Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Duplicate Daughter

“Are you in any sort of custody?” Mason asked.

“No. They let me go but they served me with a subpoena. I’m going to have to be a witness tomorrow, Mr. Mason. I’m going to have to be a witness against Daddy! Oh, Mr. Mason, I just feel terrible. I don’t know what to do.”

“All right,” Mason said, “you’ve gone this far. Now, don’t get despondent, don’t get the idea of jumping off a bridge or taking an over-dose of sleeping pills. You’ve been served with a subpoena. You’re going to have to be a witness. You can take it and I can take it. Now, quit worrying about it. Take a couple of aspirins and settle back and relax.”

“But I’ve let you down terribly.”

Mason said, “It’s all right. I’ll handle things.”

Mason hung up the telephone, said to Paul Drake, “Well, that does it. I suppose that any minute now I’ll be served with—”

He broke off as Lt. Tragg, accompanied by a plainclothes man, pushed open the door from the outer office.

“Well, hello, folks,” Tragg said. “Caught you in conference, eh?”

Mason said, “It would help a lot if you’d have yourself announced, Tragg.”

Tragg smiled and shook his head. “I’ve told you a dozen times, Mason, the taxpayers don’t like it.”

“And what’s the urgent business that brings you here?” Mason asked.

Tragg smiled. “Well, now, Perry,” he said, “the district attorney wants you as a witness.”

“Me as a witness?” Mason asked.

“That’s right,” Tragg said. “A subpoena duces tecum, Mr. Mason, ordering that you be in court tomorrow morning at ten o’clock and that you bring with you the sum of ten thousand dollars in currency or any other currency or any other article which you picked up in the workshop of Carter Gilman at 6231 Vauxman Avenue on or about the thirteenth day of this month, or at any other time thereafter.

“I’ve warned you, Perry, that you shouldn’t mix into things the way you do. Now, if you’d just spoken up and told the police about finding ten thousand dollars out there on the floor it might have simplified things a lot. But, no, you chose to keep your own counsel and now I’m sorry, Mason, but you’re going to be a witness for the prosecution and I’m a little afraid Hamilton Burger is going to take a very dim view of suppressing evidence.”

Lt. Tragg turned to the plain-clothes man and made a little gesture. “This is Perry Mason,” he said. “I identify him.”

The plain-clothes officer stepped forward and said, “A subpoena duces tecum, Mr. Mason. Here’s the original, here’s your copy. Be in court tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Have the articles mentioned in the subpoena with you.”

“That’ll be all,” Lt. Tragg said. “Be a little careful when it comes to cross-examining yourself, Mason. Don’t be rough on yourself because you’re going to be one of Hamilton Burger’s star witnesses. I can’t begin to tell you how much Hamilton Burger is looking forward to this.”

Mason took the subpoena. Lt. Tragg walked to the exit door of the private office, held it open for the plain-clothes man, started out, turned, and suddenly the smile left his face. “If I told you I was sorry, Perry,” he said, “I’d be giving aid and comfort to the enemy and might get a couple of demerits — so I won’t tell you I’m sorry — I won’t tell you I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Mason said.

“Not at all,” Tragg said, and closed the door.

“Well,” Drake said lugubriously, “you insist on skating on thin ice and now you’re trapped — Where does that leave you? Are you suppressing evidence?”

“Not necessarily,” Mason said. “How am I supposed to know it’s evidence? Nobody told me. All I’ve got to do is to prove that the title to that money is in my client, Carter Gilman, and I have a perfect right to it. I had Gilman sign a bill of sale giving me all of his right, title and interest in and to the contents of his workshop as a part of my fee; the contents to include everything that was in the workshop on the thirteenth.”

“Well,” Drake said, “you’re going to have to prove that he owned the money. He—”

The telephone rang. Della Street picked it up, said, “Yes... Yes... It’s for you, Paul.”

Drake came over and took the instrument, said, “Hello... Yes... What! ... Good heavens!”

Della Street, listening to the detective’s voice, moved a chair up for him and Drake dropped into it as though his knees had buckled.

“You’re sure?” Drake asked. “Now, wait a minute. There can’t be any... Oh, good Lord... Well, that does it... All right. Now, look, there was an air travel card in Vera Martel’s purse. There were also a couple of credit cards for gasoline. Find out where those cards were last used. Get busy. I want a report on that right now... All right, I’ll be here for a while. Call me back.”

Drake said, “Perry, I hate to be the one that breaks it to you, but this is it.”

“What is it, Paul?”

“That money!” Drake said. “My operatives, checking around in Las Vegas trying to find everything that Vera Martel had been doing during the last ten days of her life, found that on the third of the month she went to the bank and drew ten thousand dollars in cash.”

Mason stood motionless, his face granite hard.

“All right,” he said at length, “they can’t prove it’s the same money.”

“That’s the hell of it; they can,” Drake said. “The banker wondered why she wanted that money in hundred-dollar bills and thought perhaps it was the payment of ransom in a kidnaping. He didn’t dare delay things long enough to tip her off but he told her he had to go back to the vault to get enough hundreds. He was only gone half a minute, but during that time he managed to take the numbers of six of the one-hundred-dollar bills that he gave her. He has those numbers.”

“Do the police know about it?” Mason asked.

“Not yet, but they will. The minute the newspapers blazon forth the fact that Hamilton Burger has called you as his star witness for the prosecution and that ten thousand dollars in cash figures in the deal, the banker will read the newspapers, come forward with the numbers on the bills and you’re sunk.”

Mason started pacing the floor. After a few minutes, the phone rang again.

Della Street, answering it, again nodded to Paul. “For you,” Della Street said.

“Well, thank heavens,” Drake said. “We’ve got all the bad news now, so this is bound to be something good.”

He moved over to the instrument, said, “Hello... Yes... This is Paul... Okay, thanks.”

He hung up and said, “I was wrong, Perry.”

“What is it this time?” Mason asked.

“Hartley Elliott,” Paul Drake said. “They really gave him the works, Perry. They didn’t put him in any nice separate cell where he would be treated like a gentleman. They didn’t give him an opportunity for any special treatment. They threw him in the tank with a bunch of drunks. By the time he wallowed around in a lot of filth, after a couple of drunks had vomited all over him, he’d had all the jail he wanted. He sent word to the district attorney that he wanted out, that he’d go on the stand and testify tomorrow.”

Mason said, “They couldn’t do that to a man in only on contempt.”

“They did it,” Paul said, “and it worked. The D. A. fished him out of the tank and he’s in the D. A.’s office now making an affidavit.”

Mason might not have heard the detective. He turned and resumed his pacing of the office floor.

Della Street watched him apprehensively, her eyes following him, sick with concern.

Drake, standing uncomfortably, finally said, “Well, I guess I’m not doing any good here. I’ll get out before someone else brings in some bad news.”