Erle Gardner: The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink

“The cab driver gave it the gun. We went tearing down the street, slued to the right at the corner, took off up the cross street, and the cab driver said to me, ‘Do you know this cab when you see it?’ and I said, ‘I got a look at the number. It’s 863.’ ”

“Then what happened?” Mason asked, as Della Street stopped talking.

Della Street made a little gesture of disgust. “I was in cab 863.”

“What?” Mason exclaimed.

“That’s right. What that man had done was to pick up the taxicab, go to the corner, turn the corner, go about two-thirds of a block, pay off the cab and get in his own car that had been parked there at the curb all the time.”

“Oh-oh,” Mason said, “then he must have known you were following him.”

“I don’t think he did, Chief. I think it was just a blanket precaution he was taking to make certain that he wouldn’t be followed. Of course, when he got in the cab he was able to watch the street behind him. That’s why he walked in the opposite direction from that in which he wanted to go. In that way he was able to make certain that anyone who was following him would have had to follow by car.”

Mason chuckled. “At least we have to hand it to him for being clever, and the fact that you tried to follow the cab you were already in gives it an interesting, artistic touch.”

“I hate to have him make a monkey out of me,” Della Street said.

“He didn’t necessarily make a monkey out of you,” Mason said. “He made one out of himself.”

“How come?”

Mason said, “This waitress ran out because she was frightened by someone or of someone. We had no way of knowing what it was that frightened her, or who the person was who frightened her. Now we know.”

“You mean he’s given himself away?”

“Sure. The fact that he resorted to all that subterfuge proves that he’s the man we want.”

Mason stepped to the door of the booth and motioned to Morris Alburg.

“How many of your customers are regulars, Morris? What percentage?”

“Quite a few repeats.”

Mason said, “Now, as I gather, a man and a woman, or a foursome, might straggle in here just on the prowl. They’d either have heard the place recommended or they might have been just looking for some place to eat, and came on in.”

“That’s right.”

“On the other hand,” Mason went on, “a lone diner, a man who came in here and ate by himself would be pretty apt to be a regular customer.”

“Yes, I’d say so.”

“I wonder if you could tell me the name of that chunky man with the rather heavy eyebrows, who sat over at that table right over there, the one that’s vacant now.”

“Oh, him? I noticed him,” Alburg said hastily. “I can’t tell you; I don’t know. I don’t think he eats here before.”

“Take a good look at him?”

“Not so much. Not his face. I look at the way he acts. You have to be careful about a man by himself: maybe he tries to make a pick-up and gets in bad. If he don’t make trouble we do nothing; if he’s drinking, if he paws women, we do something. That’s why we watch single men. This one I watch — he minds his own business. I wish the police would mind theirs.”

Mason nodded.

“Why did you ask?” Alburg asked suddenly.

“I was just wondering,” Mason said, “just trying to figure out who he was.”

“Why?”

“I thought I’d seen him some place.”

Morris Alburg studied Mason’s face for a few seconds. “The hell of it is,” he said solemnly, “you and me try to fool each other. We don’t either one get to first base. We both of us know too damn much about human nature. It is what you call no percentage... Good night.”

Mason stopped at a public telephone within a block of Morris Alburg’s restaurant and rang Lieutenant Tragg on the Homicide Squad.

“Perry Mason, Lieutenant. Would you do something for me?”

“Hell, no,” Tragg said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’d get me in trouble.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“The devil I don’t. If it wasn’t something that was so hot you didn’t dare to touch it with a ten-foot pole, you’d never call on...”

“Now wait a minute,” Mason said. “Keep your shirt on. This is doing a good turn for a girl, a girl who was struck by a motorist who probably wasn’t to blame. The girl was running from a man who was trying to make her get into the car with him. Some witnesses say he had a gun, and...”

“That the one out by Alburg’s restaurant?”

“That’s the one.”

“What’s she to you?”

“Probably nothing,” Mason said, “but I have a feeling that girl may be in danger. Now here’s what I want. She’s probably at the Receiving Hospital. I don’t know how serious her injuries are, but I’m willing to pay for a private room and special nurses.”

“The hell you are.”

“That’s right.”

“Why all the philanthropy?”

“I’m trying to give the girl a break.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a feeling that if she goes into a ward in a general hospital she’ll get herself killed.”

“Oh, come now, Mason. Once a patient gets in a hospi...”

“I know,” Mason interrupted, “it’s purely a screwy notion on my part. I’m dumb. I have a distorted idea of what goes on. I’ve seen too many contracts lead to lawsuits. I’ve seen too many marriages terminate in divorce courts. I’ve seen too many differences of opinion that have resulted in murder... A lawyer never gets to hear the details of a normal, happy marriage. He never gets to see a contract that terminates without a difference of opinion, and with both sides absolutely satisfied. So what? He becomes a cynic... Now, the question is, will you help me see that this girl is taken out of the Receiving Hospital and placed in a room where no one, absolutely no one, except an attending physician, knows where she’s located?”

“What else?” Tragg asked.

“That’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel uneasy about her.”

“You know who she is?”

“I’ve never seen her in my life. That is, not to recognize her. I may have had a brief glimpse of her when I entered Morris Alburg’s restaurant. I just happened to be there when the thing happened.”

“She’s not your client? You don’t have any interest in her?”

“None whatever. I did tell Morris Alburg that I’d take care of any matters pertaining to her affairs that might come up, and told him to refer anyone to me who...”

“Okay,” Tragg said. “It’s a deal. I’ll handle it privately and send the bill to you.”

“Thanks,” Mason told him, and hung up.

Back in Mason’s car, the lawyer said, “Now, Della, if I can get you out of that mink coat long enough, I want to explore the place where there was fresh sewing in the lining. I felt there was something under there.”

“I’m certain it’s just a little padding.” Della Street laughed. “Tailors sometimes have to help out a girl’s figure.”

“This didn’t feel like figure help to me,” Mason told her. “Out of that coat, girl, and let’s have at the Morris Alburg mink-coat mystery.”

She wriggled out of the coat.

Mason parked the car, turned on the dome light, and with his penknife clipped away at the stitches in the coat, opening up a fold in the lining of the garment.

Mason inserted his index and second finger in its opening and scissored out a small piece of pasteboard.

“Now what in the world is that?” Della Street asked.

“That,” Mason said, “seems to be a pawn ticket on a Seattle pawn shop, pledge number 6384-J, which can be redeemed at any time within ninety days on paying the amount of an eighteen-dollar loan, a handling charge, a storage charge and one per cent per month interest.”