Erle Gardner - The Case of the Substitute Face

“Then Moar did win the money in a lottery?” Hungerford asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I’m afraid not.”

“Where did he get it?”

“That remains to be seen. Of course, we don’t know that the money which was found in a money belt under the mattress of Moar’s bed belonged to him. It may have belonged to Mrs. Moar.”

“What does she say about it?” Hungerford asked.

“She doesn’t say,” Mason said drily.

For a moment Hungerford was silent.

Mason said, in a kindly tone, “I want you to know these things, Hungerford, before you burn any bridges.”

“My bridges are burnt, as far as that’s concerned,” Hungerford told him simply. “There’s only one person in the world who can make me happy and that’s Belle. I want her.”

Mason said, “One other thing you don’t want to overlook is that at present her mother is accused of murder. Circumstantial evidence against her looks rather black.”

“Her mother didn’t do it,” Hungerford said. “Belle’s mother simply couldn’t have done anything like that.”

“Well, opinions differ in those matters. The San Francisco district attorney seems to think otherwise.”

Hungerford said, “That reminds me, Mr. Mason, I’ve uncovered something I want to tell you about. In fact, a couple of things.”

“Go ahead.”

Della Street opened the door, smiled at Hungerford and said, “Mr. Scudder, the deputy district attorney in San Francisco, is on the line.”

Mason picked up the phone on the law library table and said, “Put him on here, Della.”

Della closed the door and Hungerford said, “The message which Mr. Newberry — I mean Mr. Moar — received just before he left the table was sent by a Miss Evelyn Whiting, a nurse who was accompanying a man with a broken neck.”

Mason heard a click on the line and a man’s voice saying, “Yes... Hello. This is Mr. Scudder.”

“Mason talking, Mr. Scudder,” Mason said. “I want a preliminary hearing in that Newberry case.”

“You can have it any time,” Scudder told him. “However, I deem it only fair to advise you, Mr. Mason, of what you may not know at this time. The San Francisco papers are carrying a story to the effect that Mr. Moar had embezzled twenty-five thousand dollars from the Products Refining Company. The money in the money belt which was recovered by the captain was undoubtedly a part of that embezzled money which Mrs. Moar had removed from Moar’s body before pushing him overboard. It, therefore, can’t even be used by Mrs. Moar to defray any legal expenses.”

“That doesn’t change my position in the least,” Mason said. “I want an immediate hearing, and you’re holding Belle Newberry. I want her released.”

“I’m afraid,” Scudder said, “that will be impossible.”

“All right,” Mason told him, “I’m getting out an application for a writ of habeas corpus and flying to San Francisco with it tonight. Either put a charge against her or release her.”

He snapped the receiver back into position, looked up at Hungerford and said, “How do you know?”

“About Miss Whiting?”

“Yes.”

“One of the room stewards saw Miss Whiting slip a note on the glass-covered shelf in front of the purser’s window. He feels certain it was the same note that was delivered to Moar.”

Mason frowned thoughtfully. “How was she dressed?” he asked. “Did the room steward say anything about that?”

“No,” Hungerford said, “he didn’t. He merely mentioned he saw her putting the envelope there. His name is Frank Bevins. I don’t think he’s said anything to the officers. In fact, I gathered from what he told me, he didn’t want to have any contact with the officers. I think the man may be wanted himself. He told me he had some information he’d give me for fifty dollars.”

“You paid him the fifty?” Mason asked.

Hungerford nodded. “You see,” he said, “the stewards knew that I’d been with Belle quite a bit.”

“And this man didn’t want to be a witness?”

“I think,” Hungerford said, “he was going to take the fifty dollars and skip out. He told me that he’d taken the job as room steward so that he could lie low for a while.”

“Then it’s just a tip,” Mason said, “nothing I could use as evidence.”

“That’s right.”

“Know anything else?” Mason asked.

“I understand the Fell girl is telling a different story now from what she did at first. She claims now she actually saw Mrs. Newberry shoot her husband and push him over the rail.”

Mason said, “The thing grows with repetition, doesn’t it?”

“It seems to.”

Mason picked up the telephone and pushed the button which connected him with Della Street. “Della,” he said, “tell Paul Drake to telephone his correspondents in Honolulu and have them find out everything they can about Evelyn Whiting, the nurse who came over on the ship with us. Have him send an operative to see Ida Johnson, Aileen Fell’s cabin-mate, and get a written statement from her. The Johnson girl’s friendly. And tell Paul to get a photograph of Aileen Fell in a dinner dress.”

“Just a minute,” Della Street said.

Mason held the phone and could hear her transmit the message to Drake, then she said into the telephone, “Drake says he can get a prompt report from Honolulu but he doesn’t know how he’s going to get a photograph of Aileen Fell in a dinner dress. He says the district attorney will have a couple of detectives guarding her and—”

“Get some politician to throw a party for the detectives,” Mason interrupted. “Tell them it’s formal and the dicks will show up in their tuxedos, then Drake’s photographer can pose as a newspaper photographer and take a flashlight. No detective ever overlooked an opportunity to have his picture taken in a tuxedo... My God, do I have to tell Drake how to run his detective agency?”

Della Street laughed and said, “Paul was just telling me his parents had made a mistake. He should have been quintuplets.”

“You’d think he was from his expense accounts,” Mason said. He hung up the receiver, reached across the table and shook hands with Hungerford. “Thanks a lot, Roy,” he said. “If it becomes necessary to call on you for a financial contribution, I’ll let you know. I don’t think it will be. Would you like to fly up to San Francisco with us right after dinner?”

“No, thank you,” Hungerford said. “I have my own plane. But I’ll see you up there.”

Mason escorted Hungerford to the door, stepped into the outer offices, shook hands with the office force, chatted for a few minutes about China and Bali, then piloted Jackson into the law library.

Jackson blinked studious eyes from behind tortoise shell glasses and said, “You’re going to have a tough time with Rooney, Mr. Mason. I feel that I should warn you.”

Mason grinned, “You don’t seem to like him, Jackson.”

Jackson said, “He’s an arrogant, dictatorial, obstinate nincompoop.”

“You really should take up profanity, Jackson. It’s a lot more satisfying,” Mason told him.

“You insinuated I wasn’t fighting,” Jackson went on in a hurt voice. “I want you to know I did everything humanly possible. I left no stone unturned, Mr. Mason. I told Mr. Rooney in no uncertain terms exactly what I wanted, and when he refused to accede to my request I openly accused him of betraying the best interests of the corporation.”

Mason opened a drawer, took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Jackson,” he said, “when you start fighting, never try to hit the other man where he’s expecting the punch. And when you once start a fight, never give up until the other man’s licked. If you can’t do it by hook, do it by crook. By the way, I don’t suppose you happen to know a Marjory Trenton?”