Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

“Now then,” Mason said, “there were five diamonds in your aunt’s handbag. They were wrapped in tissue paper. They looked to me as though they might be the Bedford diamonds.”

“There were five in that collection,” she said. “Where... where did Aunt Sarah...”

“That,” Mason said, “is an open question. Cullens had a chamois-skin belt next to his skin. Someone had ripped that belt open and probably taken the contents.”

“But where would Cullens have got Mrs. Bedford’s stones?” she asked.

“Probably,” Mason said, “from a gambling joint known as The Golden Platter. He telephoned Mrs. Bedford that your uncle had pawned the stones there for six thousand dollars; that he was going to bring pressure to bear and try to redeem them for three. In the meantime, the gamblers didn’t like the idea of having pressure brought to bear.”

“But,” Virginia said, “Auntie could never have taken those stones from Mr. Cullens. He might have given them to her, but...”

“If she didn’t get them from Cullens,” Mason said, “she probably got them from the safe.”

“Well, she might have done that,” Virginia Trent said. “I never thought of looking in that bag of hers. It’s a regular suitcase. She carries all kinds of stuff in it.”

“She didn’t have it with her in the department store, did she?” Mason asked.

“No, not this noon. She left it in the automobile.”

“She’d hardly have done that if it had five big diamonds in it, would she?”

“Well, you can’t tell... After all, if Auntie had intended to do any shoplifting, it might have been the safest place for them.”

“Yes,” Mason said slowly, “I can see that... It’s a thought. What’s behind that door, Virginia, the shop?”

She nodded.

Mason opened the door, looked into the dark interior. “You seem to have quite a lot of space here,” he said.

“Yes,” she admitted, “it’s more than Uncle George really had use for, but he needs more room than he could get in an office building”.”

“Where’s the light switch?” Mason asked.

“There isn’t any,” she said. “You turn on each light as you want it by pulling on the drop-cord which hangs from the light. That keeps the men from wasting electricity... Here, I have a flashlight if you want to find the drop-cord.”

She opened her brown leather handbag and took out a nickel-plated flashlight some six inches long by half an inch in diameter.

“That’s a cute little gadget,” Mason said. “Carry it all the time?”

“Yes,” she said. “It... it comes in handy.”

Mason switched on the flashlight, and, by its aid, located the drop-cord on the first light. He was moving over toward it when the beam from the flashlight, sliding over a pile of packing cases in a corner, caught a patch of color. Mason paused to center the beam on the discolored wood.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“What?”

“This pile of big packing cases,” Mason said. “The top one has a... Never mind, I’ll take a look myself.”

Holding the flashlight in his left hand, Mason walked over to the corner and examined the reddish-brown stain which had seeped out to stain the boards. The lawyer sniffed the air, then stood a small box on the end and climbed up on it.

The box swayed under the lawyer’s weight. Before he could step down, it buckled under him with a crashing sound. Mason flung out his hand to catch his balance, and caught the edge of the large packing case on top of the pile. A moment later, the entire pile of cases tottered precariously.

“Look out!” Virginia Trent screamed from the doorway.

Mason flung himself to one side. The big packing box slid down the pile, split with a crash on one corner, and spilled out the inert body of a man, which slumped to the floor, where it lay, indistinct in the half-light, a grotesque sprawl of death.

Virginia Trent stared, then started to scream, shrill, hysterical screams which cut through the silence of the building.

Mason moved toward her. “Shut up!” he said. “Help me find that drop-cord.”

He had dropped the flashlight in his fall, and now groped, with outstretched hands, searching for the cord which controlled the light. Virginia Trent backed away from him, as though, in some manner, associating him with that which lay on the floor. Her eyes were wide and staring. Her mouth formed a great dark circle as she continued to scream.

Mason heard feet in the corridor, heard someone pounding at the door.

“Shut up, you little fool!” Mason said, jumping toward her. “Can’t you see...”

She ran screaming back into the outer office. The pound of fists on the door became louder. Virginia Trent backed into a corner. Someone knocked out the glass panel in the door, reached in through the jagged break in the glass and turned the knob.

Mason stood facing the door as Sergeant Holcomb twisted back the knob. “What the hell’s coming off here?” he asked.

Mason jerked his head toward the shop. “I don’t know. There’s something out there you’d better look at, Sergeant.”

Virginia Trent continued to scream. Sergeant Holcomb said, “What’s eating her?”

“Having hysterics,” Mason said.

Virginia Trent pointed toward the shop, tried to control herself, and couldn’t. Mason moved toward her and said, “There, there, kid, take it easy.”

She recoiled from him in horror, flung her arms around Sergeant Holcomb and clung to him, trembling and shaking.

“What the hell have you been trying to do?” Holcomb demanded of Mason.

Mason said, “Be your age, Sergeant. The kid’s upset. There’s a body in the other room.”

“A body!” Mason nodded.

“Whose?”

Mason said, “I wouldn’t know. It was stuffed in a packing case on the very top of a pile. I saw a stain which looked suspicious. I climbed up on a box and started to investigate. The box gave way, I grabbed at the packing case, and the whole pile toppled over. The body fell out. It’s half dark in there. She started to have hysterics and I tried to quiet her down.”

Holcomb said, “Let’s take a look.”

Virginia Trent clung to him in a frenzy of fear. Holcomb fought against the thin arms which clamped so rigidly around his neck. “Take it easy,” he said. “Snap out of it... Hell, you’re drunk!”

“No, she isn’t drunk,” Mason said. “There’s some whiskey in the desk. She fainted when I told her about her aunt, and I gave her some whiskey.”

“When was that?”

“Just a minute ago.”

“The janitor says you just came,” Holcomb grudgingly admitted. “Which drawer’s the whiskey in?”

“The upper right.”

Holcomb opened the drawer, took out the bottle of whiskey, then stopped, peered farther in the drawer, reached in and pulled out a gun. “What’s this?” he asked.

Mason, inspecting it, said, “I’d say it was a thirty-eight caliber revolver.”

Holcomb said, “Here, help me hold this girl’s arm while we pour some hooch down her. She won’t let go of me.”

The girl screamed with fear as Mason approached her.

“Seems to think you’re responsible for her troubles,” Holcomb said.

“Shut up!” Mason told him. “She’s nuts. Here, Virginia, drink some of this... Can’t you see, she’s having crazy hysterics.” She turned her head from side to side, fighting against the preferred whiskey. Mason said, ‘It’s the only way. Hold her on that side, Sergeant. It’s a good thing she has gloves on and can’t scratch.” Between them, they forced a generous draught of whiskey down her throat. She choked, sputtered, and started to cough. “Anyway,” Mason said, “that’ll make her quit screaming. Come on, Virginia, buck up. You’ve got to take it.” ‘