Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Spurious Spinster

Mason said, “We’re going to have to do something before anyone realizes what we’re doing.”

“Now wait a minute,” Tragg protested. “I’m not on your side, Mason. I’m on the—”

“Do you or do you not want to enforce the law and protect the citizens of this community?” Mason asked.

Tragg grinned at him. “No need of making a speech. I’m for motherhood and against sin. I’ll ride along with you, Perry, but I’m warning you I’ll lower the boom on you.”

“Lower away,” Mason said.

The elevator stopped at the ground floor. Mason headed towards the door, stretching his long legs so that Paul Drake was hard put to keep up, while the short legged Lt. Tragg and Della Street were almost trotting.

The lawyer led the way to where the cars were parked.

“You’ve got a police car here, Lieutenant?” Mason asked.

Tragg nodded.

“Let’s use it,” Mason said. “You do the driving. Use the red light and a siren.”

“I can’t do that except on a major emergency,” Tragg said.

“This is a major emergency,” Mason told him. “You’re going to get evidence that will be determinative if you get there before it is destroyed.”

“You mean evidence that will clear your client?” Tragg asked dubiously.

“Evidence that will conclusively point to the murderer, whoever that murderer may be,” Mason said. “I’ll give you my word on that, Tragg. I’ve never lied to you yet.”

Tragg said, “Okay, come on. This is irregular but I’m doing it.”

They climbed into Tragg’s car. Tragg started the motor and after they reached the street, turned on the red light and siren. “Where to?” he asked.

“1536 Rentner Road,” Mason said. “The Tulane Apartments. We want Apartment 348.”

“What’s there?” Tragg asked.

“Evidence,” Mason said.

Tragg said, “Okay, I’ve stuck my neck out this far, I’m going to ride along with you, Perry. But this is going to have to be good.”

Mason said, “It will be good.”

Tragg’s siren cleared the way across intersections. The police lieutenant, having reached a decision, went all the way and barreled through red lights and boulevard stops, avoiding the congested freeway in order to make time on the streets which were not so filled with traffic.

When the police car was within half a dozen blocks of the Tulane Apartments Mason said, “Better stop the siren, Tragg. We don’t want to unduly alarm anyone.”

Tragg kicked off the siren and glided the last block and a half up to the curb.

Mason had the door open almost before the car was stopped and dashed into the apartment house. They piled into the automatic elevator. Mason pushed the button for the third floor. The cage rattled slowly upwards, Mason manifesting his impatience.

They hurried down the hallway to Apartment 348. Mason knocked on the door.

A few moments later the door opened to the limit of a safety chain. A woman’s voice said, “Who is it?”

Mason said, “Police. This is Lieutenant Tragg of Homicide. We want to come in and question you.”

“You can’t come in,” she said.

“This is police business,” Mason said.

“Now wait a minute,” Tragg protested. “I—”

“Do you have a warrant?” she asked.

“No,” Lt. Tragg said, “and furthermore I—”

Mason, backing back across the corridor, suddenly hurled himself at the door.

The hasp holding the safety chain pulled out. The screws jerked out a section of the wood as the door banged open.

Mason shot past the startled woman, ran through a sitting room and slammed open a door in a bedroom.

A woman was sitting groggily on the edge of the bed, holding on to the brass post of the foot of the bed. As Mason, followed by Lt. Tragg, entered the room, she said drowsily, “Don’t let them... Don’t let them... Don’t let them shoot any more drugs into me.”

“Who’s this?” Lt. Tragg asked.

Mason said, “This is Amelia Corning, and if you’ll look sharp you can get the woman who was in this apartment before she makes it to the elevator. If you don’t you—”

Tragg took one look at the woman on the bed, then whirled.

He was too late. The woman who had been in the apartment had sprinted down the corridor. Seeing the elevator was not in place she had taken to the stairs. Tragg started after her.

Mason sat down on the bed beside the woman and said, “Are you able to talk, Miss Corning?”

“Could I have coffee?” she asked. “Been doped...”

Della Street said, “I’ll get some coffee on. There should be some in the apartment. Come help me, Paul.”

The woman on the bed weaved around, then groped over towards Mason for support, put her head on his shoulder, and promptly dropped into a deep, drugged sleep.

Ten minutes later Lt. Tragg came back to the apartment.

He found Mason and Della Street supporting the woman, who was drinking coffee from a cup held by Paul Drake.

“Did she get away?” Mason asked.

Lt. Tragg’s mouth was grim. “She did not!”

“She beat you to the street, didn’t she?” Mason asked.

“She beat me to the street,” Tragg said, “but she didn’t beat modem police methods. I got in my car, got the dispatcher on the line and we sewed the district up. We had radio cars converging on it from every direction and I was able to describe her, the dress she was wearing, her age, height, weight, appearance...”

“You got all that,” Mason asked, “in the brief glimpse you had?”

“Sure, I got all that,” Tragg said. “What the hell do you take me for? I’m a cop but I’m not a dumb cop. That’s police training. Your woman was picked up within three minutes after she hit the street, and she’s on her way to Headquarters now, where she’ll be held for questioning. Now tell me what it’s all about and what I question her about.”

“That woman,” Mason said, “will turn out to be Cindy Hastings, a nurse. She posed as Miss Corning, wearing dark glasses and sitting in a wheelchair. She telephoned Susan Fisher and told her to put on a raincoat, slacks, a sweater, and wear a man’s hat pulled down low over her forehead, and go to a place on Mulholland Drive and get a gallon of gasoline from the service station.”

“And then Susan Fisher picked her up in the alley?” Tragg asked.

“Picked her up, nothing,” Mason said. “Cindy Hastings simply sat in the wheelchair at the alley. Elizabeth Dow, dressed exactly as they had told Susan Fisher to dress, came and picked her up. As it happened, a witness saw the pickup — and you know how fallible eyewitness testimony is, particularly when it comes to the identification of a stranger. The witness saw some woman in a raincoat with a man’s hat pulled down over her eyes and imagination and clever police suggestion did the rest.

“So then the two women went to meet Lowry. Within a short time after they picked him up they were ready to go ahead with their murder, having carefully planned the details so Susan Fisher could never convince anyone of her innocence.

“I must have missed the murder by only a few minutes.”

“Then the real Miss Corning,” Tragg said, “was the woman who...”

“The woman who came Saturday,” Mason said. “We should have known it if we’d done any great amount of thinking. That woman was very adept in the use of a wheelchair. She did everything that the real Miss Corning would have done and none of the things that the spurious Miss Corning would have done.

“The two women kidnapped her when she tried to get out to Mojave to look at the mine. They let her get as far as Mojave and then they dragged her, brought her back to Los Angeles and kept her concealed here. In the meantime, knowing that Ken Lowry was going to state that he could identify the voice of the woman who had told him to ship currency to the Corning Affiliated Enterprises, they decided they needed Lowry out of the way. And how could they do it any better than by framing the crime on Susan Fisher?”