Erle Gardner - The Case of the Substitute Face

Perry Mason stood leaning against the rail as an inky ribbon of black water widened between the side of the ship and the dock. The hoarse whistle bellowed into noise as spectators on the pier waved hats and handkerchiefs in farewell. Propellers churned the water into moisty foam, then subsided.

The strains of Aloha Oe, sung by the soft voices of Island women, reached the ears of suddenly silent passengers.

Minutes later, as the shore noises drifted astern, Mason, watching the Aloha tower shrinking into the background of city lights, could see the black outlines of the mountains rising in silent silhouette against the stars. The hiss of water streaming past the ship’s side became increasingly audible.

Della Street, his secretary, clasped strong fingers over the back of his hand where it rested on the rail. “I’ll never forget this, Chief. It’s big and quiet and solemn.”

He nodded, fingering the flowered leis which circled his neck with bands of red, white and purple.

“Want to stay?” he asked.

“No — but it’s something I’ll never forget.”

Mason’s voice showed his restlessness. “It’s been a wonderful interlude, but I want to start fighting. Over there,” — waving his arm in the general direction of Waikiki Beach — “is something which civilization has commercialized but can’t kill, a friendly people, a gentle warm climate, where time drifts by unnoticed. I’m leaving it to go back to the roar of a city, the jangle of telephones, the blast of automobile horns, the clanging of traffic signals, clients who lie to me and yet expect me to be loyal to them — and I can hardly wait to get there.”

She said sympathetically, “I know, Chief.”

The engines throbbed the big ship into vibrant speed. A breeze of tropical air ruffled the flower petals around their necks. Mason watched the fringe of lights along the dark shoreline, glanced down at the churned white of water where it streamed along the side of the boat.

From the lower deck, leis sped outward, to hang poised for a minute in circular color against the black of the water, then collapse and drop rapidly astern, as passengers sought to comply with the age-old Hawaiian custom.

Mason said, with the tolerance of one who has long since learned to accept human nature as an established fact, “Those are the newcomers, the malihinis . Those leis drift right back into the harbor. Passengers should wait until they’re opposite Diamond Head.”

Elbows on the rail, they looked down on the heads and shoulders of people leaning over the rails on the lower decks.

“There’s the couple we saw last night in the Chinese restaurant,” Mason remarked.

Della Street followed the direction of his gaze. “I’m to have her for a roommate,” she said. “She was in the cabin when my baggage came aboard.”

“Who is she, Della?”

“Her name’s Belle Newberry. Her father and mother are in three twenty-one.”

“Who’s her boyfriend?” Mason asked.

“Roy Amboy Hungerford,” Della Street said, “and he’s not her boyfriend.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” Mason told her. “I saw the expression in his eyes when he was dancing with her last night.”

“You’d be surprised at what men can do with their eyes in the tropics,” she told him, laughing. “Have you noticed the tall, brown-haired girl with blue eyes and the white sharkskin dress, who was weighted down with leis — the one who was standing with her father up there on the...”

“I noticed her,” Mason said. “What about her?”

“I think she has some claim on Hungerford,” Della Street said. “She’s Celinda Dail. Her father’s C. Whitmore Dail — if that means anything. They’re wallowing in wealth, have a big suite on A deck.”

“Well,” Mason said, smiling at her, “you do get around, don’t you? How about dropping our leis , Della?”

She nodded. “I’m going to save one for the night of the captain’s dinner. I’ll have the room steward put it in the ice box.”

They performed the ceremony of consigning their flowers to the dark waters. “Why is it,” Della Street asked, as Mason’s last lei vanished into the darkness, “that all of these things we’d consider superstitions on the Mainland seem so real here?”

“Because so many people believe them,” he told her. “Mass belief is a tangible psychic force. Notice the authenticated stories of persons who have violated Island beliefs and come to grief. Thousands of people have known of the violated tabu . Thousands of minds have believed some evil was going to befall the violator.”

“Like hypnotism?” she asked.

“You might call it that.”

“Here come Belle’s mother and father,” Della Street said. “I suppose they’ll want to be introduced.”

Mason turned to observe a slight, small-boned man of about fifty-five, with high forehead and piercing gray eyes. The woman at his side appeared much younger. She had retained a slender, graceful figure and walked with long, easy strides. Her dark brown eyes studied Mason’s face with interest, then swung to Della Street. She bowed and smiled. The man, hatless, did not so much as shift his eyes.

Mason watched them as they walked past, the man staring with preoccupation at the dark curtain of night beyond the ship, the woman frankly sizing up her fellow passengers.

“You’ve met her?” Mason asked.

“Yes. They were in the cabin for a few minutes.”

Mason once more stared down at the couple on the lower deck. “Celinda Dail,” he said, “had better hurry up and record her location notice or she’ll find someone’s jumped her claim — funny I can’t place that girl. I’ve seen her before somewhere.”

Della Street laughed. “You said that last night, Chief, and after you mentioned it I thought I’d seen her before. So I asked her about it tonight.”

“Has she ever been in the office?” Mason asked. “Or, perhaps, on one of my juries?”

“No,” Della Street told him. “It’s simply a case of a remarkable resemblance to—”

“To Winnie Joyce, the picture actress!” Mason exclaimed.

Della Street nodded. “There’s a natural resemblance,” she said, “and Miss Newberry accentuates it by the way she does her hair. I think she more or less consciously imitates Winnie Joyce in her manner. She’s a bit hypnotized by Hollywood.”

“Everyone is,” Mason grinned, “including Hollywood.”

“Well,” Della told him, “I’m going to hunt up a steward and have him put my lei in the refrigerator. See you in the morning, Chief.”

She walked rapidly forward, leaving Mason standing at the rail, watching the intermittent flashing of signal lights, inhaling the scents of the warm tropical air. The decks became silent and deserted, as passengers, fatigued by a strenuous last day in the Islands, the night sailing, and the strain of farewells, sought their cabins.

Mason turned abruptly as a woman mentioned his name.

“I’m Mrs. Newberry, Mr. Mason,” she said. “My daughter’s sharing the cabin with your secretary, so I know all about you. I saw you standing at the rail as we walked past— I— I want to consult you.”

“Professionally?” Mason asked.

She nodded.

Mason studied her with patient, appraising eyes. “What about?”

“About my daughter, Belle,” she said.

Mason smiled. “I’m afraid you misunderstood, Mrs. Newberry. I don’t handle a general law practice. I specialize in trial work, mostly murder cases. Surely Belle hasn’t done anything which would require my services.”