Erle Gardner - The Case of the Substitute Face

She glanced up from the transmitter and nodded to Perry Mason. A moment later she said into the telephone, “Hello, Mr. Scudder. This is Mrs. Morgan Eves talking. I’m the real Mrs. Eves; but I don’t want you to ever tell anyone that I called you. My husband’s a crook. You’ll find his record under the name of James Whitly or James Clerke... Now, wait a minute, don’t interrupt me, please. This is something about the case you’re trying... My husband’s now going under the name of Morgan Eves. He’s divorcing me, but he only has an interlocutory decree. The final decree hasn’t been entered yet. But that hasn’t stopped him any. He’s gone through a marriage ceremony with a nurse. Her name’s Evelyn Whiting. They have a flat at 3618 Stockton Boulevard. Evelyn Whiting is the nurse who came over on the ship on which Carl Moar was murdered. She was nursing a man named Roger Cartman who had a broken neck, and he saw the whole murder... Yes, I say he saw it. The nurse had to give him some treatment. She took him up to the hospital quarters and he was sitting there in the wheel chair when Carl Moar was killed. He saw the whole thing.

“Roger Cartman paid Evelyn Whiting to take care of him. He didn’t know she was married. She took him to the flat on Stockton Boulevard and told him she was renting it for him. She and Morgan Eves were just planning to knock down a little money on the side. Then they found out he was a witness, and they got in touch with Perry Mason, and Perry Mason paid them five thousand dollars to get the witness out of the country.... Cartman wanted to testify, but he’s helpless. Yes, I know what I’m talking about. Mr. Mason and Mr. Drake, the detective, were up there and they moved Cartman out. He has a broken neck and can’t do anything by himself... In case you want an eyewitness who can testify to exactly what happened, all you have to do is to get Mr. Cartman and if it’s against the law for Mr. Mason to pay money to have a witness put into hiding, you can get Mr. Mason, too... But don’t you ever mention my name or they’d kill me.”

She slammed the receiver back on the hook and said, “How did I do, Chief?”

“You did swell,” Mason said. Drake shook his head mournfully. “My God!” he said. “I always lead with my chin.”

“What’s next on the program?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “We have a couple of hours to kill. How about a picture show?”

“Suits me,” Della Street said.

“How would you like a good mystery play, Paul?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “That’s the first really smart thought you’ve had all evening, Perry. I suppose you have some sort of a plan in mind, but it’s more than I can figure. I think you’ve gone plumb crazy.”

“Not quite that bad, Paul,” Mason told him. “There’s a method in my madness.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Drake said. “To me it seems like one of those goofy dreams, where everybody does cuckoo things. Honest to God, Perry, when Della was telephoning to Scudder, I expected any minute to have you chime in with a station announcement and ask the D.A. how he liked the amateur hour.”

Della Street drove to a neighborhood picture show, and parked the car. The three of them entered the lighted foyer. Mason bought tickets. Drake said, “Well, at least I can have a few minutes’ relaxation... Oh, Lord, Perry, I’ve seen this picture before and didn’t like it.”

Della Street parked her rented car near the hotel. Mason took Della Street’s arm, started across the pavement with her, heard Drake say, “Oh-oh!” and felt a hand grip his shoulder. He whirled around, to confront a tall man who loomed to enormous proportions in a heavy black overcoat. Thick-lensed spectacles distorted the man’s pale green eyes.

“Where you been?” he asked.

Mason turned back toward the entrance of the hotel, the hand of the big man still on his shoulder.

“Who wants to know?” he asked.

“The D.A. does.”

Mason said, “Tell him I’ve been to a picture show.”

A chunky figure materialized from the doorway, to stand at Paul Drake’s arm.

“Inspector Bodfish,” the big man introduced.

Mason unexpectedly reached across in front of Della Street, grabbed Bodfish’s right hand, pumped it up and down, and turned to the big man. “What’s your name?”

“Borge.”

“Nice name,” Mason said, shaking hands.

“We could get along without your wise cracks,” Borge told him.

“So many people can,” Mason complained. “The trouble is that I can’t. Where do we talk?”

“The D.A.’s waiting for you.”

Mason said, “Do you know, I think it would be a swell idea to let him wait.”

Borge said, “I don’t.”

“Is this a pinch?” Drake demanded.

“You’re damn right it’s a pinch,” Bodfish told him.

“On what grounds, may I ask?” Mason inquired.

“On suspicion of murder.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“Accessory after the fact, I believe,” Inspector Bodfish announced.

“Kidnaping,” Borge added.

“That all?” Mason asked.

“That’s all so far. Perhaps we can add resisting an officer by the time we have you booked.”

“Got a warrant?” Mason inquired, lighting a cigarette.

“We don’t need one.”

“All right,” Mason said to Della Street, “you go up to the room and wait, Della. Paul can keep you company. I won’t be...”

“They’re coming right along,” Inspector Bodfish said.

“What grounds?”

“The same grounds.”

“All three of us?”

“All three of you.”

Mason yawned, “Let’s get it over with.”

Borge called a taxi. They drove silently, Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake in the back seat, Inspector Bodfish and Borge seated on the folded backs of the jump seats, facing the trio. The cab turned into Stockton Boulevard, ran several blocks, and stopped.

“The D.A. live here?” Mason inquired.

“You know damn well who lives here,” Borge remarked.

Mason said to Bodfish, “I’d like to have your unbiased opinion, Inspector. Do you think it’s necessary for an officer to ape this hard-boiled style in order to be efficient?”

“Shut up,” Bodfish ordered.

Mason nodded to Drake. “He does,” he told the detective.

Borge led the way up a flight of stairs, across’ a porch, rang a bell, received a buzzing signal, pushed the door open, and said, “Upstairs, you three.”

They climbed the stairs, with no word. Mason pushed past Della Street, so that he was the first up. Scudder, who had been standing by a window, walked across to meet Mason, and said, “Perhaps you can tell us what happened here.”

“Oh, did something happen here?”

“You know it did.”

“When?”

“When you were here.”

“And when was that?” Mason asked.

“Not very long ago.”

Mason looked at the powder which had been dusted over various objects, and said to Paul Drake and Della Street, “Don’t touch anything. Paul, stick your hands in your pockets and keep them there. They’ve been frisking the place for fingerprints. It looks like a frame-up.”

Scudder’s face flushed. “You’re not in Los Angeles now,” he said. “You can’t pull that stuff and get away with it.”

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

“A man by the name of Roger P. Cartman was here,” Scudder said. “You have him concealed somewhere. I want him.”

Mason said, “You’re crazy.”

“You were here earlier this evening. You and a man named Eves decided to hide him so he wouldn’t have to testify.”

“Have you,” Mason inquired solicitously, “looked under the bed?”

“Take his fingerprints,” Scudder ordered.