Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

“Yes.”

“And heard about Cullens being found dead?”

“Yes.”

“And notified the place of what you had seen?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We wanted to keep out of it.”

“You haven’t told anyone?”

“You’re the first living mortal that we’ve told.”

Mason said, “I’m going to think this over.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she told him. “There’s nothing to think over. You keep quiet, and we keep quiet.”

Mason said, “As a lawyer, it’s my duty to advise you that you should communicate what you know to the police.”

She got to her feet and said, “All right, you’ve done your duty.”

“You’re not going to say anything to them?” Mason asked.

“Not unless we’re put on the stand and have to.”

“It’s going to sound like hell if it comes out for the first time on the witness stand,” Mason warned her.

“It’ll sound like hell for Sarah Breel,” Bill Golding said.

“And for you too,” Mason pointed out.

“We can take it if we have to,” the woman said. “Sarah Breel can’t.”

“That,” Mason said, “remains to be seen.”

Golding laughed unpleasantly. “Quit bluffing,” he said, pulling his copy of the subpoena from his pocket. “What do you want me to do with this subpoena?”

Mason met his eyes. “What do you think?”

Slowly, deliberately, Golding tore the subpoena in two, nodded to the woman and said, “Come on, Eva.”

They walked wordlessly out through the exit door and into the corridor. Mason shoved his hands down deep in his trouser pockets and slumped down in his chair, staring thoughtfully at the top of the desk. Della Street said, “Chief, they’re lying. They thought up that whole story so you wouldn’t dare to bring their blue sedan into the case. It’s just a lie they’ve made up out of whole cloth to tie your hands.”

Mason said moodily, “If it’s a lie, Della, it’s a damned good one.”

“You mean it’s going to keep you from putting them on the stand?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “I’d hardly want to play into the hands of the prosecution by bringing out evidence like that.”

“But suppose it’s a lie, Chief?”

“Suppose it is,” Mason said. “Then what?”

“Then they’re just telling that story to protect themselves.”

“Protect themselves from what?” Mason inquired.

“Why, from — from — well, having to explain what they were doing out there. Perhaps, from being accused of murder.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “In other words they’re gambling for big stakes... Get Paul Drake on the line. Let’s check up on them and see if we can find out more about what motivation they might have for murder. You see what this means, Della. So far, all the evidence Which connects Sarah Breel with the murder is circumstantial evidence. She was near the scene of the murder; she had the gun in her possession with which the murder was committed; she had some diamonds in her possession which might have been taken from the body. That makes a black case of circumstantial evidence, but it’s only circumstantial evidence. Now then, along come Golding and Eva Tannis, and put Sarah Breel on the spot at the exact moment when the murder was being committed. ”

“If they’re lying, they’re doing it to protect themselves from a murder charge. If they’re telling the truth... well, if they’re telling the truth...”

“Suppose they are,” Della asked, “what then?”

Mason frowningly regarded the polished toes of his shoes. “Get Paul Drake on the line,” he said.

Della Street called Paul Drake’s office, cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “Drake’s out, Chief. Do you want to talk with anyone else?”

“No,” Mason said moodily. “Leave word for him to call as soon as he comes in.” As Della Street hung up the telephone, Mason got to his feet, pushed his thumbs through the armholes of his vest in a characteristic gesture, and started pacing the floor of the office, his chin sunk in thought. Knuckles sounded on the exit door, and Mason said, “That’s Paul Drake now.” He strode to the door and jerked it open. Drake, somewhat out of breath, said, “What’s all the excitement, Perry?”

“Excitement?” Mason asked, pushing the door shut.

“Yes. About the witnesses.”

Mason stared at him for a moment, then exchanged glances with Della Street, “Just what,” he asked, “do you know about witnesses?”

Drake walked over to his favorite chair, pulled a somewhat crumpled package of cigarettes from his pocket, and said, “Now, listen, Perry. Get this straight, I don’t want to butt in on anything you don’t want to tell me about. On the other hand, if I’m working on this case, I should know all about it.”

“Go ahead,” Mason told him.

“Were you going to tell me about those two witnesses who were just here in your office?”

“I don’t know,” Mason asked. “Why?”

“I should know what I’m up against.”

“Just how did you know about the witnesses?” Mason inquired—

Drake said, “I have a radio on my car which I keep tuned in to police calls. I’m not supposed to do it, but you know, in this racket you have to cut a corner once in a while.”

“Well,” Mason said impatiently, “what about it?”

“Five or six minutes ago,” Drake said, “a hurry-up police call came in for Car 19 to beat it to this office building and pick up two witnesses who were in the office of Perry Mason, the lawyer. The witnesses were to be brought to headquarters for questioning. They weren’t to be picked up until after they’d left the office.

“So I figured you had a couple of witnesses who could dynamite the case, that you’d telephoned Holcomb, and...”

“You figured wrong,” Mason interrupted. “Did they pick up the witnesses?”

“I guess so. I was on my way to the office when the call came in. When I was a couple of blocks down the street, a police radio car passed me coming away from the office building, and there were two people in the back seat. I couldn’t get a good look at them — couldn’t see them clearly enough to get their faces, but I gathered one of them was a man and the other was a woman.”

Della Street said, “Good Lord, Chief. Do you suppose Golding and...”

Mason whirled. “Skip it, Della,” he said. She glanced apprehensively at Paul Drake and became silent.

“Was Golding one of those witnesses?” Drake asked. “Was it Golding and Eva Tannis, Perry — and why all the mystery?”

Mason didn’t answer the question. Instead he walked over to the baseboard and started walking slowly along the edge of the carpet, looking down at the edge of the baseboard. Paul Drake said, “Good Lord, Perry! You don’t suppose...” and was silent.

Mason, without paying any attention to his comment, continued his inspection. Abruptly, he stooped and pressed his finger against some white dust on the baseboard. Some particles of that dust adhered to the moist surface of his forefinger. He tested the consistency by rubbing thumb and forefinger together and then nodded to Paul Drake. The detective slid from the chair to cross the office and stand at Mason’s side. Mason pointed toward a framed Picture on the wall. Slowly, the two men raised the picture, and moved it from the curved brass hangers from which it was suspended. A neat hole had been drilled through the plaster. In that hole appeared the ugly, black circle of a microphone. Della Street stared at it with wide, apprehensive eyes, started to say something, and checked herself. Paul Drake gave a low, almost inaudible Whistle.

Mason strode across the office, put a sheet of paper in the typewriter, and tapped out a jerky message with two fingers. Paul Drake and Della Street came to stare over his shoulder as the type bars, pounding against the sheet of paper which had been fed over the roller of the typewriter, tapped out: “This is unethical as hell. We can make a squawk about it, and that’s all. The fat’s in the fire now. Holcomb probably doesn’t give a damn whether we find out now or whether we don’t. The thing has served its purpose. Our only chance now is to throw him off the track. Try and back my play. You’ll have to ad lib.” Mason pushed back his chair from the typewriter, started pacing the floor of the office, said, “Bill Golding and Eva Tannis were here, Paul. Holcomb must have had them shadowed. I had subpoenas served on them. There must have been a leak somewhere.”