Erle Gardner - The Case of the Substitute Face

Mason found Belle Newberry in her stateroom with Della Street.

“How goes it, Belle?” he asked.

“Okay so far,” she told him. “They questioned me up one side and down the other.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them they weren’t officers of justice,” she said, “but persecutors. I refused to answer any of their questions. I said that anyone who would accuse my mother of a crime like that was a monster.”

Mason’s eyes were sympathetic. “I’m sorry I had to tell you to play it that way, Belle,” he said, “but for certain reasons it was the only thing to do.”

“You mean that if I told them Carl’s real name, they’d find out about that lottery and—”

“Something like that,” Mason said. “In order to build up a defense, I want a few hours during which no one will even suspect that Carl Newberry was really Carl Moar.”

“Will a few hours be enough?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason told her. “I’ll do my best.”

“Celinda Dail has been trying to see her,” Della Street said. “She’s full of sympathy and—”

“Keep Belle away from Celinda,” Mason said. “Tell everybody that Belle’s upset and isn’t to be questioned that you’re sorry, but she can see no one.”

“That’s what I’ve done,” Della Street said. “Of course, the officers insisted on coming in.”

“Tell me, Mr. Mason,” Belle asked. “How about Moms? Is she holding up?”

“She’s holding up,” Mason said.

“What’s this about some witness having seen her on deck?”

Mason made a gesture of dismissal. “Pay no attention to it, Belle. You can hear all sorts of stories.” He turned to Della Street. “Della, I want to find out who sent that note to Carl Newberry. The bellboy says he got it from the purser. The purser says he was doing some book work and when he looked up the note was lying on the glass shelf in front of his window. On the envelope had been written, ‘Please deliver immediately to Carl Newberry.’ The purser called a bellboy and told him to deliver the note.”

Belle said, “I think I know what was in that note, Mr. Mason.”

“What?” he asked.

“There was just three words scribbled on a piece of paper with a lead pencil. It said simply, ‘Promenade Port Okay,’ and there was no signature.”

“Could you tell if it was a man’s writing?”

“No. It was scribbled in pencil. I got the impression it was a woman’s writing. That’s why I didn’t say anything at the time. I knew Carl wouldn’t carry on an affair, but I thought perhaps Moms might get jealous.”

Mason said, “It wouldn’t do any harm for you to give that-information to the officers, Belle, but be absolutely certain not to tell them anything about your past, where you went to school, where you’ve been living, or anything about it. And, incidentally, do your hair differently. You look too much like Winnie Joyce with your hair done that way. The officers may trace you through that resemblance.”

Della Street reached for a comb. “I’ll fix that,” she said.

Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, was waiting at the dock. His long legs lifted his face, with its filmy, expressionless eyes, and droll grin, over the heads of the crowd which pushed against the customs barrier.

Mason winked surreptitiously at the detective, rushed his baggage through customs, parried questions from a group of reporters, and pushed Della Street into a taxicab.

Paul Drake, loitering at the curb, apparently an innocent bystander, popped into the cab just before the driver slammed the door.

“Make time to the airport,” Mason ordered.

Drake said, “I have a chartered plane waiting, Perry... My gosh, you two had better take a vacation every six months. It’s taken years from you both. Della looks positively immature.”

Mason grinned and said, “No go, Paul. She’s been kidded by experts since you’ve seen her. Spill the dope, and spill it fast.”

“What’s this about the murder?” Drake asked.

“I’ll tell you about that after you tell me about the Products Refining Company.”

Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket. “There’s a shortage of twenty-five grand. It was discovered by C. Denton Rooney, the head auditor, a couple of days after Carl Moar failed to show up. Rooney accused Moar of embezzlement and wanted the company to have a warrant issued immediately, but the lawyer who handles things for the corporation is a conservative chap. There’s a nigger in the woodpile somewhere. I don’t know what it is. They’ve engaged outside accountants to make an audit of the books and hired a firm of private detectives to pick up Moar’s trail. So far, as nearly as I can understand, the detectives have drawn a blank.”

“I haven’t met Rooney myself. I talked with Jackson, who had a talk with Rooney and got no place. Jackson hates him, says he’s a pompous little bantam rooster; that he’s absolutely incompetent and holds down a four hundred and sixty dollar a month job because he married the sister of the president’s wife.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Mason asked.

“You mean Dail’s wife?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, she’s dead. Rooney’s wife is very much alive. She rules Rooney with an iron hand. At home he’s nothing but a doormat. At the office he’s a dictator. You know the type.”

“Yes,” Mason said. “What have you got on him, anything?”

“He’s buying flowers for a blonde,” Drake said dejectedly. “That’s everything we can find out about him.”

“Who’s the blonde?”

“A Margie Trenton, who lives in apartment 14B, at 3618 Pinerow Drive. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing,” Mason said. “She doesn’t fit into the picture anywhere, so far as I know.”

“Well, I put a man to work on her,” Drake said, “and got nowhere. Here’s a picture snapped with a candid camera.”

Mason looked at the enlargement printed on glossy paper. which the detective handed him, grinned and said, “I’ll say it’s candid! Where was this taken?”

“While she was sunbathing at the beach.”

“She looks expensive,” Mason observed, and, after a moment, added, “and interesting.”

Della Street, studying the picture with that skeptical appraisal which one woman gives to another, said, “She spends money on herself, and she wasn’t wearing that suit to attract sunshine so much as attention. Notice that wrist watch?”

Mason studied the wrist watch. “Any dope on it, Paul?” he asked.

“I can probably get some,” Drake said. “Why?”

Mason said, “We’re going to make a play on that wrist watch, Paul, and we’re going to have to work fast.”

“What sort of a play?” Drake asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Mason told him, “but we’re going to get Rooney in some sort of a jam. The only way he can get himself out is by giving us the low-down on that embezzlement and, using that as ammunition, we’ll scare the Products Refining Company into keeping its mouth shut.”

Drake said, “I can tell you what I think is the joker, Perry. The Products Refining Company, and a couple of other companies, have an interlocking directorate and a holding company. There are a lot of accounts payable and accounts receivable. Some of the subsidiary companies pay in money and others borrow that money and give notes for the indebtedness. Then they gradually retire the notes, and that money is borrowed by another company, and everybody gets dizzy.”

“You mean they’re dodging income tax?” Mason asked.

“Sure. The holding company juggles cash around. The Products Refining Company is in on that. I think there’s a lawyer back of the whole business somewhere, but he isn’t coming forward to claim any laurel wreaths, if you get me.”