugged her. She'd pulled off the mask and seen the man's face, but because the room was half dark, and light was coming through the doorway, he hadn't seen hers. She said he was a stranger to her. He socked her. The mask was a piece of black carbon paper with two holes in it for eyes. It had evidently been held in place by putting a hat brim down over it. The Fenwick girl ripped the mask off. The pieces that had been torn out were in Basset's private office on the desk.