Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

“I get you,” Drake said, starting for the door. “I’m on my way to see Holcomb.”

“And there’s one thing I’d like to have you get,” Mason said.

“What’s that?”

“A photograph of the cylinder of the gun which killed George Trent.”

“You mean the one which killed Cullens, don’t you?” Drake asked. “That’s the one which was in Mrs. Breel’s bag.”

Mason said sternly, “Don’t refer to it as Mrs. Breel’s bag, Paul. It hasn’t been identified as hers. No, I mean the gun which killed George Trent. I’m interested in that.”

“And you want a photograph of the cylinder?”

“Yes,” Mason said, “an enlargement if possible. And I want it just the way it appears now, that is, with the shells in it.”

“That should be a cinch,” Drake told him, “after the way I’m going to cooperate with the homicide squad.”

“On your way,” Mason told him. “Start cooperating.”

When Drake had left, Mason turned to face Della Street, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. She studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “You know, if you were a little boy and I were your mother, I’d make a rush for the jam closet... and find I’d got there too late. You, Mr. Perry Mason, have been up to mischief. Now, come over here and tell Mamma what it is.”

He pushed his hands down-deep in his trousers pockets. His eyes twinkled with enjoyment. “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“How much of a surprise?”

“A humdinger of a surprise.”

“Tell me.”

“Our wallflower,” he said, “is a hibiscus in disguise.”

“A hibiscus!”

“Well, perhaps an orchid.”

“You wouldn’t, by any chance, be letting anyone kid you, would you, Chief?”

He shook his head and lowered his voice as though imparting a deep and mysterious secret. “Of course,” he said, “I’m no gossip, and I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, and I don’t want you to repeat it. Of course, I can’t be certain myself because I got it from that snooty old Mrs. Blank, and she’s the worst gossip on earth, but her brother-in-law works for a Broadway columnist and his secretary told...”

She laughed and said, “Come on, Chief, back to normal, and give me the low-down. My heart’s going pit-a-pat.”

Mason said, “Virginia Trent has a boyfriend.”

“Oh-oh,” Della Street exclaimed, clapping her right hand over her heart and fanning herself with her left hand. “Air! Give me air!... My poor heart!... You wouldn’t kid a working girl, would you, Chief?”

Mason said, “She went for a walk with him Saturday afternoon, Della — a walk out into the secluded canyons and glades of the hill country back of the city.”

“Accompanied, I suppose, by two chaperons and a book on the psychology of courtship,” Della Street said.

“No,” Mason told her. “But evidently he isn’t the ordinary sort of boyfriend. He’s an earnest, sober, industrious individual who studies psychology in night school.”

“Well,” Della Street said, contemplating the problem with an elaborately puckered forehead, “he has possibilities anyway. He didn’t take her to the public library, and that’s something.”

“No,” Mason said. “They went out into the wooded pathways — but they do the quaintest things.”

“Don’t tell me,” she said. “Let me guess... They pitch horseshoes... no, they study astronomy... no. Ah, wait a minute, I’m getting hot, Chief. It’s botany! Or zoology! They go after the flora and fauna with magnifying glasses, and a sober, earnest attitude toward life. If his hand accidentally brashes hers in reaching for a gilded butterfly, he promptly apologizes, and she’s so broad-minded she thinks nothing more of it.”

“Almost,” he told her, “but not quite. The man’s a lieutenant in the army, who studies psychology in his spare time, and he and Virginia take these delightful strolls for the purpose of practicing revolver shooting.”

Della Street said, “You’d think any man who read the newspapers and realizes that, so far, the legislatures haven’t seen fit to put closed seasons on husbands, would know better than to teach a prospective wife how to shoot a revolver.”

“You don’t need to teach ‘em,” Mason said. “They never miss. Study the newspaper accounts for yourself.”

“Well,” she observed, “I see that it’s time for me to shed my air of persiflage. Something seems to tell me you are about to get serious, Chief. You didn’t bring this up just to give me a thrill over the love-life of a wallflower, did you?”

“No,” he said. “The man’s name is Ogilby — Lieutenant Ogilby. She met him at night school, where she’s been studying psychology. That’ll give you a line on him. I want you to find him.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Then,” he said, “you win his confidence.”

“Am I supposed to encourage him to make forward passes,” she asked, “or do I imbue him with the idea of gently but firmly taking Virginia Trent by the hand and...”

“Not that,” Mason said, “but you get him to take you out to the place where he and Virginia were doing their target shooting Saturday afternoon. You get him talking about revolvers... and then you ask him to pick up all of the empty shells he can find, and save them.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“You mean the shells which were ejected from the guns they were shooting?”

“That’s right.”

“And then what?”

“Simply save them,” Mason said, “in some nice, safe place, where Sergeant Holcomb wouldn’t be apt to look for them but, on the other hand, where we can’t be accused of tampering with them. I Would say it might be well to let Lieutenant Ogilby keep them.”

“And if Virginia decides that I’m trying to steal her man and...”

“Virginia isn’t to know anything about it,” Mason said. “You are to impress that on Lieutenant Ogilby.”

“Wouldn’t it be better,” she asked, “to have one of Drake’s men get in touch with him? After all, Chief, having me take him in hand and...”

“No,” Mason interrupted, “it’s up to you, Della. I don’t want Drake know anything about it.”

“Why?” she asked.

Mason’s eyes twinkled. “Drake’s cooperating with Sergeant Holcomb.”

“I thought you were too,” she said.

“I am,” Mason told her. “But cooperation is a very elastic term. People have different definitions of it,”

“What’s Sergeant Holcomb’s definition?” she asked.

Mason lit a cigarette. “Oh, Sergeant Holcomb,” he said casually, “looks at it about the same way I do.”

“I see,” she told him, sliding her extended forefinger across her throat, and reached for the telephone.

Della Street, softly closing the door behind her, said, “Better get your bullet-proof vest out of mothballs, Chief.”

“What’s the matter?” Mason asked.

“A Mr. and Mrs. Golding are in the outer office, and they’re mad.”

“Mr. William Golding, who runs the gambling joint known as The Golden Platter?” Mason asked.

“He didn’t say what his occupation was, but it seems you’ve served him with a subpoena to appear as a witness for the defense in the case of People vs . Sarah Breel, and he’s on the warpath.”

“And the woman?” Mason asked.

“She was served as Eva Tannis. And is she mad. She says her name is Eva Golding.”

“They didn’t show you a marriage certificate, did they?” Mason asked.

“No kidding, Chief,” she said. “They’re going to get tough.”

“Fine,” Mason said, pushing aside the pile of mail which he had been reading. “Bring them in, Della, and let them get tough.”