Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

She said, “Aussie told me to do that.”

“When?”

“About half an hour before I telephoned. He came over and coached me carefully in what I was to say. Then he stood by my side while I did the actual telephoning.”

“You asked for Mr. Trent?”

“Yes.”

“What did they tell you?”

“That he was out.”

“Then what?”

“I asked with whom I was talking. The man said that he was the foreman in charge of the shop.”

“And you told him what you wanted?”

“Yes.”

“Cullens knew at the time that Trent wasn’t there?”

“Yes,” she said, “because he told me that I was to ask for Mr. Trent, that Trent was out on a drunk, that the shop would make excuses to stall me off, that I wasn’t to be stalled. I was to insist on a return of the stones.”

Mason regarded the smoke which spiraled upward from the tip of his cigarette. “Now, wait a minute,” he said, “let’s get this straight. You’d never seen these stones you were supposed to own?”

“No.”

“Therefore,” Mason said, “when you saw those stones in the handbag at police headquarters, you couldn’t tell whether they were the ones you were supposed to have owned or not.”

“That’s right.”

“But you said positively that they were not yours.”

“I had to say something,” she said. “I certainly couldn’t say I didn’t know my own stones and I figured... well, I figured it was a trap.”

“You didn’t know Cullens was dead at the time?” Mason asked.

Her eyes drifted away from his, then flashed back, as though the wince had been involuntary, and she had willed herself to face him as soon as she realized she had avoided his gaze. “No,” she said, and then added after a moment, “of course not. How could I have known?”

Mason said, “You could have stalled along on the gems some way.”

“Perhaps I could,” she said, “but you put it up to me, cold turkey. I had to think fast and take the course which seemed best.”

Mason got to his feet and walked over to the window. He stared moodily down into the street. A convertible with wire wheels drove up slowly. A tall young man got out. Mason shook his head, turned back to face the woman and said, “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t care,” she said defiantly, “whether it makes sense or not.”

“And then,” Mason told her, “when I told you that Cullens was dead — that he’d been murdered — you streaked out of police headquarters and burned up the roads getting out here.”

“Yes,” she said. “I knew then that there’d be an inquiry, and I didn’t want to get caught in it.”

“Why?”

“Because of Pete,” she said. “Can’t you see? I didn’t want Pete actually to catch me in an affair. That would have been fatal. On the other hand, I didn’t want him to think he could start chasing around and get away with it. If I’d gone out and been a drab little personality, virtuously plodding my way through some routine job which would have barely paid my keep, Pete would have come out and got me. He’d have been contrite on the surface, but he’d have had the smug feeling that I was his woman, that no one else wanted me, that I knew it, that if I left him again, it would be to go to work. He’d let me work a while, until I got good and lonely, and then come and pick me up. But, by going away and sailing on a cruise, I kept him guessing. I wanted to keep him guessing, but I certainly didn’t want any of that guessing to become a cold certainty.”

“You thought an inquiry would make that a cold certainty?”

She said, “I was living as Lone Bedford in an apartment which was paid for with Aussie’s money. Frankly, it was a straight business deal. But any explanation I could have made to Pete wouldn’t have held water.”

“And so,” Mason said, “with your desire to avoid getting trapped in the inquiry, you decided to come dashing back here. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

Mason hooked his thumbs through the armholes of his vest and started pacing the floor. She watched him with wide, alert eyes, paying no attention whatever to Paul Drake, who’d slumped down on the davenport, his elbow propped against the upholstery, his palm holding the side of his head. For several seconds, Mason paced back and forth in thoughtful silence. Then he said, “No, it doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“You coming here.”

She laughed nervously and said, “But I came here. It has to make sense.”

“No,” Mason said, “it doesn’t. With the motivation you’ve outlined, your natural move would have been to go to some hotel, register under an assumed name and then let Pete know where he could find you. The sole object you had in leaving Pete was to make him come to you. You’re too clever a woman, and too resourceful a woman, to have surrendered once you had victory practically Within your grasp.”

“Well,” she said shortly, “I’m here.”

Mason turned and faced her. “The reason you’re here, Lone,” he said slowly and steadily, “is because, when I told you Austin Cullens had been murdered, the thought which first flashed through your mind was that Pete had found Austin Cullens was keeping you in an apartment, that with his hot-blooded Southern temper, his jealous disposition, and his ideas of protecting his home, he’d sought out Austin Cullens and...”

“It’s a lie!” she screamed. “I tell you, it’s a lie!”

The door from the corridor banged open. A tall young man, with black hair and cold, blue eyes, stood on the threshold and said, “What’s a lie?”

“Pete!” she screamed.

Drake got to his feet. She ran forward toward the man who was standing on the threshold. Drake’s arm reached out to circle her waist. She struggled with him like a wild cat. The man stepped forward two paces. Drake took one look at his eyes, and tried to free his arm from the girl’s waist to block the punch. He was too late. The blow hit him on the side of the chin and staggered him backwards. The arm of the davenport, catching on the back of his legs, sprawled him back at full length, his feet kicking in the air. The girl flung her arms around the man. He brushed her to one side and kicked the door shut. He marched past the davenport, ignoring the struggling form of the detective, and stood facing Mason. “All right,” he said with deadly calm, “now we’ll hear from you .”

Mason, his thumbs still hooked in the armhole of his vest said calmly, “I think we’ll hear from you instead, Chennery.”

The woman said, “That’s Perry Mason, the lawyer, Pete.”

Chennery didn’t take his eyes from Mason’s. “What the hell’s he doing here?” he asked her over his shoulder.

Drake, rolling from the davenport, got his feet under him and said to Chennery, “All right, let’s try that again.”

Chennery didn’t even turn his head. He said to Mason, “Go ahead, start talking.”

Mason looked past him to Drake and said, “You might frisk him, Paul, and see if, by any chance, he has a thirty-eight caliber revolver in his hip pocket.”

“Pete! Don’t let them!” the woman said. “You don’t understand. They’re two jumps ahead of you. They’ve... they know things you don’t... they... they’re going to frame you to save...”

Chennery said coolly, “Why the thirty-eight caliber revolver?”

Mason said, “Austin Cullens was shot with a thirty-eight caliber revolver.”

“Who the hell’s Austin Cullens?” Chennery asked.

His wife turned to look at Perry Mason with pleading anguish in her eyes. Mason said, “He happens to have been a man who was killed with a thirty-eight caliber revolver.”

“So you thought you could frame something on me?” Chennery asked.