Erle Gardner: The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

Mason heard an exclamation at his elbow. “Oh, there you are, Aunt Sarah. I lost you.” The lawyer looked up, to see a tallish young woman who moved with quick decision. As he glimpsed her moist gray eyes, his courtroom experience told him there was fear in her voice. The white-haired woman’s voice, on the other hand, showed no fear, only calm poise. “I lost you somewhere in the crowd, Ginny, so I decided I’d come up and have a cup of tea. At my age, I’ve found it never pays to worry. I knew you were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, calling a cab and going home.”

“But I didn’t know about you ,” the girl said, seating herself with a nervous laugh, high-pitched with apprehension. “I wasn’t certain you were all right, Aunt Sarah.”

“I’m always all right, Ginny. Never worry about me. Always remember that no matter what happens, I’ll take care of myself, and...”

The store detective interposed his bulk between Mason’s eyes and the face of the white-haired woman. “I’m very sorry, Madam,” he said, “but I’m going to have to ask you to step into the office.”

Mason heard a quick gasp of consternation from the girl, but the woman’s voice remained calmly placid. “I have no intention of stepping into the office, young man. I’m about to eat lunch. If anyone in the office wishes to see me, he can come here.”

“I’m trying,” the detective said with dignity, “to avoid making a scene.”

Mason pushed back his soup, to watch with frank interest, as the detective stepped behind the woman’s chair. She calmly broke off a piece of bread, buttered it, unhurriedly glanced up over her shoulder and said, “Don’t try to avoid making a scene on my account, young man. Go right ahead.”

“You’re making it difficult for me,” he said.

“Indeed!” she muttered.

“Aunt Sarah,” the girl pleaded, “don’t you think...”

“I don’t think I’m going to budge until I’ve had my lunch,” Aunt Sarah interrupted. “They say the cream of tomato soup here is very nice. I believe I’ll try some and...”

“I’m sorry,” the detective interposed, “but unless you accompany me, Madam, it will be necessary for me to make a public arrest.”

“Arrest?” she inquired, pausing with the buttered fragment of bread half way to her lips. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m placing you under arrest for shoplifting,” the man said.

The woman conveyed the bread to her mouth, chewed it calmly, nodding to herself as though mentally digesting the possibilities of the situation. “How very amusing,” she said, picking up her water glass.

The irritation in the detective’s voice made it distinctly audible to persons sitting within a radius of three tables. “I’ve been following you,” he charged, “watching you put things under your coat.” And, as the woman made as though to open her coat, he added quickly, “Of course I know you haven’t them now. You left them in the restroom.” He turned and nodded to the maid, who vanished through the curtained doorway.

“I don’t think,” the woman said reminiscently, as though trying to recall an eventful past, “that I’ve ever been arrested for shoplifting... No, I’m quite certain I haven’t.”

“Aunty!” the girl exclaimed. “The man’s not joking, he’s serious... He’s...” The maid emerged from the restroom carrying an armful of clothing. There were silk stockings draped over her arm, bits of silk lingerie, a silk blouse, a scarf and a pair of lounging pajamas.

The girl opened her purse, pulled out a checkbook. “My aunt,” she explained rapidly, “is rather eccentric. She does her shopping at times in an unusual manner. I’m afraid perhaps she’s a little absent-minded. If you’ll kindly tell me the exact amount and will be so good as to have the purchases wrapped, I’ll...”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” the detective interrupted. “You can’t get away with that stuff, and you know it. That’s an old gag, pulled by every shoplifter in the country. When you get caught red-handed with the goods, you’re ‘ shopping .’ We have another name for it. We call it stealing! ”

Other diners, attracted by the scene, were staring. The girl’s face flushed with mortification. But the white-haired woman seemed concerned only with the menu. “I think,” she said, “I’ll have some of the chicken croquettes.”

“Madam” the detective exclaimed, placing a hand on her shoulder, “you’re under arrest!”

“Indeed!” she said, looking at him over the top of her glasses. “You’re an employee of this store, young man?”

“I am. I’m a detective. I’m a duly authorized deputy...”

“Then, if you’re an employee,” she said, “I’m going to ask you to kindly get me a waitress. After all, I want lunch, not dinner.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder. “You’re under arrest!” he repeated. “Are you going to come down to the office quietly, or will I have to carry you?”

“Aunty! Please go,” the girl pleaded. “We can straighten this up somehow. We...”

“I haven’t the slightest intention of going.”

The detective braced himself. Mason’s chair scraped back, as the lawyer got to his feet, to tower above the chunky detective. His hand clapped down on the man’s shoulder with explosive force. “Just... a... minute,” he said. The detective whirled, his face dark with rage.

“You may be a detective,” Mason told him, “but you know very little about law. In the first place, that’s not the proper way to make an arrest. In the second place, you evidently haven’t a warrant, nor has any crime been committed in your presence. In the third place, if you knew any law, you’d realize that you can’t make a charge of shoplifting stick until a person attempts to remove the goods from the premises. Anyone can pick up goods in a department store and carry ‘em all over the place, and you can’t do a thing about it until that person walks out to the sidewalk.”

“Who the hell are you?” the detective asked. “An accomplice?”

“I’m a lawyer. The name’s Perry Mason,” the lawyer told him, “in case that means anything to you.”

It was instantly apparent from the expression on the man’s face that it meant a great deal to him. “What’s more,” Mason went on, “you’re laying your store wide open to a damage suit. Try using force on this woman and you’ll be a very much sadder and perhaps a wiser individual.”

The young woman again indicated her checkbook. “I’m quite willing to pay for anything Aunt Sarah has taken,” she said.

The detective was undecided. His eyes showed surly rage. “I’ve a notion to drag you both down to the office,” he said.

Mason’s voice was quiet. “Put a hand on that woman, and I’ll advise her to sue the store for twenty thousand dollars’ damages. Put a hand on me, my burly friend, and I’ll break your damn neck.”

An excited assistant manager, who had evidently been summoned by the telephone, bustled into the room. “What’s happening here, Hawkins?” he asked.

The detective indicated the woman. “I caught this woman red-handed,” he said, “shoplifting. I’ve been following her around for half an hour. Look at the pile of stuff she had under her clothes. She must have had a hunch I was on the job, because she ditched the take in the restroom.”

“Evidently,” Mason said, “your detective is somewhat green at the game.”

“And who the devil are you?” the manager demanded.

Mason presented his card. The manager glanced at the card, then his head jerked back and up, as though pulled with a string. “Come down to the office, Hawkins,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”