Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

“All right,” she told him. “Do your best. It’s all right with me.”

“But suppose,” Mason told her, “I lose — we lose. How are you going to feel then?”

Her smile was almost maternal. “Bless your soul, Mr. Mason,” she said, “quit worrying about me. I’ve lived a full life, and an active life. I’ve never gained anything by worry. When I was younger, I used to do a lot of worrying. Twenty years ago I decided I was finished with it. I have confidence in you. I know you’ll do anything and everything anyone could possibly do. If the jury decides I’m guilty of murder, and that they’re going to hang me, why then I’ll hang. That’s all there is to it... and I have an idea I’ll walk up the steps to the scaffold without showing any white feather... Now then, Mr. Mason, I’ve been talking quite a while, and I’m feeling a little drowsy. If there’s nothing else you wanted to ask me about, I’ll take a nap.. · · I’m sorry about those two witnesses. It complicates the case from your standpoint. I can see that... it doesn’t look so good for me... However, there’s nothing I could say or do that would be of the lightest help, Mr. Mason. I’m afraid it’s up to you to do the Worrying.” She patted a pillow under her head, closed her eyes, and exhaled a long-drawn sigh. An expression of calm tranquillity Softened the lines around her face as it settled into repose.

Mason unlocked the door which led to his private office. Receding Paul Drake into the room, he switched on the lights and silently tiptoed over to the picture behind which they had discovered the microphone. He nodded to Paul Drake, and together, each taking a corner of the picture, they lifted it once more away from the wall. There was no sign of the microphone. A very faint difference in color on the plaster indicated where it had been freshly patched with a quick-drying compound. Mason said, “Well, Paul, that’s that.”

Drake, staring at the unbroken expanse of plaster, said, “Do you suppose it’s somewhere else?”

“No,” Mason told him. “They’ve pulled it out, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Why? Because it served its purpose?”

“No,” Mason said, “because they knew we were wise to it.”

“How did they know that?”

Mason said, “It’s my fault, Paul. I didn’t realize it until afterwards.”

“Realize what, Perry?”

“You remember that after I discovered the microphone, I went out to the typewriter and typed out a message.”

“Yes.”

“The sound of that typewriter,” Mason said, “sounded plainly over the dictograph. They could tell from the uneven tempo and the ragged touch that I was writing something on the machine. They knew you were in the room, and they knew Della Street was in the room. The only reason I’d have typed anything under those circumstances would have been for the purpose of giving you a silent message.”

“And so they pulled the dictograph out?”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “They were afraid I’d try to bring them in for contempt of court, or make a squawk which would get public sentiment in my favor.”

“You mean that now they’ll deny there was ever a dictograph in there?”

“Probably they won’t go that far,” Mason said, “but they’ll certainly deny they knew anything about it or had anything to do with it.”

Drake said bitterly, “They talk about the tricks of criminal lawyers, but you know and I know that if we tried to pull the stuff the police pull, we’d be in jail before night.”

Mason shrugged his shoulders. “That’s neither here nor there, Drake. I had a chance to make a squawk on that dictograph and chase down the wires, find where they led, and do something about it. I passed up that chance. Now, I won’t have another one.”

“How long do you suppose it has been in, Perry?”

“I don’t know.”

“And the prosecution knows pretty generally what we’ve found out and what lines we’re working on?”

“Yes.”

“What,” Drake asked, “are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to ignore it,” Mason told him. “When you can’t prove anything, it’s foolish to get all worked up over it... Now here’s what I want, Paul, I want you to concentrate on this man, Diggers. It’s becoming exceedingly important to find out about that bag.”

“In the first place, I’m not so certain they can identify that bag as having belonged to Sarah Breel. In the second place, I don’t think the gun was in the bag. The gun was found lying on the pavement where it looked as though it had fallen from the bag, or had been knocked out of Mrs. Breel’s hand. I think when Diggers mentioned that the gun was in the bag, he wasn’t referring to the fact that he found the gun in the bag, but that he assumed it must have...”

“I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree on that, Perry,” Drake told him.

“How so?” Mason asked.

“They’ve been working on Diggers themselves, and they have him sewed up. Did you see the papers tonight, Perry?”

“You mean the statement of the D.A. that Golding and Eva Tannis have both identified Sarah Breel as having been at the scene of the murder at the time it was committed?”

“Yes.”

Mason nodded and said, “That’s what I wanted to see you about, Paul. I want you to dig into their records. I want you to uncover everything you can which has been suspected but hasn’t been Proven. And I want them to know you’re doing it. In other words, don’t be too secretive about it. Be just a little crude. Let word get back to them of what’s happening.”

Drake nodded and said, “O.K. You want to frighten them so they’ll skip out, Perry. Is that the idea?”

Mason said, “I’d hardly want them to disobey a subpoena which had been served on them. Of course, if they get frightened and pull Out their own accord, that’s something else again. Now that their statement has been played up in the newspapers and in interviews, issued by the district attorney’s office, it’s going to look like the devil if they don’t show up at the time of trial.”

“You mean you’d make them the goats?”

“I’d insinuate they committed the murder, yes,” Mason said.

“And planted the gun?”

“Naturally.”

“I’m afraid,” Drake warned, “you’re underestimating the sincerity and ability of this chap Diggers. Personally, I think the D.A. has hypnotized him into thinking a lot of things happened which just didn’t happen. You know how it is on something like that. A person runs directly in front of an automobile. The automobile comes to a stop very shortly after the impact. The driver’s naturally pretty much excited. I’ve seen quite a few of them so jittery they couldn’t write their own names at the bottom of a traffic ticket. Naturally, a person has a confused recollection of what happened. Usually, if you get the straight of it, it’s a series of images which are burnt in on the brain. Later on, as a man tells the story over and over, those images gradually assume sharper details — but those details are usually supplied by some clever lawyer... It’s not perjury, it’s simply a question of exerting legitimate influence... Incidentally, Perry, I don’t think you’ll get anywhere arguing with Diggers on the witness stand. He’s so absolutely sincere.”

Mason said, “The D.A., by the way, is rushing through an indictment, and wants to try Mrs. Breel while public emotion is at its height.”

“Why?” Drake asked.

“Publicity for one thing, and for another, he thinks it’s a good chance to get a conviction.”

“Just what do I do?” Drake asked.

“You,” Mason told him, “dig up everything you can. I have my back to the wall. I can’t afford to overlook any bet. When I walk into that courtroom, I want to know more about the case than the D.A. does.”