Erle Gardner - The Case of the Lame Canary

The clerk waved a deprecating hand. “It’s all right, Sergeant. I’m sorry I bothered you. I tried to get you again. It was all a mistake, but it’s all right now.”

“What the hell do you mean, it’s all right now?”

“She’s left.”

“Who’s left?”

“Della Street.”

“She was here?”

“Yes.”

“How about the baggage? Did you put that in the room?”

“No. She changed her mind, said that there’d been a mistake. So there’s nothing to bother about. She took it with her.”

“She what!”

“Took it with her.”

“You opened up the room with a passkey?”

“I didn’t personally. The elevator operator did.”

“And put that baggage in?”

“No,” the clerk said, “that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Sergeant. The baggage didn’t go in. It was a mistake. As soon as I saw Miss Street, I realized it must have been—”

“Never mind that,” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted, pushing his face across the counter. “Did that baggage go in that room — even for a second?”

“Oh, well, if you want to put it that way, I don’t know. I suppose some of it may have actually entered the room for a second or two. I wasn’t there.

“Was Della Street alone in the room with any of that baggage?”

“Why, I wouldn’t know — wait a minute, let me see— Yes, she must have been, because the first load of baggage came down with the operator and the transfer man in the cage. They unloaded that bunch of baggage and went back for another bunch. Miss Street must have been in the room with—”

“You fool!” Holcomb yelled. “She’s Perry Mason’s secretary. Perry Mason’s defending Rita Swaine. They wanted something out of that room and didn’t know how else to get it, so she took that baggage in, manipulated things so she was left alone in the room, opened one of the empty suitcases, pitched whatever it was she wanted in there, and took it out.”

The clerk stared at Sergeant Holcomb with shocked, incredulous eyes. At length he said, “Why, Sergeant, she’s a perfect little lady, trim, well-tailored, refined—”

“Bah!” Sergeant Holcomb said. “You make me sick. Why the hell didn’t you hold her?”

“Hold her? How could I?”

“Tell her she was under arrest. Hold her until I got there.”

“But you told me particularly, Sergeant, not to tell anyone you were coming.”

Sergeant Holcomb’s face darkened, as he groped for words. Suddenly the clerk had a bright idea.

“But wait a minute, Sergeant. I can tell you where she’s taking the baggage. If you hurry, you can catch it there.”

“Where?”

“The Traders’s Transfer Company. They’re going to store it.”

“What does it look like?”

“Well, it’s a very good grade of baggage, looks rather new. Very fine leather and—”

“What does it consist of?”

“Oh, everything. Hat boxes, hand bags, Gladstones, suitcases, steamer trunks—”

“Any identifying marks?”

“Yes. They’re all lettered ‘D.M.’ ”

“ ‘D.M.’? ”

“Yes.”

“Her name’s Della Street. Why should she have D.M. on her baggage?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m just describing the baggage to you. She said something about the D.M. baggage being the wrong baggage. If you want to examine it, you can probably intercept it if—”

Sergeant Holcomb whirled and crossed the lobby at a run. A moment later the clerk heard the scream of a siren.

Emil Scanlon looked across the coroner’s jury and said, “You gentlemen have seen the remains.”

They nodded.

“The object of this inquest is to determine how that man met his death,” Scanlon said. “It may have been an accidental death, or it may have been something else. There’s even a possibility of suicide. I want you gentlemen to pay close attention to the evidence. This isn’t like a court of law. I conduct my inquests more or less informally. What I’m trying to do is to get at the facts. Some coroners don’t care to have attorneys asking questions. Sometimes I don’t. But, in a case of this sort, where I feel attorneys aren’t getting technical and taking up time, but are actually assisting us in getting somewhere, I’m always glad to allow questions. I think you gentlemen understand your duties. We’ll call the first witness.”

There was a commotion in the courtroom. A man, whose face was so completely bandaged that only a bit of his nose and one eye were visible, said in muffled tones, “I want to be excused.”

“Who are you?” Scanlon asked.

“I’m Jackson Weyman. I was a witness in that other inquest, and now somebody’s subpoenaed me for this inquest. I’m a sick man.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Cuts in my face got infected,” Weyman explained. “I have no business to be out. I should be home in bed right now and—”

He was interrupted by a thin, austere woman who stood up at the other end of the courtroom and said, “The same is true in my case, your Honor. I’m Mrs. Stella Anderson. I also was a witness in that other case. I’ve been ordered to appear in this case and testify. I know absolutely nothing about this young man—”

“Perhaps you two know more than you think you do,” Scanlon said. “Since you’re here under subpoena, I’ll ask you to sit down and listen to at least a few of the witnesses. And, as far as you’re concerned, Mr. Weyman, on account of your physical condition, I’ll call you just as soon as I can. The first witness, however, will be Dr. James Wallace.”

Dr. Wallace arose and walked toward the witness chair. “But I demand that something be done about letting me go,” Weyman said, his words somewhat muffled by his bandages. “I have an infection which may be dangerous unless I keep absolutely quiet and—”

“You should have produced a physician’s certificate,” Scanlon said. “Since you’re here, simply sit down and compose yourself. I’ll finish with you in a very few minutes. I have only a few routine questions to ask of Dr. Wallace.

“Dr. Wallace, you’re a duly qualified and practicing physician and surgeon in this state and a resident physician and head of the interns at the Good Samaritan Hospital in this city. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you have been for more than a year?”

“That’s right.”

“Now, you’ve seen the remains in the undertaking parlors?”

“I have.”

“Do you know that man?”

“Yes,” Dr. Wallace said slowly. “I do. That man is an individual whom I treated for shock, for minor abrasions, bruises, and for traumatic amnesia on the thirteenth of this month.”

“Where, Doctor?”

“At the Good Samaritan Hospital. He had, I understand, been the victim of an automobile accident. He regained consciousness as he was being brought into the hospital. I found that his physical injuries were relatively superficial, treated them, and, in the course of my conversation, discovered that the man was suffering from traumatic amnesia. He—”

“Just what do you mean by traumatic amnesia, Doctor?”

“A loss of memory superinduced by external violence. He didn’t know who he was, nor where he lived.”

“So what did you do, Doctor?”

“Very adroitly,” Dr. Wallace said, “I maneuvered the conversation around so that it included the city of Alta-ville. I had previously ascertained from a driving license found in his pocket that the man was a resident of Alta-ville, and that his name was Carl Packard. By leading the conversation to Altaville and its environments in such a way that I did not add to his mental shock, I soon cleared up the patient’s mental condition.”