Erle Gardner - The Case of the Substitute Face

“And I demand that such proof be produced!” Mason shouted.

Judge Romley said, “Very well, the Court will at this time entertain proof in support of a motion made by the Prosecution that the case of The People versus Anna Moar be continued for forty-eight hours. Proceed with your proof, Mr. Deputy District Attorney.”

“Call Mabel Foss to the stand,” Scudder said.

The woman who had waited on Perry Mason and delivered the photographs to him, came forward and was sworn.

“You reside and have a place of business in a little storeroom at 3618 Stockton Boulevard?” Scudder asked.

“I do.”

“Are you acquainted with Perry Mason, the attorney sitting here?”

“I have seen him, yes.”

“When?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“Did you have any business transactions with him?”

“I did.”

“What?”

“Mr. Mason asked for some pictures which had been left to be developed by a Mrs. Morgan Eves. He said that he was a neighbor and friend.”

“And who is Morgan Eves?”

“He resides in the flat on the third floor.”

“Of the house in which you have your shop and place of business?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known Morgan Eves?”

“Some two months.”

“I will show you a photograph and ask you if that is a photograph of Morgan Eves.”

Scudder produced a printed placard showing a man’s face, both front view and profile. A prison number was printed across the man’s chest. Below appeared a series of fingerprints.

Mason said, “I object to this. There is no need to introduce a man’s criminal record in this indirect manner.”

“The objection is overruled,” Judge Romley said. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Counselor.”

“Do you know the man whose picture is shown here?” Scudder asked.

“Why, yes, that’s Mr. Eves. I had no idea he was a—”

“That’s the man you know as Morgan Eves, the man who lives in the flat on the third floor of the house at 3618 Stockton Boulevard?” Scudder asked.

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Mason called and secured pictures which had been left to be developed by Mr. Eves’s wife?”

“Yes.”

“Now, do you know a Roger P. Cartman?”

“I have seen him,” she said. “He came over from Honolulu with Mrs. Eves. She’s a nurse. He was suffering from a broken neck.”

“And was removed from an ambulance and taken up to the flat rented by Mr. Eves?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all,” Scudder said. “No questions,” Mason announced. “My next witness,” Scudder announced, “is Christopher G. Borge.”

Borge, looking decidedly bored, raised his huge frame from his chair, walked to the clerk, was sworn, eased himself into the witness chair, crossed his knees and looked at the deputy district attorney.

“Your name is Christopher Borge, and you are now, and for several years have been, a criminologist connected with the homicide detail of the police force in this city?”

“I am.”

“And what has been your training for your position?” the deputy district attorney inquired.

Mason raised his eyebrows in surprise, inquired, “May I ask if you’re endeavoring to qualify this man as an expert?”

“Yes!” snapped the deputy, without turning his head.

Borge paid no attention whatever to the comments of Counsel. He glanced indifferently down at the reporter’s desk, where the shorthand reporter was making his pen fly across the paper, and said, “I studied chemistry, fingerprinting, forensic medicine, and toxicology, ballistics, handwriting, photomicrography and several other allied subjects.”

“When you say that you studied fingerprinting, what do you mean?” the deputy district attorney asked.

“I mean that I took a regular course in fingerprinting and all of its phases, learned the methods of indexing and filing fingerprints, of identifying men from fingerprints, of developing what are known as latent fingerprints, photographing them, checking and comparing them.”

“I call your attention to the photograph which has been identified by the witness who preceded you as that of Morgan Eves and ask you if you have ever seen that man.

“I have.”

“Do you recognize him?”

“I do.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s James Whitly, also known as James Clerke.”

“Does he have a criminal record?”

Mason jumped to his feet, his manner that of one who is cornered and fighting desperately.

“Your Honor, I object. This is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”

“It is on a motion only, your Honor, addressed to the discretion of this Court,” Scudder said, “and this is preliminary. I intend to connect it up.”

“Overruled,” Judge Romley said.

Borge took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his perspiring forehead and the back of his neck and said in a bored voice, “Yes, he has a criminal record.”

“What is it?”

“Twice to San Quentin for burglary. Once to Folsom for assault with a deadly weapon. He’s been arrested three or four times and was tried for murder in—”

Mason jumped to his feet and said, “Your Honor, I object. Any man may be arrested—”

“Sustained,” Judge Romley said.

“Did you,” Scudder went on, “take this man’s fingerprints, Mr. Borge?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“In 1929, in 1934, and in 1935.”

“You have his fingerprints here?”

“I have.”

“Produce them, please.”

Scudder took the placard which Borge handed him, and said, “I would like to introduce these fingerprints in evidence.”

“No objection,” Mason said.

“Now then, Mr. Borge,” the deputy district attorney said, “I will ask you if you went last night to a flat rented by Morgan Eves.”

“I did.”

“And what did you do there?”

“Objected to,” Mason said perfunctorily, “incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”

“It is a preliminary merely. I wish to connect it up,” Scudder remarked, without arising from his chair.

“Overruled,” Judge Romley snapped.

“I used various powders on various articles for the purpose of developing latent fingerprints which might be found in that apartment.”

“And did you develop latent fingerprints?”

“I did.”

“And photographed them?”

“I did.”

“Have you photographs of those latent prints with you?”

“I have.”

Borge pulled a thick file of photographs from his pocket.

Scudder pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He spoke slowly and clearly, so that the audience would have no difficulty in following him or appreciating the significance of his question. “Now, then, Mr. Borge, I will ask you if among those latent fingerprints which you developed and photographed, you found any fingerprints made by the man about whose criminal record you have just testified?”

“I did.”

“Where did you find those prints?”

“I found them in various and sundry places, in the bathroom, on the table, on a mirror, on a doorknob, and on a discarded safety razor blade.”

“Did you photograph those prints?”

“I did.”

“Do you have these photographs with you?”

“Yes.”

“I would like to introduce them in evidence.”

“No objection,” Mason said, as Scudder handed the sheaf of photographs across to the clerk.

“Now then, did you find any other fingerprints in that flat?”

“I did.”

“Whose were they?”

“Objected to,” Mason shouted. “This is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial—”

“Overruled,” Judge Romley said.

Borge grinned at Mason. “I found fingerprints of Perry Mason,” he said. “I found fingerprints of Paul Drake, a detective employed by Perry Mason. I found a wheel chair, and on the wheel chair I found prints of the man who had evidently occupied that wheel chair. I also found some fingerprints of a woman.”