Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

The janitor stood in the doorway. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

Holcomb said, “Take charge of this girl,” and half pushed Virginia Trent over to his arms. She clung to the janitor as she had clung to Sergeant Holcomb. Holcomb and Mason entered the shop and groped for the drop-cord, found it and switched an overhead incandescent into blazing brilliance.

Mason said, “I presume that’s George Trent. He’s evidently been dead for a while.”

Holcomb called to the janitor, “Hey, you! Come in here and take a look at this fellow and see if you can identify him.”

As the janitor moved toward the door, Virginia Trent released her hold, dropped into the stenographer’s chair at the typewriter desk, put her head on her arms and sobbed violently.

The janitor stared, open-mouthed. “That’s George Trent,” he said simply.

Holcomb moved toward the telephone, reached over the girl’s shaking shoulders to pick up the instrument, dialed headquarters and said, “Homicide... This is Holcomb. We have another one out here at nine thirteen South Marsh Street. This time it’s George Trent. Come on out.”

He hung up the telephone and said to Mason, “Show me where he was.”

Mason indicated the pile of packing boxes. “I heard them fall just as I was getting out of the elevator,” Holcomb admitted. “How did you know he was there?”

“I didn’t,” Mason said. “I happened to notice that peculiar reddish-brown stain which had seeped through the crack in the bottom of the packing case. I climbed on a box. The box collapsed. I grabbed at the packing case, and the whole pile came down.”

“Where was he?”

“Jammed in that big packing case.”

“Where was it?”

“Up on the very top of the pile.”

Sergeant Holcomb inspected the packing case and said, “He was evidently shoved in there right after he’d been shot.”

“And then put up at the top of the pile,” Mason said.

Holcomb nodded. “That was because they didn’t have a cover for the packing case, and they didn’t want him discovered.”

Mason said, “It’s a cinch he’d be discovered there sooner or later.”

“Later,” Holcomb said, “not sooner. The man who killed him was sparring for time.”

He stood staring moodily down at the body for several seconds, and then said musingly, “At that, it’s a hell of a place to leave a body.”

“Are you,” Mason asked, “telling me?”

There was silence for several seconds, a silence which was broken only by the sobbing of Virginia Trent. Then Mason said, “Take a look under his shirt, Sergeant. See if there’s a chamois-skin belt with some stones in it.”

Sergeant Holcomb said acidly, “I’ll make my investigation after the coroner arrives. If you want any further information, Mason, you can get it by reading the newspapers.”

“You mean you don’t want me to stick around?” Mason asked.

Holcomb considered for a moment, then said, “No. The janitor tells me you went in just a minute before I did. I heard the packing cases upset as I got out of the elevator, then heard the girl start to scream. I guess this is once I can give you a clean bill of health, and something seems to tell me I can get a lot more information out of this young woman if you’re not hanging around giving her advice.”

“She’s hysterical,” Mason said.

“She’ll get over it.”

“It’d be a shame to question her now. You’ll make a nervous wreck of her.”

“What was she doing here?” Sergeant Holcomb wanted to know.

“She works here off and on. It’s her job.”

“Yeah. What was she working on here this time of night?... When you come right down to it, Mason, how did you know she was going to be here?”

“I didn’t,” Mason said. “I just dropped in. She’d been at a picture show, and came up here to write some letters.”

“What letters?”

“I don’t know. Some letters she wanted to write on a typewriter.”

Sergeant Holcomb jerked his thumb in the direction of the · corridor door. “Okay, Mason,” he said, “that’s all. She talks English. I won’t need an interpreter.”

Mason rang Paul Drake’s office. “Any messages for me?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Mason. Your secretary said to call her at the Green Room of the Maxine Hotel. She said it was important.”

“Anything else?” Mason asked.

“Drake just came in. He wants to talk with you.”

Mason heard the click of the connection and then Paul Drake’s voice on the line. “What’s the commotion down at Homicide, Perry?”

Mason said, “I dug up another body for them.”

“ You did!”

“Uh-huh.”

“ That’s a break,” Drake told him.

“What is?”

“That I wasn’t with you. Who’s the body, Perry?”

“George Trent.”

Mason heard Drake’s whistle of surprise. “Where was it?” the detective asked.

“In a packing case in his workshop. What had you been able to find out about him, Paul? Anything?”

“Just a description. I have men out looking for him. I’ll call them in “

“Did you have a good description?”

“Yes. Fifty-two years old, six feet tall, two hundred and ten pounds, brown hair, brown eyes... Tell me, Perry, are you certain it’s George Trent?”

“Reasonably so,” Mason said. “The niece had hysterics. The janitor identified him. The body had been jammed into a packing case. I wanted to look around some, but Holcomb kicked me out. He wanted to work on the girl while she was still hysterical. What else, Paul?”

“I have a couple of likely prospects my men picked up coming out of The Golden Platter. I’m breaking license numbers down into names and addresses.”

“Get anything on Lone Bedford?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “She’s at the Green Room of the Maxine Hotel with Della right now, Perry.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “Take advantage of her being there to have a man frisk her apartment. See what he can dig up.”

“Right,” Drake said. “They’ve moved Sarah Breel — came to the conclusion her skull wasn’t fractured after all.”

“Where did they move her?” Mason asked.

“The Dearborn Memorial Hospital.”

“Was she conscious?” Mason asked.

“I gathered not, but aside from possible internal injuries, they’ve figured it down to a broken leg and a concussion. How about Trent, Perry? What killed him?”

“Apparently a bullet,” Mason said. “Incidentally, there was a thirty-eight caliber revolver in the upper right-hand drawer of the desk in Trent’s office. That may or may not be significant. There was also a bottle of whiskey in the drawer. I’d been feeding whiskey to the niece and told Holcomb about the bottle. He pulled out the drawer a little farther than I had and got a glimpse of the gun.”

“I’ll get men on the job and see what I can find out,” Drake said. “Della wants you to call her.”

“I’m calling,” Mason told him.

He hung up the telephone, dialed the Maxine Hotel, asked for the Green Room and had Della Street paged. A few moments later her voice, a bit higher-pitched than usual, said, “How long does this keep up, Chief?”

“What keep up?” he asked.

“You know,” she told him, and giggled.

“You mean following instructions with Lone Bedford?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know,” Mason said, “perhaps not much longer. Why?”

“The girl has ideas,” Della Street said.

“Such as what?” Mason asked.

“Such as what we’re doing now.”

“And what are you doing now?”

“Putting drinks on the expense account,” she told him.