Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

“Why, her apartment’s at the Bixel Arms on Madison Avenue,” Della Street said, “under her own name. The name isn’t listed in the telephone book because the phone was connected too late to be put in, but it’s under her name, and you can get it by calling information.”

Drake nodded. “How do you figure she’s Mrs. Pete Chennery at the Milpas Apartments?” Mason asked.

“The boys did a little snooping around,” Drake told him.

“Where is she now?”

“At last reports, still at the Milpas.”

“Did your men go through her apartment at the Bixel Arms?”

“We got in,” Drake said,” but were crowded for time. You met her out at the Green Room, took her down to headquarters, and she didn’t stay long. When she left, we figured she might be headed for her apartment, so I flashed the men on the job the signal to get out. They made a pretty good job of it, though. No letters, no correspondence, no checkbook. Nothing personal, except what you’d expect — tooth brushes, cosmetics, clothes, and a couple of hundred engraved visiting cards, together with the copper plate.”

“How about Chennery, was he home when she got there?”

“Apparently not. The apartment was dark.”

Mason said, “I’d like to know more about Chennery, Paul. I want a description. I’d particularly like to find out if there’s any chance Chennery was also known as Austin Cullens.”

“I’m sending some more men out there,” Drake said. “I’m going to pick up everything we can without making her suspicious. You don’t want her to know she’s being tagged, do you?”

“No,” Mason said. “She mustn’t...”

His desk phone rang and Della Street picked up the receiver, listened a minute, turned to Mason and said, “Dr. Gifford.”

Mason took the telephone. Dr. Gifford, speaking with close-clipped, professional rapidity, said, “Try and get this all at once, Mason. I won’t have an opportunity to repeat. Mrs. Breel is fully conscious. Actually she was conscious but sleeping most of the night. She had a concussion. No fracture, no internal injuries, the fracture in the right leg has been reduced, the leg’s in a cast, she’s been placed under arrest, with an officer on guard at the door of the room, no one is allowed to visit her. She refuses to make any statement except in the presence of her attorney, says you’re her lawyer, Sergeant Holcomb is on his way over here. It might be a good plan for you to come down. She’s in six twenty.”

“You’re at the hospital now?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s she under arrest for?”

“Charged with the murder of Austin Cullens.”

“She hasn’t made any statement, not even to the nurses?”

“Not a cheep,” Dr. Gifford said. “I’m sneaking this call through to you. Keep it dark. Good-by.”

Mason dropped the receiver into place, strode across the office and grabbed his hat. “Sarah Breel’s recovered consciousness,” he said. “So far, she isn’t talking. They’ve charged her with first-degree murder.”

Drake said, “That means just one thing, Perry.”

“What?” Mason asked.

“That the ballistics department has tested the bullet which killed Cullens with the bullets found from the gun in Mrs. Breel’s bag and find they’re the same.”

“I’m not so sure that gun actually was in her bag,” Mason said.

“Diggers says there was a gun at the scene of the accident,” Drake said. “He evidently thought the bag might contain something valuable, because he made the ambulance men inventory the contents.”

“Anyone see that accident?” Mason asked.

“You mean see her step out in front of the car?”

“Yes.”

“Apparently not,” Drake said. “There were people along just a few minutes afterwards. Mrs. Breel was lying unconscious on the ground.”

Mason said, “Check on Diggers. Find out everything you can about him. I’m on my way.”

“Can I help, Chief?” Della Street asked.

“No,” he told her. “They’ll have a shorthand reporter. I’ll stand more of a chance of crashing the gate alone.”

He clamped his hat on his head, shot through the door and sprinted for the elevator. He caught a cruising cab and said, “Dearborn Memorial Hospital, and what I mean, make it snappy.” In the taxicab, Mason turned over in his mind the various bits of information which had been given him. Undoubtedly, the revolver found in Mrs. Breel’s handbag had been the determining factor in influencing the district attorney’s office to advise her arrest. Had that weapon not discharged the bullet which had caused Cullens’ death, the circumstantial evidence of the stained shoe would not have been sufficient. On the other hand, given the shoe, the gun with which the murder had been committed, and the indisputable evidence which placed Mrs. Breel at the scene of the crime at approximately the time of the murder, the district attorney had a case which, unexplained, would go far toward trapping Mrs. Breel in a net of circumstantial evidence. At the Dearborn Memorial Hospital, Mason took an elevator to the sixth floor, and found Mrs. Breel’s room without difficulty. An officer was on guard in the corridor. From within the room, Mason could hear the sound of excited voices. Mason started to push open the door. The officer interposed a stalwart arm. “No, you don’t, buddy,” he said.

Mason said with dignity, “I wish to see Mrs. Breel. She has asked for me.”

“I don’t care who she’s asked for,” the officer said. “You get in here on a pass, or you stay out.”

“Who’s in there?” Mason asked.

“The doctor, a deputy D.A., a court reporter, Sergeant Holcomb, and a few others.”

“Well, I’m Mrs. Breel’s lawyer.”

“That’s nice.”

“I want in.’

“You said you did.”

Mason sized the officer up. “Tell Sergeant Holcomb I’m here.”

The officer said, “Nope. I ain’t paid for telling anybody anything. I’m here to guard the door.”

Abruptly Mason raised his knuckles and knocked on the door. The officer frowned and jerked Mason’s arm down. “Now, who told you you could do that?” he asked.

Mason’s voice was conciliatory. “Forget it. You’re here to keep anyone from coming in without a pass. That doesn’t mean I can’t knock...”

A man opened the door, glowered at Mason and said, “What?”

Mason raised his voice. “I’m Perry Mason, Mrs. Breel’s lawyer. I want to see my client.”

Mason heard Mrs. Breel say, “Come in, Mr. Mason,” and, at the same time, the man in the doorway and the uniformed officer on guard converged on him, pushing him back into the corridor. The man who had opened the door pulled it shut behind him and said to the guard, “We told you there were to be no visitors.”

The guard said, “The guy knocked on his own. I wouldn’t let him in.”

“Well, don’t let him knock,” the man said, and turned back toward the door.

The uniformed guard held Mason back in the corridor. The lawyer waited until the detective had opened the door, and then, raising his voice so that it was distinctly audible within the room, said, “Mrs. Breel won’t answer any questions unless you let me in.”

The door swung shut. The officer glowered at Mason belligerently and said, “You’re hard to get along with.”

Mason grinned, offered him a cigarette. “Oh, no, I’m not.”

The officer hesitated a moment, then took the cigarette, scratched a match and jerked his head down the corridor. “On your way,” he said.

Mason smiled. “I’m waiting right here.”

“You just think you are.”

“You,” Mason told him, “are guarding the room. You’re not guarding the corridor.”