Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

“No.”

“What’s the idea of the party?” Mason asked.

She grinned and said, “The woman was plying me with drinks, and trying to get me to talk. I didn’t know how long it’d be before you showed up, so I pretended I was feeling the effects.”

“How much of it,” Mason asked, “is pretense?”

She gave the matter the benefit of frowning consideration, said, “About fifty percent of it is genuine, Chief,” then hiccoughed and said, “Well, perhaps you’d better make it seventy-five percent,” and laughed.

Lone Bedford emerged from the telephone booth, sailed up to Mason, linked her arm through his and said, “Okay, let’s go places. Can we get a drink at police headquarters?”

“That,” he told her, “remains to be seen.” He led the way to his car and drove to police headquarters, while the two girls, in high spirits, made hilarious comment on the cars they passed, the electric signs, and such other matters as came to their attention. At police headquarters, the property clerk regarded Mason with frowning suspicion. Mason indicated Lone Bedford. “Mrs. Bedford,” he said, “left some diamonds with Austin Cullens to give to George Trent. There’s some possibility that the diamonds found in Mrs. Breel’s handbag may be the Bedford diamonds.”

“So what?” the man behind the cage asked.

“I wanted to see if Mrs. Bedford could identify them,” Mason said.

The man said, “Just a minute,” picked up a telephone which had a device clamped on the mouthpiece making his conversation inaudible. He talked for some two or three minutes, then turned from the phone to Mason.” What’d you say her name was?”

“Mrs. Bedford, Lone Bedford.”

The man returned the telephone to his lips, there followed additional conversation, then he nodded, hung up the telephone, and moved over to the vault. He brought out Mrs. Breel’s bag, took the tissue-covered jewelry from the bottom, placed the pieces on the counter, and unwrapped the tissue. Mrs. Bedford, her hilarity completely dissipated, watched the paper coverings being removed with eyes which were narrowed in scrutiny. “No,” she said slowly, as the diamonds came to view, “those aren’t mine.”

“You’re certain?” Mason asked.

She nodded, then turned to face him. “I never saw them before in my life,” she said. “They’re somewhat similar to my pieces, but they’re not mine.”

“That’s all,” Mason told her. “Thanks.”

The property clerk carefully rewrapped each of the diamonds. “How did it happen Mrs. Breel was carrying those stones around in her handbag?” Mrs. Bedford asked. “They’re worth money.”

“That,” Mason told her, “is something we don’t know. Mrs. Breel stepped out from the curb, apparently right in front of an automobile, it was out on St. Rupert Boulevard between Ninety-First and Ninety-Second Streets and...”

“What was she doing out there?” Lone Bedford interrupted, her voice suddenly hard.

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “No one knows. Of course, with the finding of Cullens’ body, the police think...”

“With the finding of what? ”

Mason looked at her in surprise. “Why, don’t you know?” he said.

“Know what?” she inquired, seeming to bite the ends off the words as she uttered them.

Mason said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”

“Go on, out with it.”

“Austin Cullens was shot sometime this evening. The police found his body lying on the living room floor of his house.”

Lone Bedford stood rigidly motionless. Della Street said to Perry Mason, “Why, Chief, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought I had told you.” She shook her head. “Things have been so frightfully mixed up tonight,” Mason apologized, “that I haven’t been certain... I’m very sorry if this comes as a shock to you, Mrs. Bedford. You’d known him a long time, I believe?”

She suddenly turned to Della Street. There was cold suspicion in her eyes. “All right. You two go ahead and celebrate Della Street’s birthday. I’m finished.”

“Is there,” Mason said, “some place I can take you? Remember, I have a car.”

“No,” she said, striding toward the door.

As the door slammed shut, Della Street said reproachfully, “After all, Chief, that was cruel. She may have cared for him a lot.”

“That,” Mason said, “was exactly what I wanted to find out.”

Mason, freshly shaved and seeming as buoyant as a new tennis ball, deftly scaled his hat over the curved brass hook on the rack, walked over to his desk, picked up the file of important correspondence which Della Street had placed on his blotter, and deposited it on the far corner of the desk. Della Street opened the door of her office, grinned a greeting and said, “Hi, Chief. What’s new?”

“How are the birthdays?” he asked.

“Well,” she said, “I’ve recovered all right, but don’t give me any more.”

He laughed. “After all, it was just a fake birthday, Della. You really aren’t a year older, you know.”

“Well,” she observed dubiously, “I feel a year older.”

“Whose suggestion was the birthday?” he asked.

“The Green Room seemed to be the only thing Mrs. Bedford was interested in,” Della said, “and naturally, I had to have some excuse to put on the party.”

“Some party,” Mason told her. “How about the sheiks?”

“What sheiks?”

“The group that flapped around the table, dancing and...”

“Oh,” she said, “you mean the table lizards. I won’t hear from them.”

“How about it?” he asked, amused. “Did they all ask for Lone Bedford’s telephone number and none for yours?”

“Don’t be silly,” she told him.

“And you mean to say you refused to give them your number?”

She smiled reminiscently. “I told them,” she said, “that my name was Virginia Trent, and gave them her number. It should be a good break for the girl.”

Mason laughed. “Paul Drake,” she went on, “wants to see you as soon as you come in.”

“Give him a ring,” Mason told her. “What’s in the papers? Anything?”

“Oh, a lot of stuff” she said, “and Drake seems to be bursting with information, I’ll give him a buzz.”

She entered her office, and Mason picked up the newspapers, to skim through them. A few moments later, Della Street closed the office to stand by the exit door which opened into the corridor. When she heard Paul Drake’s steps outside, she opened the door, and, making a mock salute, stood at attention. “Hello, Della,” the detective said. “Lo, Perry.”

Mason indicated a chair. “What’s new, Paul?”

The detective sat down in the big leather chair, and turned around, draping his legs over one of its arms. “Lots of things,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

“Well,” Mason told him, “begin in the middle and work both ways.”

“On the gambling business,” Drake told him, “I have a couple of live ones spotted, a contractor about fifty-five who was there with a girl who couldn’t have been over thirty and looked twenty. Then there was a bank executive with a fluffy little blonde. Either of those two should be just what we want.”

“How about Lone Bedford?” Mason asked. “Did you follow her?”

“I’ll say.”

“Where?”

“When she left the property room in the jail,” Drake said, opening a notebook and consulting it, “she was in a hurry to go places. She ran over to the comer to flag a cab, didn’t have any luck, and walked down the street a couple of blocks to the Spring Hotel. There’s a taxi stand there. She had the taxi driver crowding signal lights and cutting corners until she came to the Milpas Apartments on Canyon Drive. She went into apartment three fourteen, which is rented by a Pete Chennery. Apparently she’s Mrs. Chennery.”