Erle Gardner - The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

“Where?”

“Oh, in a department store tea room.”

“How does it happen you’re eating in department store tea rooms?”

Mason paused to light a cigarette. “Since it seems to be a matter of professional interest,” he said, “I don’t mind telling you that the food was excellent. Moreover, the selection was somewhat forced upon me. You’ll remember that it started raining pitchforks about noon.”

“In which event,” Sergeant Tremont said, “you evidently didn’t invite the lady to lunch, but met her at lunch.”

Mason grinned. “That,” he said, “is the result of having a deductive mind.”

“It still isn’t answering my question,” Tremont said.

“You’ve already answered it,” Mason told him.

Tremont faced him abruptly. “How about the diamonds, Mason?”

“What diamonds?”

“You know what diamonds I mean.”

Mason shook his head slowly and said, “Diamonds are a little out of my line, Sergeant. I specialize in murders and retainers. The retainers, thank Heaven, are usually cash. The murders the inevitable by-products of the hatreds and rivalries engendered by a competitive civilization. You know, Sergeant, I’ve always been fascinated by the knowledge that there’s never a period of more than forty-five days in the city without a homicide. Imagine waiting, say on the forty-fourth day, in police headquarters, knowing that within a matter of minutes someone somewhere is going to be murdered, or that there’ll be a new record hung up. It’s uncanny...”

“It’s also an attempt on your part to spar for time and get a little information out of me,” Tremont interrupted. “It’s not going to work. I want to know about those diamonds.”

“Diamonds?” Mason echoed.

“Yes. Diamonds. You know, Mason, women wear them in rings and things. They’re polished gem stones which reflect the light. They’re hard. They cut glass. Sometimes they call them ice, sometimes rocks. If that description doesn’t serve to give you a rough idea of what they are, there’s a dictionary in headquarters which you can consult.”

“Oh, the diamonds,” Mason said. “Come to think of it, I believe she did mention that she had some diamonds, or was to get some diamonds, or something of the sort — I can’t remember just what. Her brother, you know, is a dealer in stones.”

“Yes,” Tremont told him, “we know all about her. The minute your office became so insistent trying to find out what had happened to her, we decided it might be a good plan to look her up. So many of the people you take an interest in get mixed up in murder cases sooner or later.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Mason said. “I’ll bear it in mind when I’m inclined to ask for information in the future.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s a pleasure. You still haven’t answered the question about the diamonds.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you a thing, Sergeant,” Mason said, frowning as though trying to recall something to his mind. “She mentioned her brother’s being in the diamond business. It seems to me he’s out of town, or away, or something, and she’s running the business in his absence. I’m sorry I can’t tell you just what was said.”

“Well, we’ll come to that again later,” Sergeant Tremont said. “In the meantime, we go in through this door, Mason.” He led the way into an anteroom where a wiry individual in the early fifties jumped to his feet as the door opened, then, as he saw the expression on Sergeant Tremont’s face, sank slowly back into the chair. Sergeant Tremont said, without turning his head, “That’s Harry Diggers, the man who was driving the car. This is Perry Mason, the lawyer, Diggers.”

Mason nodded reassuringly. Diggers came forward to shake hands. Sergeant Tremont said to a property clerk behind a grilled window, “Let me have that Breel bag.”

The clerk passed out a voluminous black bag. The handles consisted of two imitation jade rings, some six inches in diameter. By pulling the rings apart, the contents of the bag were easily visible.

“That looks very much like it might be hers,” Mason said. “Is that some knitting she’s working on?”

The sergeant nodded, pulled out the start of a knitted blue sweater, a pair of knitting needles wound around with yarn, and a ball of dark blue yarn. Underneath that, he retrieved half a dozen pairs of silk stockings and said to Mason, “Notice the price marks, and the stock tags. We’ve checked back on those stockings. They weren’t sold. Someone picked ‘em up off the counter.”

“Indeed?” Mason said.

“Would you know anything about that?” Sergeant Tremont asked. Mason shook his head. “All right, you haven’t seen anything yet,” Tremont told him. He dug deeper in the bag and pulled out some packages done up in soft, white tissue. He unwrapped these, one at a time.

Mason stared down at the five large diamonds in antique settings. “Gosh!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know much about stones, but those look like a lot of money.”

“They are,” Tremont said. “Any idea where they came from?”

Mason shook ashes from the end of his cigarette, then faced the officer. “At the time I met her,” he said, “there seemed to have been a slight misunderstanding. One of the department store detectives thought she’d been shoplifting. Her niece thought she had been shopping. Since the things she had selected had never been removed from the store, I was inclined to join with the niece in insisting that the matter should be interpreted in a charitable light.”

“Then what?” Sergeant Tremont asked.

“Then,” Mason said, “we sat down and had lunch. Rather an enjoyable affair all around. I found her quite a character. Later on, the niece called on me. Something was said about some diamonds which had been left with Mr. George Trent. I think, Sergeant, if you’ll get hold of Miss Trent, you’ll find these diamonds will be readily identified as stones which were left with Mr. Trent in the due course of his business.”

“Then how did they get in this handbag?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t answer that question.”

“This other stuff,” the sergeant said, tapping the pile of silk stockings with the back of his fingers, “was stolen. Therefore, what does it make the diamonds?”

Mason’s laugh was genial. “Applying the same reasoning, Sergeant,” he said, “what does it make the knitting?”

“Don’t try to crack wise, Mason. The knitting is something a woman would naturally carry in her bag.”

“Remember,” Mason pointed out, “that her brother is a gem expert. He buys and sells on commission and does original designing, repair work, and recuts and polishes gems. While he’s away, she’s in charge of the business.”

“Where’s he now?”

“Apparently,” Mason said, “he’s on a toot.”

“Well,” Tremont said, “it’s going to be mighty fortunate for her if it turns out these diamonds are ones which were legitimately left in her possession. Just how did you enter in on it, Mason?”

“I didn’t particularly,” the lawyer said. “I was more entered against than entering. Having invited her and her niece to have lunch with me, the niece showed up later on in the afternoon with the report that her aunt was missing and would I please try to locate her. Then some people who had some entirely different business with the niece followed her to my office and insisted on having their business conference there.”

The sergeant nodded to the property clerk. “The shoes, Bill,” he said. The property clerk passed up a pair of gray kid shoes, with medium high heels and pointed toes. Sergeant Tremont picked up the left one and said, “Now these were her shoes, Mason. Take a look at this left one.” Mason examined the thick, reddish-brown stains which adhered to the leather of the shoe, and which had turned the sole a rusty brown. “How’d the blood get on that shoe?” the officer asked.