Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

“All right,” Mason told her, “I’m sorry I had to disturb you, but we have work to do.”

“About — about — Uncle George — what did they find out?”

“Nothing, so far as I know,” Mason said. “If they found out anything, they’re keeping it secret.”

“Is he — is — that is...”

“They had to make a postmortem on the body,” Mason said. “It’s at a funeral home now.”

“Turn your back,” she told him. “I’m getting up.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Mason said, “I’ll wait downstairs in the library. Do you feel as though you could talk on an empty stomach?”

“No,” she said shortly. “Where’s Itsumo?”

“Downstairs,” the nurse said.

“All right, I’m going to take a quick tub. Tell him I want tomato juice, with lots of Worcestershire sauce, coffee, scrambled eggs and toast. And you’re going to have to wait, Mr. Mason, until I get to feeling halfway decent before I talk about anything.”

Mason said, “I’ll be downstairs.”

“How about joining me with some eggs?”

“No, thanks. I had breakfast long ago.”

“Coffee, then.”

“I could go for a cup of coffee and a cigarette,” Mason told her. “I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

It was a good twenty minutes before she joined him. The Japanese cook served them with swiftly silent efficiency. Mason waited until she had finished eating and was sipping her second cup of coffee after the meal. “Suppose,” he said, “you tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

“I don’t know a thing to tell. You know as much as I do.”

“How about that gun in the desk — did you know it was there?”

“Good Heavens, yes! I should have. I’ve shot it enough.”

“You have?”

She nodded. “When?” Mason asked.

“Off and on for the last six months. About once a week I go out in the country and practice.”

“May I ask why?” Mason inquired.

“Because,” she said grimly, “I’m there alone much of the time. There are thousands of dollars worth of jewels in that vault. I certainly don’t propose to be stuck up, and stand there like a ninny while some highwayman goes through the vault and cleans Uncle George out.”

“Aren’t they insured?”

“Some of them are. But it isn’t a question of the insurance, Mr. Mason, it’s a question of the development of my own character. I Want to be self-reliant... If you keep walking with crutches, your legs get weak. I want to stand on my own two feet... I have a boyfriend who... well, he likes self-reliant women... and he’s quite a revolver shot. I want to share in his life. I want to like the things he likes. I want to be his pal. I think a woman who doesn’t cultivate the same tastes as the man she’s interested in is making a big mistake. Biologically, we know that opposites attract each other, but that’s opposite temperaments. After the original attraction has cooled, the basis of companionship has to be a sharing of interests. People can’t get along forever, just on the strength of a biological attraction. Companionship between the sexes is comprised of two very distinct stages. First, there’s the biological reaction. Then there’s the...”

Mason said, “I’m talking about revolver shooting. You’re talking about matrimony.”

“Not matrimony,” she said, “just the basic reactions. Matrimony is an outgrowth of...”

“Never mind what it is,” Mason said. “Let’s quit talking about what you’re talking about and talk about what I’m trying to talk about.” She flushed. “And that,” Mason said, “means revolver shooting.”

“Well,” she said, “there’s nothing to add to what I’ve told you. For the past six months I’ve been practicing revolver shooting. And,” she said, “I’ve become quite proficient.”

“Your practice was with this thirty-eight caliber?”

“Most of it. I fired some shots from what they call a service revolver, but it had too much recoil.”

“Did you,” Mason asked, “tell the officers about all this revolver practice?” She nodded. “Then how were you able to convince them you hadn’t shot your uncle?”

“Partially,” she said, “because of the fact he was killed Saturday afternoon, and, as it happened, I could account for every minute of my time. Tell me, Mr. Mason, are they going to start pounding me with a lot of third-degree stuff again this morning?”

“I don’t think so,” Mason said.

“What makes you think they won’t?”

“Because,” Mason told her, “I’m going to be here.”

“They won’t let you stay,” she said.

Mason grinned and said, “It happens that they have nothing to say about it unless they actually arrest you, charge you with murder, and take you to jail. So far, they’re not ready to do that. I have a court order permitting me, as your attorney, to confer with you. Of course, the nurse has telephoned the news, and... Here they come, now.”

A siren sounded, and Virginia Trent pushed back her coffee cup. “I suppose,” she said wearily, “I can take it, but... well, coming on top of all the other things — and finding Uncle George...”

Mason said, “Promise me you won’t get nervous. Sit tight and let me do the arguing.”

“The officers won’t like that,” she said.

Before Mason could say anything, there was the sound of steps on the porch of the big house. The nurse beat Itsumo to the front door. She flung it open and said, “They’re in the dining room.”

Sergeant Holcomb and two plain-clothes detectives marched through the door and into the dining room. “What’s the idea?” Sergeant Holcomb demanded of Perry Mason.

“Court order,” Mason said, showing him a document.

“I knew I should have kept you in jail,” Sergeant Holcomb said to Virginia Trent. “That’s what I get for trying to give you a break.”

“Don’t blame me,” she said indignantly. “I was sleeping when Mr. Mason woke me up.”

“And, if you’d held her in jail,” Mason said, “I’d have had a writ of habeas corpus , so it’s just as broad as it is thick.”

Sergeant Holcomb sat down and motioned the two detectives to chairs. “I suppose,” he said to Perry Mason, “you’re going to advise her not to answer questions, and stand on her constitutional rights?”

“On the contrary,” Mason said, “we’re going to do everything we can to assist you.”

“Yes, I have a picture of that,” Sergeant Holcomb said sarcastically. “You may not know it, but this young woman has admitted to me that she knew the gun was in the drawer, that she’s taken it with her into the country on several occasions, and has Practiced with it until she’s a very fair shot.”

“So what?” Mason asked.

“Draw your own conclusions,” Holcomb said.

“I suppose,” Mason told him, “you’ve performed a postmortem?”

Holcomb nodded.

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s go at the thing sensibly. George Trent was killed some time Saturday afternoon.”

“How do you know?”

Mason said, “I haven’t found out just what the autopsy surgeon has to say on the subject, but the body was dressed as it had been dressed on Saturday. There wasn’t much of a stubble, the shirt was not particularly soiled. Moreover, the body had been placed in a packing case and lifted to a place of concealment on the top of a pile of packing cases. George Trent was a big man. His niece could no more have placed the body up there than she could have lifted a corner of the office building.”

“An accomplice could have done it for her,” Sergeant Holcomb said.

Mason nodded. “What’s more,” Sergeant Holcomb told him, “don’t forget that this man had started out to get drunk. He’d taken his car down and parked it in a zone which is restricted to thirty-minute parking during the daytime. He’d taken out the car keys, put them in an envelope and mailed them to himself at the office. Then he’d gone out to get drunk and gamble.”