Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Counterfeit Eye

There was the sound of steps behind them. Muldoon looked up, stared for a moment with surprise, then let his lips break away from his teeth in a grin.

"Sergeant Holcomb!" he said. "I ain't seen you for a month of Sundays."

Perry Mason whirled with a quick start of feigned surprise.

"I've been trying to call you," he said.

"From where?" asked Sergeant Holcomb.

"From here—from the hotel."

"What did you want with me?"

"I wanted to tell you about a tip that was given me, a tip that I think is hot."

"What was it?"

"That Harry McLane was at this hotel, and he wanted to talk."

"Well, have you seen him?"

"They say he isn't registered here."

"What's the excitement about with the house dick?"

"He described a guy," Muldoon said, "and wanted to find out if he was here in the hotel, registered under another name."

Sergeant Holcomb's eyes stared steadily at Muldoon.

"Is he?"

"Yes, I think so."

"What's the name?"

"George Purdey. He's in 904. He came in about an hour and a half ago. He looked phoney, which is why I spotted him."

Sergeant Holcomb turned to Perry Mason.

"How long have you been here, Mason?"

"Quite a little while," Mason said.

"What have you been doing?"

"Been waiting for McLane to show up. I thought I'd got here ahead of him. I was told he was going to register at this hotel, and that he'd be willing to talk."

"You said you were calling me?"

"Yes, I wanted to have some officer present when he talked—that is, if he was going to talk."

"What was he going to talk about?"

"Something about that Basset case. I don't know just what it was."

"Listen," Sergeant Holcomb said. "You can't fool me a damn bit. You didn't call me and you never intended to call me. You've been here over half an hour. What have you been doing?"

"I was in the diningroom."

"Getting something to eat, I suppose, because it just happened you were too hungry to wait."

Mason looked appealingly at the clerk.

"That's right, sir," the clerk said. "He said he was going into the diningroom."

"Where this bird says he's going, and where he goes, aren't always the same things," Sergeant Holcomb remarked. He took Mason's arm, and pushed him toward the diningroom.

"Come on, buddy," he said. "If you can pick out the girl that waited on you, I'm going to give you a written apology."

Mason stood in the doorway, looking uncertainly.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't do it, Sergeant. You know I seldom pay attention to waitresses. I know it was a young woman in a blue uniform."

Sergeant Holcomb laughed sneeringly.

"They all have on blue uniforms," he said. "It's just like I thought, Mason. You can't get away with it."

"Wait a minute," the lawyer said. "That girl over there looks familiar."

Sergeant Holcomb beckoned to her with his linger.

"You wait on this man a few minutes ago?" he asked.

She shook her head.

Sergeant Holcomb sneered.

The waitress who had brought Mason his sandwich and beer came forward.

"I'm the one that waited on him," she said.

Mason's face suddenly lit with recognition.

"That's right," he said. "You are. I'm sorry but I didn't remember you very clearly. You see, I was rather preoccupied at the time."

"Well, I remember you all right," she said. "You gave me a fiftycent tip for a sandwich and beer order. I don't get fiftycent tips with sandwich and beer orders often enough to forget the people who gave them to me."

Sergeant Holcomb's face was a study in surprised consternation.

The cashier, who had overheard the conversation said, "Why, I remember this gentleman. He paid his check and then stood at the telephone by the desk making a couple of calls."

"Who'd he call?" Holcomb asked.

"A Sergeant Holcomb at police headquarters, and then the district attorney's office. I thought he was a detective and I listened to the conversation."

"The district attorney's office!" Holcomb said.

"Why, yes," the cashier told him. "He called the district attorney when he couldn't get Sergeant Holcomb. He asked the district attorney to send a man over to be with him when he interviewed a chap by the name of McLane, who was a witness to something or other."

Sergeant Holcomb said slowly, "Well—I'll—be—damned!"

"What do we do now?" Mason inquired. "Do we talk with Harry McLane?"

"I talk with Harry McLane," Sergeant Holcomb said. "You wait in the corridor."

Holcomb pushed Mason toward the elevator.

"Ninth floor," he said.

They reached the ninth floor and Mason, hastily stepping from the elevator, started to walk in the wrong direction, then, glancing at the numbers on the rooms, caught himself, turned and walked down the corridor toward 904. Sergeant Holcomb caught Mason's sleeve and pulled him back.

"I'll be the one who makes the contact," he said. "You keep back of me."

He stood in front of the door of 904 and knocked gently. When there was no answer, he knocked again, then turned the knob of the door and opened it. He stepped inside the room and said over his shoulder to Perry Mason, "You wait there."

The door closed.

Mason stood motionless.

Abruptly the door opened. Sergeant Holcomb's white, excited face stared at Perry Mason.

"Is he going to talk?" the lawyer inquired.

"No," Sergeant Holcomb said grimly, "he's not going to talk. Now you're a busy man, Mason. Suppose you go right back to your law office. I'll attend to things here."

"But," Mason said, "I want to see McLane."

A spasm of impatience registered on Sergeant Holcomb's face.

"You," he said, "get the hell out of here before I get rough about it. This is one investigation I'm going to make before your masterly touch manipulates the evidence and spirits away the witness."

"Has something happened?" Mason asked, standing his ground.

"It will happen if you don't beat it," Sergeant Holcomb said.

Mason turned with dignity and said, "The next time I try to give you a tip you'll not know it."

Sergeant Holcomb said nothing but stepped back into the room and closed and locked the door.

Mason went directly to his car, drove to his office, pushed his way into Della Street's office and said, "Listen, Della, we've got to work fast…"

He broke off as a figure stirred in the shadows. Pete Brunold, grinning, got up from his chair and extended a hand to Perry Mason.

"Congratulations," he said.

Sheer surprise held Mason motionless.

"You!" he remarked. "What the devil are you doing out of jail?"

"They turned me loose."

"Who did?"

"The cops—Sergeant Holcomb."

"When?"

"About an hour and a half ago. I thought you knew about it. You got a writ of habeas corpus. They didn't want to make a charge against me just yet, so they turned me loose."

"Where's Sylvia Basset?"

"I don't know. I think she's in the district attorney's office. They're questioning her."

Mason said slowly, "Probably the worst break you ever got in your life was when they turned you loose. You get out of here. Go to a hotel, register under your name, telephone the district attorney, and tell him that you're there."

"But why," Brunold asked, "should I telephone the district attorney? He doesn't…"

"Because I told you to," Mason interrupted savagely. "Damn it. Do what I tell you to. Seconds are precious—minutes might be fatal. Get started! I thought you were safely in jail, and any minute now…"

The door pushed open. Two men entered without knocking. One of them looked at Brunold and jerked his head significantly toward the door.

"Okay, buddy," he said. "Get started."

"Where?" Brunold asked.

"We're from the D.A.'s office," the man said. "The Chief wants to see you right now and it'll take more than a writ of habeas corpus to spring you this time. Your friend, Mrs. Basset, spilled some information to the D.A. We've got a warrant for you and she's already been arrested."