Erle Gardner - The Case of the Substitute Face

Mason said, “I believe that’s the chap, Paul, the one she was nursing. Of course, I couldn’t see his face plainly. He had to hold his head in one position because of that neck brace, so his eyes were shaded against the sunlight by heavy goggles, and the harness came up around his chin. But I remember he was a small-boned chap with high cheekbones and a thin mouth. His forehead was covered with a strip of gauze — it’s the man all right.”

“He must have been hurt over there.”

“And she brought him back to the Mainland for medical treatment.”

“He may have pulled something over in Honolulu and is hiding out,” Drake said. “Do you want to go any farther with it?”

“You bet we do,” Mason told him. “Get this, Paul, Unless we can get some sort of a break, Mrs. Moar is going to be convicted of first-degree murder. She lied about going on deck with her husband. She had her husband’s money. There was a large policy of insurance. Two shots were fired. A gun which undoubtedly belonged to Moar was found on the boat deck with her fingerprints on the barrel, and an eyewitness will swear to enough to make the jury feel it isn’t a case of circumstantial evidence. It’s very possible that she’s innocent. I think she is or I wouldn’t be representing her, but try and sell that idea to a jury. Now then, if you add to that the fact that when she telephoned the operator to notify the bridge she told them a man had been pushed overboard, her chances are absolutely nil. They may even return a verdict without recommendation, which will automatically carry the death penalty.”

“How strong will this eyewitness go?” Drake asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason told him. “We’re having a preliminary examination tomorrow. I think I can use a technicality which will force the district attorney to put on all of his evidence at the preliminary. That’ll give me a chance to rip his witnesses wide open and shoot the case full of holes. By the time that Fell girl gets into the Superior Court she’ll have rehearsed her testimony so much in her own mind that it’ll be impossible to shake her. By catching her now, I may be able to find a weak point. In fact, I think I have one — if your men can get that photograph.”

“What’s that photograph got to do with it?” Drake asked.

“That’s a secret, ” Mason said.

“Well, we can tell when we get to the office, ” Drake told him. “I have men working on it.”

The taxi deposited them at Drake’s office. Mason sat in a cubbyhole office while Drake received reports from his subordinates.

Drake skimmed through a typewritten report and said, “Okay, Perry, Aileen Fell is going to be at a party tonight in a formal. Operatives so far haven’t been able to locate Evelyn Whiting. The ambulance companies all say they didn’t have an ambulance at the dock yesterday.”

“Well, an ambulance was there,” Mason said. “I saw it.”

“I saw it too,” Drake said, “but I didn’t pay particular attention to it. I saw the word AMBULANCE written on the side under the driver’s window. I have an idea it was a private ambulance.”

“Well, we can chase down that angle, can’t we?”

“Yes, it’s being chased down.”

“How about her baggage? Where was that taken?”

“Taken to storage,” Drake told him. “She gave checks to a storage company, and the address she gave the storage company was the Wavecrest Apartment address.”

Mason said irritably, “I never knew a girl to leave such a broad back trail and then have it vanish so completely.”

The telephone rang. Drake picked up the receiver, listened and said, “Okay, Perry, we’ve traced that car. It’s registered to a Morgan Eves who lives at 3618 Stockton Boulevard. Do we go there?”

Mason said, “We go there, but first I want to ring up Della and tell her what we’re doing and see if the district attorney’s released Belle Newberry.”

Drake passed the telephone over to Mason. Mason dialed the number of the hotel and said, “This is Mr. Mason talking. Connect me with my suite, please.”

After a moment, the operator’s voice said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. They don’t answer. I don’t think there’s anyone in there.”

“There must be,” Mason insisted. “Miss Street, my secretary, is there waiting for instructions—”

“Miss Street went out just a few minutes after you left, Mr. Mason,” the operator said. “I saw her go past my desk.”

“You’re certain?”

“Quite certain.”

“How was she dressed?”

“She had on a raincoat and hat.”

“Carrying a brief case with her?” Mason asked.

“No. There was nothing in her hands except her purse.”

“And she hasn’t returned?”

“No.”

Mason frowned thoughtfully and said, “When she does return, please tell her that I’ll be back in about an hour.”

He dropped the receiver into place, said, “Okay, Paul. Let’s go.”

The Stockton Boulevard address was a two-and-a-half-story flat. In the basement floor were two shops. One bore the legend, “F. KRANOVICH, Tailoring, Cleaning and Pressing ”, the other, “MABEL FOSS, Picture Studio — Developing, Printing, Framing. ” The window carried a display of photographic prints and an assortment of picture frames. The second-story flat seemed vacant, while the third apparently was tenanted.

One of Drake’s men had driven them out and Mason instructed him to park the car half a block down the street. The lawyer and the detective climbed the half dozen stairs which led from the street and looked at the name on the mail box.

“Here it is,” Drake said, “Morgan Eves. This chap may be a tough customer, Perry. He won’t fall for any of the usual lines.”

“All right, then,” Mason said, “we won’t give him a usual’ line,” and jabbed his finger against the bell button. They could hear the faint jangle of a bell two floors above.

“Being in trouble doesn’t mean anything to this chap,” Drake went on. “He’s taken lots of raps. If you leave him an opening, he’ll take it, and take it damn fast. This is no time for any theatrical stuff.”

Mason nodded, pressed his finger against the button once more. “Nobody home,” he said, after several seconds had elapsed.

“Now listen. Perry,” the detective cautioned, “let’s not go snooping around this place.”

Mason walked to the edge of the porch, stood staring out at the reflecting surface of the wet street. The rain had ceased, but low clouds, splotched with the black markings of potential showers, drifted overhead.

“I have an idea the birds have flown the nest,” Mason said.

“If Evelyn Whiting had recognized Carl Moar and had worked some kind of a blackmail racket on him, she wouldn’t have stuck around where she could be located — particularly after the murder case, broke.”

“The more I think of it, the more I want to find her, Paul,” Mason said. “Let’s find out where they are.”

“How?” Drake asked. “This chap had an automobile. He could simply pull out and—”

“He also has a broken neck,” Mason said. “Don’t forget that.”

“Well, the girl could drive.”

Mason nodded. “Look here, Paul, there’s no garage in connection with this building. The chances are they didn’t take their car over to Honolulu and back. So they must have left it here. Let’s look around and see if we can’t find where it was stored somewhere in the neighborhood.”

“Not much chance,” Drake told him. “They’d have put it in one of the big storage garages up town. They’d have driven down to the wharf with it when they left, and stored it where it would be handy when they got back.”