Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

“Yes.”

“He banks here?”

“Yes, I...”

“How well do you know him?” Mason interrupted.

“I have talked with him frequently.”

“You know the woman who lives with him?”

“You mean his wife?”

“We’ll let it go at that,” Mason said.

“I’ve met her, yes.”

“Now, then, did you have any talk with either of them after Cullens left?”

“No.”

“Did you see them?”

“Only when they went out.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed slightly. “When did they go out?” he asked.

“I don’t know just when it was, some time after Cullens left, and before you came in.”

“Did you see them come in?”

“Yes.”

“How long would you say they were gone?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Mason, I’m sure.”

“Could it have been as much as half an hour?”

“It could have been, yes. I didn’t pay very much attention... I... well, I was just as glad they didn’t come over and speak to me. That is, the young lady who was with me...”

“I understand,” Mason said. “Now, you noticed Mr. Drake and me when we came in?”

“Yes.”

“Bill Golding and his wife had returned prior to that time. Do you know how long before?”

“It was some little time,” Marquad said, “but I can’t tell you how long.”

“And how long was it after Cullens went out that Golding went out?”

“Well... Oh, say from fifteen minutes to half an hour. We were at the bar when Cullens came in, and we were eating dinner when Golding and his wife went out. As I remember it, we had finished dinner when they returned.”

“All right,” Mason said, “that’s all. I just wanted to check up.”

“You won’t make my statement public in any way, Mr. Mason?”

“Not unless I have to,” Mason told him, “and I don’t think I’ll have to. I’m just checking up, that’s all. Come on, Paul.”

They walked out of the bank, leaving Marquad standing at the counter, his eyes watching them with ill-concealed anxiety. Mason turned to Drake and said, “Check up on Bill Golding’s car, Paul. There was a blue sedan parked at the curb just before Mrs. Breel stepped out into the street. You know, there’s just a chance Bill Golding might be driving a blue sedan. I believe Diggers said the left rear fender was damaged.”

Drake said, “That should be easy, Perry. I’ll get at it right away. Want me to telephone the office?”

“Not now,” Mason said. “It’ll keep until you get back.”

“What’s next on the program?”

“Lone Bedford,” Mason said.

“You don’t want to wait until Pete Chennery shows up?”

“No,” Mason said, “we haven’t time to wait for anything. I want to get to her before the police do.”

“Hold everything,” Drake said. “Here we go.”

It was Drake’s theory that a detective car should be so completely average in appearance that an observer would find nothing sufficiently distinctive about it to attract attention on the one hand, or encourage memory on the other. Mason, sitting back against the cushions of the medium-priced, lightweight car two years old, watched Paul Drake cut through traffic and cheerfully take chances with fenders which had nothing to lose by an occasional lapse of judgment on the part of the driver.

“If,” Mason said musingly, “Austin Cullens got the diamonds from Bill Golding, why didn’t he notify Lone Bedford? If those were the Bedford diamonds, why did Mrs. Bedford deny they were hers? If they weren’t the Bedford diamonds, where did they come from? If Bill Golding had the stones in the first place, why did he deny having them when we talked with him?

“If, on the other hand, Cullens got the stones from some other source and not from The Golden Platter, how did he discover that other source. Approximately two hours before his death, he was evidently firmly imbued with the idea that Bill Golding had the stones, was holding them for six thousand, but could be forced to part with them on the payment of three thousand.”

“In other words,” Drake said, “it’s like making out an income tax statement. Every time you add up the figures, you get the wrong answer.”

“I didn’t know the income tax department bothered with detective agencies,” Mason said, grinning.

“They don’t. Detective agencies bother with the income tax department.”

Mason lapsed once more into thoughtful silence. Drake swung his car into a parking place at the curb and said, “Well, Perry, get your ambush planted, because we’re here.”

Mason said, “I’m not going to plant any ambush. I’m going to play it straight from the shoulder.”

“Do you think that will get you anywhere?” Drake asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason told him, “but somehow I figure her as a pretty straight-from-the-shoulder young woman.”

“Remember,” Drake warned, “that no matter what good points she may have, she’s definitely living a double life.”

“I know,” Mason told him, and slid out from the seat, to stand on the sidewalk. “Is that your man in the roadster across the street, Paul?”

Drake nodded. The man in the roadster touched the brim of his hat, lit a cigarette, shook out the match and settled back in the seat as though waiting for someone to join him. Drake interpreted the signals to Perry Mason. “The girl’s in there. The man hasn’t showed up yet.”

Mason said, “All right, let’s go,” and led the way into the foyer of the apartment house. They took the elevator to the third floor. Mason tapped on the apartment door and said in a low voice to Paul Drake, “She doesn’t know your voice. If she opens the door, we walk in. If she asks questions, tell her you have a package and a telegram.”

Drake nodded, Lone Bedford’s voice from behind the door called out, “Who is it, please?”

“Telegram and a package for Mrs. Chennery,” Drake said.

She opened the door at once. Mason, stepping slightly to one side, placed the palm of his hand between Drake’s shoulder blades and pushed him forward, so that her eyes focused on Drake first. “Well,” she said impatiently, “where’s the telegram and package? You can’t come in...”

Mason pushed Drake slightly to the left while he moved to the right, pushing the door farther open. She swung to face the detective, apparently oblivious of the fact that another man was with him, until Mason had pushed the door completely open and was circling past her left arm. She turned to face him then, with an expression of annoyance, and her face froze into a mask of consternation. Mason, moving back, retrieved the edge of the door and swung it shut, calmly walked over to a chair and seated himself.

“What is this?” Lone Bedford demanded.

Mason said, “Drake’s a detective, Mrs. Bedford.”

“Chennery,” she corrected.

“All right,” he said, grinning, “he’s still a detective, Mrs. Chennery.”

Drake, watching Perry Mason for a signal, moved cautiously over to the arm of a davenport and sat down, taking care to keep himself between Mrs. Bedford and the door. She stood for a moment, nonplused, then abruptly laughed and said, “You’re bluffing. He isn’t a detective.”

“What makes you think he isn’t?” Mason asked, selecting a cigarette from his case.

“He’s taken off his hat,” she said. “Detectives don’t take off their hats.”

Mason grinned, and offered her a cigarette. She took it, and leaned forward for Mason’s match. Her trembling manifested itself through the tips of her fingers as they guided the lawyer’s hand against the match. “You,” Mason charged, “have been to too many picture shows.”

“No,” she said, “I’ve seen too many detectives.”