Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

Mason said, “You’ll notice that this candle is inclined somewhat from the perpendicular, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

“Have you taken a protractor, and measured the angle at which that is inclined?”

“No.”

“As a matter of fact, isn’t it inclined at eighteen degrees from the perpendicular?”

“Well — to tell you the truth, I don’t know.”

“It appears to you to be about eighteen degrees from the perpendicular?”

“It may be, yes.”

“And have you made any attempt to account for the angle at which this candle is leaning?”

Tragg smiled and said, “Only that if the murderer in his haste stuck the candle to the top of the table so that he could see to commit a murder by daylight, then he must have been in too much of a hurry to get the candle straight.”

“You haven’t any other theory?”

“What other theory could there be?”

Mason smiled and said, “That’s all, Lieutenant.”

Burger frowned across at Mason. “What’s that crooked candle got to do with it?” he asked.

Mason said, “That’s my defense.”

“Your defense?”

“Yes.”

Burger hesitated a moment, then announced ponderously, “Well, it won’t hold a candle to the theory I have.”

There was laughter from the courtroom.

Mason joined in the laughter, then, as it subsided, said quickly, “You’ve heard of candling an egg, Mr. District Attorney? Well, I’m candling your case. And it’s rotten.”

The judge pounded sharply with the gavel. “Counsel will refrain from these personalities and comments on extraneous matters. Call your next witness, Mr. Burger.”

“Mr. Arthur St. Claire,” Burger said.

The man who came forward to the witness stand and held up his hand to be sworn was a smiling, suave, self — possessed man in the late forties.

Della Street whispered to Perry Mason, “That’s the man who was in the taxicab with us. The one who did all the talking about San Francisco. You want to watch him. He’s clever.”

Mason nodded.

Arthur St. Claire took the stand, testified that he was a member of the police department of the City of Los Angeles in the plain-clothes division, and then looked attentively and courteously at the district attorney waiting for the next question.

“Are you acquainted with the defendant, Carol Burbank?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see her on Sunday, the day after the body of Fred Milfield was discovered?”

“I did, yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“At several places,” the man said, and smiled.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I was assigned to shadow her. I followed her from her residence to several different places.”

“To the Union Terminal?” Burger asked.

“Yes, sir. Eventually she went to the Union Terminal, and then from there she went to the Woodridge Hotel.”

“Directing your attention to the Union Terminal,” Burger said, “did you see anyone join her while she was there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“Miss Della Street, the secretary of Perry Mason.”

“Ah, ha!” Hamilton Burger said, his tone containing the savage satisfaction of a cat purring over a freshly caught mouse. “And what happened after Miss Della Street joined Miss Carol Burbank?”

“They entered a taxicab and were taken to the Woodridge Hotel.”

“And where were you while they were in the taxicab?”

The man grinned. “I was right there in the same cab with them.”

“And did you hear their conversation?”

“I did.”

“And what did they do?”

“They went to the Woodridge Hotel.”

“And what happened when they arrived at the Woodridge Hotel?”

“Miss Street stated that she believed Mr. Mason had telephoned to make reservations for them, and the clerk said he had. She registered for both herself and Miss Burbank, using the initials of Miss Burbank, rather than her first name, and not prefacing it with either Miss or Mrs.”

“And then what?”

“Then Miss Street took from her purse an envelope addressed to Mr. Perry Mason, and started to hand it to the clerk, stating that Mr. Mason would call for it.”

“And then what?”

“Then I stepped forward and advised them that the district attorney wanted to see them, or that they were wanted at Headquarters or something to that effect.”

“And then what?”

“And then I took possession of the envelope.”

“And what did you do?”

“I opened it.”

“And what did you find inside of it?”

“I found a parcel check, one of the numbered slips of pasteboard issued by the checking counter at the Los Angeles Union Terminal.”

“Did you do anything to identify that pasteboard claim check so that you would know it if you saw it again?”

“I did.”

“What did you do?”

“I wrote my name on it.”

“You mean put your own signature on the back of it?”

“Yes.”

Hamilton Burger, with something of a flourish, said, “I show you a piece of pasteboard purporting to be a claim check issued from the Parcel Checking Service at the Los Angeles Terminal, and which contains the name written on the back of it in ink, ‘Arthur St. Claire,’ and ask you if that is your signature.”

“It is, yes, sir.”

“And is this the claim check that was in that envelope?”

“It is.”

“The claim check that Della Street then and there left at the Woodridge Hotel and in connection with which she stated Mr. Mason would call?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This was in an envelope which contained the name of Mr. Perry Mason on the outside?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I show you an envelope addressed in pen and ink handwriting, ‘Mr. Perry Mason, City,’ and ask you if that is the envelope in which this claim check was found.”

“It is.”

“That is the envelope which Miss Della Street handed to the clerk in the Woodridge Hotel at that time?”

“She started to hand it to him. I took it from her just before the clerk took possession of it.”

“And you went to the Los Angeles Terminal with that claim check?”

“I did, yes, sir.”

“And presented it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you receive?”

“A package.”

“Did you open that package?”

“Not at the time. I took it to Police Headquarters and it was opened there.”

“But you were present when it was opened?”

“Yes.”

“And what was in it?”

“A pair of shoes.”

“Would you recognize those shoes if you saw them again?”

“I would, yes, sir.”

“Are these the shoes?” Burger asked, producing a pair of shoes.

The witness inspected them. “They are, yes, sir.”

“Did you make any examination of those shoes at that time for the purpose of determining whether there was any foreign substance on them?”

“I did, yes, sir.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found reddish stains which resembled dried blood between the sole of the shoe and the upper.”

“You don’t know whether those stains actually were blood or not?”

The witness said, “I was present at the time when the laboratory expert completed his examination and pronounced...”

“Never mind, never mind,” Burger interrupted with a fine show of impartiality. “Mr. Mason would object that this was hearsay evidence, and we’ll just do everything in a regular and orthodox manner. We’ll call the laboratory expert and let him testify as to what he found. All you can testify to is what you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that’s all you know?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cross-examine,” Burger said triumphantly.