Erle Gardner: The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink

The lawyer chuckled reminiscently.

“That was what finally broke him,” Della Street said. “When he caved in after that, he was your meat.”

Morris Alburg came back with the cocktails, glowing pink and cool in the big goblets.

Mason and Della Street touched glasses, drank a silent toast.

Morris Alburg in the door, watching them, said, “The way you talk with your eyes,” and shrugged his shoulders.

“Mr. Mason gets tired of talking with his voice, Morris,” Della Street said, slightly embarrassed.

“I guess that’s right, I guess lawyers talk,” Morris Alburg said hastily, trying to cover the fact that his observation had been too personal.

“Our steaks on the fire?” Mason asked.

Morris nodded.

“Good?”

“The best!” Morris grinned. Then, with a gesture that was like a silent benediction, he backed out of the booth and the curtain fell in place.

Mason and Della Street were undisturbed until, the cocktails finished, Alburg reappeared with a tray on which were stacked hot plates, platters with sizzling steaks, lyonnaise potatoes, and french bread toasted a delicious golden-brown, glistening with butter and little scrapings of garlic.

“Coffee?” he asked.

Mason held up two fingers.

Alburg nodded, withdrew, and returned with a big pot of coffee and two cups and saucers, cream and sugar.

For a few minutes he busied himself, seeing that water glasses were filled, that there was plenty of butter. He seemed reluctant to leave. Mason glanced significantly at his secretary.

“I don’t get it,” Mason said. “Taking our order was a fine gesture of hospitality, Morris, but bringing it is gilding the lily.”

“I got troubles,” the proprietor said with a sigh. “I guess we all got troubles. These days nobody wants to work except the boss... Skip it. You folks came here to forget troubles. Eat.”

The green curtain once more fell back into place.

It was as Mason was finishing the last of his steak that Alburg came back to the doorway.

Della Street said, “Oh-oh, Morris has a problem, Chief.”

Mason glanced up.

“Now ain’t that crazy,” Alburg commented.

“What’s crazy?” Mason asked.

“This waitress I’ve got — nuts, absolutely nuts.”

Della Street, watching him, said jokingly, “I think it’s a legal problem, Chief. Better watch out.”

“You’re damned right it’s a legal problem,” Morris Alburg exploded. “What are you going to do with a girl like that?”

“Like what?” Mason asked.

“She came to work five days ago. Today is the first of the month, so I’m going to pay her. I tell her so. I have the check ready. She looks like she sure needs the money. Then a little while after you two came in, she takes a powder.”

“What do you mean, a powder?” Mason asked.

“She walks out the back door. She doesn’t come back.”

“Perhaps her nose needed powder,” Della Street said.

“Not in the alley,” Morris Alburg said. “She went out through the alley door. She dropped her apron in the alley right after she got through the door, and she traveled. Mind you, no hat, no coat, and you know what it’s like outside, cold.”

“Perhaps she didn’t have a coat,” Della Street said.

“Sure she’s got a coat. She left it in the closet. Once on a time it was one swanky coat. Now it’s moth-eaten.”

“Moth-eaten?” Perry Mason asked, puzzled. “What sort of a coat?”

“The best.”

“What’s that, Morris?” Della asked.

“Mink — the best — moth-eaten.”

“Go on,” Mason invited. “Get it off your chest, Morris.”

“Me,” Morris Alburg said, “I don’t like it. That girl, I’ll betcha, is wanted by the police.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The dishwasher watched her out of the alley window. She dropped the apron to the ground and then she started running. She ran like hell... All right, here I am with her check for five days’ wages, her fur coat, a restaurant full of customers, and some of them mad like crazy. I thought she was waiting on some of the tables, and everything was all right. Then I heard the bell start to ring — you hear that bell ring, ring, ring?”

Della Street nodded.

“That bell,” Alburg said, “is what the cook rings when an order is ready to go on the table. He’s got stuff stacked out there for orders that this Dixie girl took and didn’t do anything about. I thought she was waiting on the table. She’s gone. So what? The food gets cold, the customers get sore, and this girl runs like an antelope down the alley. What kind of a mess is that?”

“So what did you do?” Mason asked.

“I made each of the other girls take an extra table, then I got busy myself,” Alburg said. “But ain’t it something? Five days she works, and then she goes out like a jackrabbit.”

Mason pushed the dishes aside. Despite himself, interest showed in his eyes.

“You told her she had a check coming?”

“I told her. I wanted to give it to her half an hour ago. She was busy. She said she’d pick it up later on.”

“Then she didn’t intend to leave,” Mason said, “not then.”

Alburg shrugged his shoulders.

“So,” Mason went on, “when she left in a rush it must have been that someone came in who frightened her.”

“The police,” Alburg said. “She’s wanted. You must protect me.”

“Any detectives come in?” Mason asked.

“I don’t think so... She just took a powder.”

Mason said, “I’d like to take a look at the coat, Morris.”

“The coat,” Morris repeated. “That’s what’s bothering me. What am I going to do with the coat? The money — well, that belongs to her. She can come and get it any time. But the coat — suppose it’s valuable? Who’s going to be responsible for it? What am I going to do?”

“Put it in storage some place,” Mason said. “Let’s take a look at it.”

Alburg nodded, vanished once more.

Della Street said, “She must have seen someone coming in, perhaps a detective — perhaps...”

“Wait a minute,” Mason said. “Let’s not get the cart too far ahead of the horse, Della. We’ll take a look at the coat first.”

Alburg returned, carrying the coat.

Della Street gave an involuntary exclamation. “Oh, what a shame! What a terrible shame!”

It was quite evident, even from the doorway where Alburg held the coat, that it was moth-eaten. The fur had little ragged patches in the front which were plainly visible, places where smooth, glossy sheen became ragged pin points. The damage might not have been so noticeable upon a less expensive fur, but on the mantle of that rich coat, it stood out clearly.

Della Street arose from the table, pounced on the coat, turned it quickly back to look for the label, and said, “Gosh, Chief, it’s a Colton and Colfax guaranteed mink.”

“I suppose she picked it up cheap somewhere,” Alburg said.

“I don’t think so,” Mason told him. “I think a great deal can be done to recondition that fur. I think there are places where new skins could be sewed in... Yes, look...”

“Why, certainly,” Della Street said. “It’s only moth-eaten in two or three places there in the front. New skins could be put in and the coat would be almost as good as new. No secondhand dealer would have sold a coat like that in that condition. He’d have fixed it up and sold it as a reconditioned coat.”

“The waitress owned this coat?” Mason asked.

“Owned it or stole it,” Alburg said. “Perhaps it’s hot and she didn’t know what to do with it so she left it in a closet for a few weeks, and the moths got into it.”

“Perhaps some boy friend gave it to her and then ducked out so that she got the idea it might have been stolen,” Mason observed thoughtfully. “In any event, it’s a mystery, and I like mysteries, Morris.”