Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Howling Dog

"What shall I tell them?" she asked.

"Tell them anything you know," he said, and lifted his hat as he walked away. From the door of the courtroom, he looked behind him.

Half a dozen newspaper reporters eagerly surrounded Mae Sibley, and were asking frantic questions.

Still smiling, Perry Mason pushed his way through the swinging door, out into the corridor.

Perry Mason looked at his watch when he entered his office. It was a cold, blustery night outside, and the radiators were hissing comfortably. The hour was exactly eight fortyfive.

Perry Mason switched on the lights and set a leather case on Della Street 's desk. He snapped a catch, took off a cover, and disclosed a portable typewriter. He reached in his overcoat pocket, took out a pair of gloves and put them on. From a briefcase he took several sheets of paper and a stamped envelope. He had just placed them on the desk when Della Street came in.

"Did you see the papers?" she asked, as she closed the door and slipped out of her fur coat.

"Yes," said Perry Mason, and grinned.

"Tell me," she said, "did you arrange that whole business so you'd have a dramatic punch for the close of the trial?"

"Sure," he told her. "Why not?"

"Weren't you coming pretty close to a violation of the law? Can't they make trouble for you before the grievance committee?"

"I doubt it," he said. "It was legitimate crossexamination."

"How do you mean — crossexamination?" she asked.

"It would have been perfectly permissible for me to have stood several women in line and asked Sam Marson to pick out the one who had left the handkerchief in his taxicab. It would have been perfectly permissible for me to have pointed to one of the women and told him that I thought that was the one. It would have been perfectly permissible for me to have taken one woman to him and asked him if he wasn't certain that that was the one, or to have told him that it was the one."

"Well?" she asked.

"Well," he said, "I only went one step farther. I found out that he was uncertain about the identity of the woman. I capitalized on that uncertainty, that's all. I took a woman, dressed her approximately the same as Mrs. Forbes had been dressed, put the same kind of perfume on her, and had her tell the taxi driver that she had left the handkerchief in his cab. Naturally, he didn't question her word, because he was uncertain in his recollection of the woman who had left the handkerchief in his cab.

"I knew that by the time the authorities got done with him, he'd make a positive identification. That's a slick way they have of taking a witness over a period of time, and letting him become more and more positive. They showed him Bessie Forbes, on at least a dozen different occasions. They did it casually, so that he didn't know he was being hypnotized. First, they showed him the woman, and told him that was the one who had been in his cab. Then they brought him in and confronted her with him, and told her that he had identified her. She didn't say anything, but refused to answer questions. That made Marson a little more certain. Bit by bit, they built him up in his testimony, and coached him, until he was so positive in his own mind, there couldn't be any doubt whatever. It's the way the prosecution prepares all cases. They naturally make witnesses more strong in their identifications."

"I know," she said, "but how about the handkerchief?"

"In order to be larceny," he said, "there has got to be an intent to steal. There wasn't any intent to steal. The woman was getting the handkerchief for me. I was getting it for the authorities. I turned it over to them sooner than they would have found it otherwise, and gave them the information."

She frowned and shook her head.

"Perhaps," she said, "but you certainly pulled a fast one."

"Of course I pulled a fast one," he told her. "It's what I'm paid for. I simply crossexamined him in an unorthodox manner, and crossexamined him before the district attorney had an opportunity to poison his mind with a lot of propaganda, that's all… don't take off your gloves, Della, leave them on."

"Why?" she asked, regarding the long black gloves on her hands and arms.

"Because," he said, "we're going to pull another fast one, and I don't want either one of us to leave fingerprints on the paper."

She stared at him for a minute, and then said: "Is it within the law?"

"I think it is," he told her, "but we're not going to get caught."

He walked over to the door and locked it.

"Take a sheet of this paper," he said, "and put it in that portable typewriter."

"I don't like portables," she told him. "I'm used to my office machine."

"That's all right," he told her. "Typewriters are as individual as handwriting. A handwriting expert can tell the kind of a typewriter a document was written on, and can also identify the typewriter, itself, if he has access to it and a chance to compare the writing."

"This is a new portable," she said.

"Exactly," he told her, "and I'm going to put some of the type a little out of line, so it won't look quite so new."

He went to the machine and started bending the type bars.

"What's the idea?" she asked.

"We're going to write a confession."

"What sort of a confession?"

"A confession," he said, "to the murder of Paula Cartright."

She stared at him with wide, startled eyes.

"Good heavens!" she said, "and then what are you going to do with the confession?"

"We're going to mail it," he said, "to the city editor of The Chronicle."

She remained motionless, staring at him with apprehensive eyes, then suddenly took a deep breath, walked over to her chair, sat down and slid some of the sheets of paper into the portable typewriter.

"Afraid, Della?" he asked.

"No," she said. "If you tell me to do it, I'm going to do it."

"I think it's skating on pretty thin ice," he told her, "but I think I can get you out if anything happens."

"That's all okay," she said. "I'd do anything for you. Go ahead and tell me what you want written."

"I'm going to dictate this," he said slowly, "and you can take it directly on the typewriter."

He moved to her shoulder and said in a low voice, "Write this, addressed to the city editor of The Chronicle.

Dear Sir:

I notice that in your paper you printed an interview with Elizabeth Walker, in which she said that I had made statements on several occasions that I intended to die on the scaffold; that I spent most of my time staring through binoculars at the residence occupied by Clinton Forbes, who was then going under the name of Clinton Foley.

All of these things are correct.

I notice that you have published an editorial demanding that the authorities apprehend me, and also apprehend Paula Cartright, my wife, before the trial of Bessie Forbes is allowed to proceed, the intimation being that I killed Clinton Forbes.

This accusation is unjust and untrue.

I did not killClintonForbes; but I did kill my wife, Paula Cartright.

Under the circumstances, I think that the public is entitled to know exactly what happened.

Perry Mason paused until the clicking of the typewriter signified that Della Street had caught up with him. Then he waited until she raised her eyes to his.

"Getting frightened, Della?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Go on."

"It's loaded with dynamite," he told her.

"It's oke with me," she said. "If you can take a chance, so can I.

"All right," he said, "go on from there:

"I lived in Santa Barbara with my wife, and I was happy. I was friendly with Clinton Forbes, and his wife. I knew that Clinton Forbes was a rotter, so far as any moral sense was concerned, but I liked him. I knew that he was playing around with half a dozen women. I never had any suspicion that my wife was one of them. Abruptly, and out of a clear sky, I realized the truth. I was a ruined man. My happiness was wrecked and so was my home. I determined to hunt down Clinton Forbes and kill him, as I would a dog.