Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Counterfeit Eye

He saw that the man's right hand clutched the hilt of a knife; that the knife had been buried in the heart. The twisted features were those of Harry McLane.

Mason was warily watchful. He stepped back a couple of paces and cocked his head to one side, listening. He fished in his left waistcoat pocket with thumb and forefinger, pulled out one of the counterfeit eyes which Drake had had made. He polished the eye with his handkerchief so there would be no fingerprints on it, stepped to the side of the bed, bent forward and inserted the counterfeit eye between the loosely clutched fingers of McLane's left hand. He tiptoed to the door, polished the inner knob with his handkerchief, jerked open the door, stepped into the corridor, rubbed the outer knob hastily with his handkerchief, and let the door close behind him.

Mason walked swiftly to the stairs, climbed the two flights to the eleventh floor, rang for the elevator, and was whisked down to the lobby. He entered a telephone booth, called his office and said, "Okay, Della, burn that envelope."

He left the hotel, walked through an alley to the street where he had left his car, and stood concealed in the alleyway, looking up and down the street.

He spotted a police car, which was parked at the curb some fifty feet behind his own car. Two men sat in the police car, slouched down in the seat, as though they were prepared for a long wait.

They were watching Mason's car.

The lawyer narrowed his eyes in thoughtful scrutiny and stepped back into the alley. As he stood there, another car swung around the corner and slid to a stop directly opposite the police car. Sergeant Holcomb, of the Homicide Squad, leaped out from the driver's seat and conversed in low tones with the two men in the car.

Perry Mason abruptly turned and retraced his steps down the alley to the next street. He walked with quick steps to the hotel, entered the hotel, crossed to the clerk's desk, and said, "I'm not anxious to have the information broadcast, but I'm looking for a chap by the name of Harry McLane. I've got a tip that he's here in the hotel some place. Have you a McLane registered?"

The clerk looked through the register, and shook his head.

"Funny," Mason said slowly. "I was told he'd be here. My name's Perry Mason. I m going into the diningroom and get something to eat. If he should register, please have me paged. But don't tell him that I'm looking for him."

He stepped into the diningroom and ordered a sandwich and a bottle of beer. When the sandwich was brought to him, he accepted the check, and insisted on tipping the waitress a halfdollar. He ate the sandwich leisurely, drank the bottle of beer, sauntered to the door of the diningroom and stood there looking into the lobby.

Sergeant Holcomb was standing in a corner of the lobby behind a potted palm.

Mason stepped back into the diningroom and walked directly to the public telephone near the cashier's desk. He dropped a nickel and asked for police headquarters.

"I want to speak to Sergeant Holcomb," he said.

"Sergeant Holcomb isn't in."

"Is there anyone who can take a message for him?"

"What about?"

"About some developments in connection with a case I'm working on."

"Who is this talking?"

"Perry Mason, the lawyer."

"What's the message?"

"Ask him to come to the Maryland Hotel as soon as he gets in. Tell him I'm waiting for him there."

He hung up the receiver.

He dropped another nickel and called the district attorney's office.

"Perry Mason, the lawyer," he said. "I want to talk to Hamilton Burger on a matter of considerable importance… No, I won't talk with anyone else. I want to talk with Mr. Burger personally. Tell him Mr. Mason is on the line."

After a few seconds he heard Burger's voice, calm, suave, yet wary.

"What is it, Mason?"

"I'm down at the Maryland Hotel, Burger. I was told to come here by someone who gave me a tip over the telephone and wouldn't leave his name. I was told that Harry McLane was here, and was ready to talk. I've inquired at the desk, and McLane isn't registered here. I have an idea he may be coming in almost any minute. The voice of my informant sounded as though he knew what he was talking about.

"Now, McLane worked for Basset. It, incidentally, happens that he's a client of mine on another matter…"

"Yes," Burger said, "I know all about that matter, Mason. You don't need to explain it."

"That simplifies things," Mason said. "You can appreciate the fact that McLane might give some important information if he wanted to."

"'If he wanted to' is good," the district attorney said. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm in rather a peculiar position in this thing," Mason explained. "In a way, I'm acting as attorney for McLane. Therefore, if he's going to talk, I'd like to have some representative of your office here when he talks. I've called Sergeant Holcomb at the Homicide Squad, but can't get him."

There was a moment of silence. Then Burger said, "You're at the Maryland Hotel now?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been there?"

"Oh, quite a little while. I waited around for McLane, and he didn't show up. I had a meal in the diningroom and put in a call for Sergeant Holcomb."

"Well," Burger said slowly. "I'll send a man down, if you think it isn't a wildgoose chase. But understand one thing—from the minute my man arrives, my office is going to be in charge."

"Okay by me," Mason said.

"Thank you for calling," Burger said, and hung up.

Mason slipped the receiver back into place, lit a cigarette, opened the door from the diningroom and walked into the lobby, taking care not to look in the direction of the corner where Sergeant Holcomb was standing, one foot on the rim of the tub which held the potted palm, his elbow resting on his bent knee, a cigarette between his fingers.

Mason walked to the desk and said, "McLane hasn't registered yet?"

"No."

Mason took a chair, sprawled out his legs, made himself comfortable and puffed placidly on his cigarette.

When the cigarette was threequarters finished, he went to the desk again and said, "Say, I hate to keep bothering you, but this man McLane may have registered under another name. He's a young fellow about twentyfour or twentyfive, with celluloidrimmed glasses. He has a few pimples on his face, dresses well, has light reddish hair, and freckles on the backs of his hands. I'm wondering if…"

The clerk said, "Just a minute. I'll get the house detective."

He pressed a button, and, a moment later, a paunchy man with hard, intolerant eyes stepped from an office and looked Mason over in uncordial appraisal.

"This is Mr. Muldoon, our house officer," the clerk said.

"I'm looking for a man whose real name is Harry McLane," Mason said, "but who may have registered under another name. He's about twentyfour or twentyfive, with a mottled complexion. He has light reddish hair and freckles on the backs of his hands. He's slender, welldressed. The last time I saw him, he had on a dark blue suit; with a white stripe, and he wore a very light gray hat. I'm wondering if you'd remember him."

"What do you want him for?"

"I want to talk with him."

"But you don't know what name he's registered under?"

"No."

"How do you know he's here?"

"I was advised that he's here."

"Who advised you?"

"Really," Mason said, "I don't know as that's any of your business."

"You've got a crust," Muldoon told him, "coming in here and insinuating to me that one of our guests is a crook."

"I didn't insinuate any such thing."

"You insinuated he was registered under another name."

"A man might do that for lots of reasons."

"Well, suppose you come clean," the house detective said. "You're holding something back. Who are you? Why do you want…?"