Erle Gardner - The Case of the Postponed Murder

Daylight found Mason sitting in the narrow confines of Paul Drake’s private office, studying huge, glossy paper enlargements with a magnifying glass.

Drake, seated across the desk, chewed gum nervously. His eyes surveyed the lawyer speculatively. “That,” he said, “was the biggest enlargement we could make and still keep any detail in the print. As it is, you’ll notice it shows considerable grain. The negative was wire sharp and fine grained, but we’ve blown it up to a point where it commences to get fuzzy. Each one of those prints represents only a quarter of the negative.”

“I understand,” Mason said, not looking up, but continuing his patient search with the magnifying glass.

“And this other one, the one my pals slipped me,” Drake said, “is an eleven by fourteen enlargement, from the negative taken after the Pennwent was brought into port. I was lucky to get that print. I can get bigger enlargements, but it will take time and a little manipulation.”

“Time,” Mason said, “is the one thing we haven’t got. That preliminary hearing is called for ten o’clock this morning.”

“Exactly what,” Drake asked, “are you looking for, Perry?”

Mason said, “I’m looking for a lucky break.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m hoping to find something in one photograph which isn’t in the other.”

“You mean the figures, a person...”

“No,” Mason said, “some significant difference in the furniture. For instance, look at this cigarette tray. In the picture Eversel took, it has half a dozen cigarette stubs on it. In this picture taken after the body was discovered, there are only two.”

“Well?” Drake asked. “What’s wrong with that?”

Mason shook his head. “A person committing a murder,” he said, “doesn’t bother to tidy up the place and empty the ashtrays. If he should do that for any reason, he doesn’t stick around to smoke two cigarettes.”

Drake frowned. “Exactly what are you getting at, Perry?” he asked.

Mason said, “I’m darned if I know exactly, Paul, but I’m working on the theory of elimination. I’d like to find something to substantiate my idea. If I could— Hello, what’s this?” His magnifying glass remained stationary over a section of one of the enlargements.

Outside, the first rays of sunlight tinted the tops of the office buildings, made the electric light in Drake’s office seem artificial and unreal. The morning light, pouring through the window, showed Mason’s skin oily with fatigue, brought into prominence the tips of stubble which had grown out on his chin during the last twenty-four hours.

“What is it?” Drake asked.

Mason passed the photograph across to him, indicated a section with his finger, and said, “Take a look, Paul.”

Drake studied it through the magnifying glass and said, “Gosh, Perry, it doesn’t look like anything to me. It’s something round in a case, some kind of a rare coin, I suppose. Wentworth, you know, was quite a collector.”

“Uh huh,” Mason said. “Let’s assume that it is a coin. It isn’t so much what the object is as where it went. You’ll notice that it doesn’t appear in this other photograph, yet it was up on the shelf, and there’s something else across the top of that case.”

“It looks like a cartridge,” Drake said, studying it carefully.

“It does,” Mason said, “but I don’t think it is a cartridge. Remember, Paul, this picture was taken by a flashlight which makes the lighting rather harsh, and we’ve enlarged it from rather a small negative. Even so, that could hardly be a revolver cartridge. It would have to be a rifle cartridge, judging from its length.”

“Well, why not?” Drake asked.

“The modern rifle,” Mason said, “uses a bottleneck cartridge. This is straight across like a revolver shell.”

“Couldn’t a revolver cartridge be that long?” Drake asked.

“Yes,” Mason said, “I guess it could, but — that’s rather a big coin, Paul. I wish we could make out some of the details on it.”

“You can only get a line here and there,” Drake said, “not enough to tell what kind of a coin it is.”

Mason narrowed his eyes. “That coin,” he said, “must mean something. One thing’s certain, Paul. Wentworth wasn’t killed at the time it’s been generally assumed the shot was fired. He had an opportunity to dress, empty the ashtray, cast loose the lines, start the motor, and put out to sea.”

Drake shook his head. “Someone else did that for him, Perry. You can’t figure a man being killed on the high seas on a yacht without anyone else being around — not without some evidences of a struggle. A man certainly isn’t going to let someone else board his yacht, and...”

“Not strangers,” Mason said. “A friend might be different.”

“Well,” Drake said, “even supposing you’re right, I don’t see what this coin has to do with it particularly.”

Mason said, “I’d like to have the Pennwent searched from stem to stern to see if we can find that coin.”

“It’s been gone over with a fine tooth comb for fingerprints and everything else,” Drake said. “The Homicide Bureau of the Police Department has inventories of everything that was found. I can find out if that coin was located.”

“It should be a cinch,” Mason said, “because it’s evidently in a case with a hinged cover. That would mean it’s a valuable coin. You can get just a hint of the design, Paul. There’s something running across it, a band of crisscross lines.”

“Uh huh,” Drake said, “probably some sort of a coat of arms.”

“It might give us a clue,” Mason said thoughtfully, “if we could—”

There was a knock at the door of the office. Drake called, “Come in.”

One of his operatives opened the door. “Want to see the papers?” he asked. “There’s a lot in there about... about Mr. Mason.”

Mason straightened from a contemplation of the photograph. “It’ll be a change for my eyes,” he said. “What do they say about me?”

“Darn near everything,” the operative said with a grin. “It seems you’re guilty of just about everything except murder, including bribing a witness to leave the country.”

“Bribing a witness?” Mason asked.

“Yes, a girl named Hazel Tooms. It’s the theory of the police that someone who wanted her out of the way gave her five hundred dollars to make a trip out of the country. She admitted that much to officers when they served her with a subpoena.”

“Mention my name?” Mason asked.

“Not in so many words,” the operative said.

Mason spread the paper out on the desk and read in headlines:

“OFFICERS CLAIM LAWYER CAUGHT RED-HANDED. POLICE CLAIM PROMINENT ATTORNEY APPREHENDED PLANTING GUN.”

Mason turned to Paul Drake with a grin. “Well, Paul,” he said, “looks like we’re in the news.”

Drake placed his extended forefinger on a paragraph midway down the article. “Notice this,” he said. “ ‘Grand jury subpoenas have been issued and will be served sometime today. Police have insisted that the grand jury make a sweeping investigation into the activities of a lawyer whose methods have been noted for dramatic originality rather than a strict adherence to conventional routine. It is rumored that a detective agency which subsists largely on work furnished by the attorney in question will be the subject of a sweeping investigation. If criminal charges are not brought, police intimate that they will at least take steps to prevent a renewal of the agency’s licence.’”

Mason grinned again at Paul Drake. “How about a little breakfast, Paul?”

Drake said, “Five minutes ago, it would have sounded swell. Right now, I’d have to choke the food down. Gosh, Perry, I hope you know the answer to this one.”