Erle Gardner - The Case of the Substitute Face

“This,” Mason remonstrated, “is a damned outrage!”

Borge slipped out of his overcoat, draped it across the back of a chair, wiped perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. Inspector Bodfish moved in on the other side.

“Is this the way you do things in San Francisco?” Mason demanded.

Scudder said nothing.

Borge grabbed Mason’s right wrist. Mason jerked back.

Borge twisted Mason’s arm under his own, pivoted his body so that Mason was pulled up against the big man’s hip.

“Wrestler, eh?” Mason inquired.

Borge, saying nothing, twisted Mason’s arm so that the fingers were spread out. Bodfish put ink on Mason’s fingers and took a series of impressions. “Hold out your other hand,” Bodfish ordered. Mason held it out.

Silently, Inspector Bodfish took the fingerprints from the other two.

“Now then,” Scudder said, “we want to know when you last saw Mr. Cartman.”

Mason said hotly, “You started this party, now go ahead and run it. Tell your big bruiser to try and make me talk-or do you use a rubber hose in this jurisdiction?”

“You mean you’re not going to answer questions?” Scudder demanded.

“I mean I’m not even going to give you a pleasant look,” Mason said.

“Perhaps you’ll tell us something,” Scudder said, facing Della Street. “You’re mixed up in this thing deep enough already. Loyalty is an excellent thing in its place, but you’re carrying it too far...”

“Don’t answer a single question, Della,” Mason ordered.

“You remember a man by the name of Cartman who sailed on the ship from Honolulu with you?”

“Don’t answer, Della,” Mason warned her.

Della Street clamped her lips together.

“You’re not answering?”

She shook her head.

Scudder swung to Drake. “You,” he said, “are on a spot. In some ways, I don’t blame you — Mason’s a client of yours. He gives you all of his business. You naturally want to protect him. But you have a living to make. They revoke the licenses of detectives who...”

“You can save it, Scudder,” Mason said grimly. “Drake isn’t going to talk. If you’d gone at this thing in a decent manner, we’d have been glad to answer questions. As it is, you can go jump in the lake.”

Scudder regarded Mason with sullen hostility. “Mason,” he said, “you’re all finished. You have a reputation for pulling fast stuff and getting away with it. This time you can’t do it. Other times, district attorneys have been willing to let things drop when you blew their cases up. This time I’m going through to a finish. I have all the evidence I need, and I’m going to get more.”

Mason lit a cigarette, and said tauntingly, “I thought you were a better lawyer than that, Scudder. You can’t make a case against me.”

“What do you mean?” Scudder demanded.

Mason said, “I’m a practicing lawyer. District attorneys don’t like me, but I have a good reputation with the public. How the hell are you going to get a jury to convict me on the testimony of an ex-convict?”

Scudder’s face was a mask. “You’re kidding yourself,” he said.

Mason went on, “Furthermore, a man can’t be convicted on the uncorroborated testimony of an accomplice. Turn that over in your mind and see where it leaves you-if you want to get technical.”

Scudder’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Mason in thoughtful appraisal. “So your accomplice was an ex-convict,” he charged.

Mason, instantly wary, said, “Now, wait a minute. Let’s not have any misunderstandings about this. I haven’t admitted having an accomplice, I’ve merely quoted some law.”

Scudder said, “Let him go, boys.”

Inspector Bodfish said, “You mean book him on an open charge or...”

“I mean let him go. Let him walk out of here,” Scudder ordered. “Turn all three of them loose.”

Mason’s bow was sardonic.

“Do I,” he asked, “get my fingerprints back?”

Scudder said grimly, “Try and get them.”

Borge wiped his forehead, blinked through the thick-lensed glasses, and said, “We aren’t done with this guy.”

Scudder said, “Shut up, Borge. That’s all. Mason. Get out.”

Mason led the way down the long flight of stairs to the street.

En route to the hotel, Mason turned to Drake and said with a grin, “Well, Paul, that wasn’t so bad as you thought it would be, was it?”

“Your grammar’s all shot to hell,” Drake said mournfully. “You mean to say, ‘Well, Paul, this isn’t as bad as you think it will be, is it?”’

Mason said, “I think we’re in the clear now, Paul.”

“You mean the district attorney’s going to quit?” Della Street asked.

“Lord, no!” Mason told her. “He’s just starting. That was the idea back of all this, to get the district attorney started.”

“Well,” Drake said, “you’ve got him started now.”

Charles Whitmore Dail was waiting for Mason at his hotel. “May I see you for a few moments. Counselor?” he asked.

“You can if you have that ten thousand dollars,” Mason told him, grinning.

“I have it,” Dail said, “and there’s another matter I wish to take up with you.”

“Come on up,” Mason invited.

When they were seated in the lawyer’s room, Dail looked significantly at Della Street and said, “In addition to this settlement I am making with Mrs. Moar, Mason, I had another matter I wanted to discuss with you.”

“All right,” Mason said, “go ahead and discuss it. I have no secrets from Della. Let’s get this ten thousand dollars out of the way first.”

“You have an agreement prepared?” Dail asked.

Mason nodded, and passed over a typewritten paper which contained Mrs. Moar’s signature. Dail studied it a moment, then folded it, slipped it in his pocket, opened a wallet, took out ten one-thousand-dollar bills and passed them over to Mason.

“Go ahead,” Mason told him.

“It’s about my daughter, Celinda.”

“What about her?”

“She has been subpoenaed as a witness in this case. It’s rather a minor matter. She happened to see Mrs. Newberry running down the stairs from the upper deck. Mrs. Newberry was carrying a chamois-skin money belt in her hand, and her gown was soaking wet.”

“How long was this after the whistle sounded its five blasts?” Mason asked.

“Celinda doesn’t remember clearly,” Dail said.

“What did you want to see me about?” Mason asked. “If the district attorney has subpoenaed Celinda, she should talk with him, not me.”

“I wanted to discuss Celinda’s temperament with you,” Dail said. “The child is rather nervous. She’s never been in court before and she’s read in the newspapers something of your vigorous cross-examination of Aileen Fell. I thought that perhaps we might reach some arrangement, Mr. Mason, by which Celinda wouldn’t be subjected to such a grilling cross-examination.”

Mason said, “What agreement did you have in mind?”

“Well,” Dail said, “of course the matter is rather delicate and I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand what I have in mind, but as I understand it, five thousand dollars of the money I have just paid goes toward your fees, five thousand goes to Mrs. Moar. Now, it seems to me that the very clever and adroit representation you are giving Mrs. Moar should entitle you to a larger fee. And, because she was a fellow passenger on the ship, I might be willing to interest myself somewhat in her behalf.”

“You mean to the extent of adding to my fees?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” Dail said.

Mason’s mouth twisted in a fighting grin. “I think I understand you perfectly, Dail,” he said, “and it happens I’m very glad your daughter is going to be a witness.”