Erle Gardner - The Case of the Substitute Face

“Well,” Della Street said, “he showed plenty of enthusiasm when it came to finding me .”

Mason nodded. Suddenly a twinkle appeared in his eye. “Now, Della,” he said, “you’ve given me a real idea.”

“What?” she asked.

“We’ll make Scudder think that I’m concealing Eves and Evelyn Whiting. Once he gets that idea, he’ll move heaven and earth to uncover them.”

“And just how are you going to make him think you’re concealing them?” Drake asked.

Mason looked at his watch. “Got a set of skeleton keys, Paul?” he asked.

Drake said, “Oh, my Lord! I should have known better than to have brought this up in the first place.”

Mason grinned, “Get your burglar’s outfit, Paul. We’re going to do a little high-class house breaking.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Mason asked, “that we’ve overlooked the most significant clue in this entire business?”

“What?” Drake inquired.

“The fact that the woman in the picture shop mentioned that Evelyn Whiting had purchased a picture frame, an oval desk frame which would take a picture which had been trimmed down from an eight-by-ten print?”

Della Street grabbed his arm. “Chief, do you mean that she was the one...”

Mason grinned at Paul Drake. “I’m commencing to feel natural again, Paul,” he said. “Scudder has been so smug and complacent throughout this entire business that it’s time we exploded a dynamite bomb under him.”

“And I take it,” Drake said, “we’re going to violate a law?”

“Well,” Mason told him, “the legality of our position is going to be rather technical, Paul. We’re going to break and enter, but not for the purpose of committing a felony.”

“For what purpose, then?” Drake asked.

“For the purpose of leaving a choice assortment of fingerprints,” Mason told him.

Drake said, “Good Lord, Perry. If you only knew how nice and peaceful it was when you were in Bali!”

Mason climbed the wooden stairs which led up the back of the flat on Stockton Boulevard. Behind him, Paul Drake was a silent shadow. Della Street, seated in a rented car, with the motor running, was parked in the alley.

Drake muttered, “I don’t like this a damn bit, Perry. If we get caught it’s a felony, and if he comes in he’ll spray us full of lead.”

Mason whispered, “You have a cheerful mind, Paul.”

They climbed to the service porch on the rear of the third-story flat. Fog which drifted in from the ocean blanketed the city, lowering visibility, distorting sounds. The mournful drone of fog signals could be heard at intervals. Fog-bred moisture dripped from the eaves.

Mason inserted a skeleton key. The lock clicked back. Mason gently opened the door.

Drake said, “If he should be in there, Perry—”

His voice trailed into silence. The men stood waiting.

Mason took a flashlight from his pocket. “Come on, Paul.”

The beam of the flashlight sent a long, white pencil of illumination stabbing through the darkness. It showed a kitchen, with its windows tightly closed. An odor of stale cooking and rancid frying fat clung to the room.

Mason led the way through the kitchen to a dining room and living room, then into a bedroom. His flashlight showed a wheel chair. “That’s Cartman’s wheel chair, Paul,” Mason said. “And you’ll notice that someone did some hurried packing here. Notice the way things have been pulled from the drawers. Look at the empty coat hangers in the closet. See the imprint on the bed where a suitcase has been placed.”

“Well,” Drake said, “Eves had a lot of baggage and his wife had been over in Honolulu—”

“His wife,” Mason said, “wasn’t living here with him. She’d been living with her sister. Her clothes weren’t the ones which were taken from those hangers... Hello, what’s this?”

The beam of his flashlight reflected from a rounded strip of wood enameled and polished to a high brilliance. The bit of wood was perhaps an inch and a half in length, splintered at both ends and partially curved.

Drake inspected the piece of wood and said, “A piece of wood from a molding somewhere. He probably—”

Mason abruptly dropped to his knees, sent the beam from the flashlight sliding along the floor. “Look for splintered pieces of glass, Paul,” he said. “See if you can find—”

“Here’s one,” Drake said, picking up a small fragment of glass.

“And here’s another,” Mason told him.

“What’s the idea?” Drake said. “Do you think there’s been a fight here, or—”

Mason said, “Let’s take a look at the garbage can on the service porch, Paul.”

Drake said, “Listen, Perry, I don’t like this. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but we’re going at this thing all wrong. We’re—”

Mason walked toward the service porch, taking the flashlight with him. Drake, perforce, followed, Mason lifted the lid from the garbage can, took out several opened tin cans, some halves of orange peel, then a long sliver of glass. “We’re on the right track, Paul,” he said, and a moment later handed-up a long, curved segment of enameled, rounded wood.

“This must have been a picture frame,” Drake said.

Mason nodded, fished from the garbage can a crumpled, cracked, oval photograph. He smoothed it out. The likeness of Belle Newberry laughed up into the flashlight. The beam of light showed the words inscribed on the photograph in ink, “To Daddy, With Love, from Belle.”

Mason pushed the photograph back into the can, took Drake’s arm, led him back into the flat and said, “That’s all we need, Paul. We’ll leave a few fingerprints and get out.”

“Why fingerprints?”

“So the district attorney can know you’ve been guilty of breaking and entering,” Mason said. “He’ll probably stick you on a kidnaping charge, as well. Here’s a good place on the dresser mirror, Paul. And you can put some fingerprints on that table.”

“Now wait a minute. Perry. If you—”

“Go ahead,” Mason said, pressing his hand against the mirror on the dressing table.

Drake gingerly touched the top of the table as though it were hot.

Mason laughed, lowered his shoulder, pushed his weight against Drake and snapped off his flashlight. The detective, stumbling about in the darkness, grabbed at the table to keep himself from falling, then clung to a chair.

Mason switched on the flashlight and said, “Come on, Paul, you old criminal. Let’s get out of here.”

Drake said, “Perry, will you please tell me what’s the idea of all this horse-play?”

“Wait until you hear the D.A. describe it in court tomorrow,” Mason said. “Come on, Paul. Do you want to leave, or do you want to stay here and argue?”

“I want to leave,” Drake said, “and you can’t make it too snappy for me.”

Mason led the way out the back door, locking it behind them.

“Okay?” Della Street asked, as Mason reached the alley.

“Okay so far,” Mason told her. “You’ve memorized the story you’re to give Scudder?”

“And how!” she told him.

“Let’s go,” Mason said, settling back against the cushions.

Drake closed the door. Della Street lurched the car into motion. They left the alley for the boulevard, drove half a dozen blocks and slowed in front of a drug store.

“Come on, Paul,” Mason said, “You might as well get an earful of this.”

Drake said, “I always get suspicious when you throw it in high and don’t tell me what you’re doing, Perry. You and Della take more chances than any airplane stunters in the world.”

Mason took Drake’s arm, led him into the rear of the drug store where there was a telephone booth. Della dropped a nickel, dialed a number with swiftly competent fingers and said, “Hello... Hello... Let me talk with Mr. Scudder, please, at once... This is very important... Tell him I have some information for him... It’s about a case he’s trying tomorrow.”