Erle Gardner - The Case of the Lame Canary

Mason said, “And do you happen to know, Mr. Human Wonder, whether the transfer man who will move the baggage of Miss Diana Morgan is Mr. Harry Trader of the Trader’s Transfer Company?”

The grin left Paul Drake’s face. His round, slightly protruding eyes showed a flash of surprise back of the glassy film which covered them. He slid around in the chair, got to Ms feet and said, “By God, Perry, I don’t. And I’m going to find out. You hit the nail on the finger with that crack.”

“Let me know as soon as you get the dope,” Mason called out as Drake jerked open the exit door and pounded down the corridor toward the office.

Mason turned to Della Street. “Della, how about your baggage?”

“I have my things nearly all packed.”

“I’m not talking about your things,” he told her. “How about your baggage?”

“You mean my suitcases, trunks and things?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she said, “I’ll get by. I’ve borrowed a couple of trunks and—”

“I have an idea which beats that all to pieces,” Mason interrupted. “Why not let Rita Swaine pay for your baggage? I have a scheme by which—”

“Now listen, Chief,” she interrupted. “ I’m going to catch that boat. If you’re thinking up any stunt which’ll land me in jail you can forget it right now.”

“No,” he told her, “this’ll be perfectly legal.”

“Never mind if it’s legal,” she said. “Will it look legal?”

“Well,” Mason admitted, hesitating, “I’ll confess that it may look just the slightest bit—”

She interrupted and said, “That’s enough. The answer, in words of one syllable is ‘No.’ ”

“Now don’t be like that, Della,” he pleaded. “This is a cinch. You go down to the best luggage store in the city, buy yourself a whole flock of suitcases, hat boxes, trunks and what have you, and have them lettered with the initials ‘D.M.’ You put in some bricks, newspapers, boards and old shoes, to give the luggage a reasonable amount of weight. Then you have a transfer man take the luggage up to Rita Swaine’s apartment at 1388 Chestnut Street. Tell him the number of the apartment is 408, and if you’re not there he’s to get a passkey from the attendant and put the baggage right in the apartment.”

Della Street yawned and said, “Sorry, Chief, I’m not interested. When the ship pulls out tomorrow, I want to be standing on deck, waving bye-bye to a few of my envious friends who’ll have come down to see me off. I wouldn’t care to be behind bars in the county jail, thank you.”

“You don’t have to be,” Mason told her. “This is perfectly legal.”

“Will I get arrested?”

“They can’t hold you in jail—”

“Never mind whether they can hold me. Will they arrest me?”

“Well,” Mason conceded, “before we get done Sergeant Holcomb may be a little bit put out about it.”

Enough so he’d take me to the hoosegow, Chief?”

Mason said, “Sergeant Holcomb’s impulsive, but I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll steal a march on him, Della. Get your book and I’ll give you some dictation.”

She said, “Oh, well, you’ve never yet gone so far I wouldn’t back your play. Let’s go.”

She moved over to her secretarial desk, opened her shorthand notebook and held her pen poised above the paper, “Okay, Chief,” she said, “what is it?”

“In the Matter of the Application of Della Street,” Mason dictated, “for a Writ of Habeas Corpus .”

Low-flung clouds, borne along in solemn procession by a brisk south wind, slid smoothly over the city streets, sending down an occasional patter of raindrops. The morning was depressing, gloomy, a fore-runner of disaster.

The transfer man who stood awkwardly ill at ease in front of the apartment house desk, said, “Well, all I know about it is she said she was moving in. She had a sublease or something. She said all the baggage initialed ‘D.M.’ was to go in. Here, she said to give you this letter if I had any trouble.”

The clerk said, “Well, you’re having trouble,” and slit open the envelope. He read the document, scratched his head and said, “Well, it seems to be in order. Rita Swaine has her rent paid and she’s in jail. She says to let a Miss Della Street move her things into the apartment, and these are Della Street’s things. I guess she has the right to do it if she wants. I’ll send the boy up to unlock the door.”

The transfer man nodded, walked back to the light transfer wagon at the curb, and started unpiling bags, suitcases and steamer trunks.

“How you going to get all that stuff into the one apartment?” the clerk asked.

“I d’know,” the transfer man admitted. “I’ll do it some way. Pile ’em in the center of the floor if I can’t do nothing else. She said to get ’em in, and I’ll get ’em in.”

The colored elevator boy approached the desk. “Boss, yo’-all remembah that the police officer man said you was to telephone him if anybody tried to get in that apartment.”

“No one’s trying to get in,” the clerk said. “The man’s simply delivering some baggage. However, I’ll notify Sergeant Holcomb.”

He plugged in a line, called police headquarters and asked for Sergeant Holcomb of the homicide squad. While he waited, the transfer man and the elevator boy moved baggage up to Rita Swaine’s apartment.

After a few moments Sergeant Holcomb’s voice said, “Hello. What is it?”

“This is the desk clerk at 1388 Chestnut Street. You’ll remember Miss Rita Swaine has an apartment here under lease, and you asked me to let you know if anyone tried to move anything out. Well, no one’s trying to take anything out, but some baggage is being delivered — that is, Miss Swaine has given orders to place Miss Street’s baggage in her apartment. The transfer man’s brought quite a few suitcases, trunks and— Just a minute, I’ll look— Yes, that’s right, it’s Della Street— What? — Well, I’ll be damned!”

The clerk pulled out the plug and set his face in stem lines of officious determination.

Della Street, tailored to the minute, as serenely confident as a poker player pushing a stack of blue chips into the center of the pile, came breezing in from the street door walked up to the desk and said, “I’m Miss Street. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“You’re the one who sent the baggage for Miss Swaine’s apartment?” the clerk asked.

“That’s right. But this baggage shouldn’t have gone up there at all. This is the ‘D.M.’ baggage. It should have been delivered to the Trader’s Transfer Company for storage. Where’s the transfer man, please?”

“He’s upstairs now.”

“Yes. I saw the truck out in front,” Della Street said, as she dazzled the clerk with a smile, walked over to the elevator and jabbed the elevator button.

The elevator took her to the fourth floor. The desk clerk, hesitating for a moment, once more plugged in the line and said, “Police Headquarters.” Again he asked to talk with Sergeant Holcomb, and, after a two minute delay, was advised that Holcomb had just left.

The clerk was pulling out the plug when the elevator door once more opened, an a perspiring transfer man started pitching out suitcases, hat boxes, trunks, and hand bags. The elevator made two trips of it. Della Street came down with the second load, trim, alert, and smiling. She said to the desk clerk, “Thank you very much indeed,” and walked to the door of the apartment house. The eyes of the desk clerk followed her with ardent masculine appreciation.

Less than five minutes later, Sergeant Holcomb came striding into the lobby. “Where is she?” he asked.