Erle Gardner - The Case of the Haunted Husband

“What was crude about it?”

Tragg said, “Mrs. Greeley, you will remember, was very positive her husband wouldn’t have ducked out on the girl. She was, however, conscientious enough to produce the shirt as soon as she found it. You would have been in a spot if she had simply ditched it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“About that little alibi you fixed up for your client, Mason. When you planted that shirt, you overlooked one thing.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about, it Tragg.”

“You know what I am talking about, Mason. It was a nice trick, but it didn’t work. I suppose your charming secretary furnished the lipstick — and the imprint of the transferred lips?”

“All right, you are one up on me. Tell me what was wrong.”

“The laundry mark on the shirt. You overlooked that, didn’t you, Mason?”

“What about the laundry mark?”

“Unfortunately,” Tragg said, “the laundry mark on the shirt is one of the corroborating bits of evidence that I decided should be checked. I checked on it, and it isn’t Greeley’s laundry mark. That shirt was planted in that bag after Greeley’s death so Mrs. Greeley would find it. It was planted by some shrewd opportunist who knew that dead men can tell no tales, who knew that Mrs. Greeley, on finding that shirt, would communicate with you. And it was timed beautifully, Mason.”

“Wait a minute,” Mason said, his voice showing his concern. “Whose laundry mark is it?”

“We haven’t been able to find out whose it is ,” Tragg said, “only whose it isn’t . It isn’t Greeley’s laundry mark.”

“Perhaps he had it done in San Francisco.”

“No. It isn’t Greeley’s shirt. The sleeves are an inch and a half shorter than Greeley wears them, and, above all, the collar is sixteen and a quarter. Greeley wore fifteen and three-quarters. So I think, Mr. Mason, that we will let you cross-examine Mr. Homan about the keys in the morning. And now you are free to leave the Tangerine at any time you want. But whenever you get ready to tell me the name of the young woman who was in the elevator with you this evening, you know where to reach me. And, by the way, I won’t be back to eat my steak, so you would better eat both steaks. Tomorrow night your diet will be much less elaborate. It will probably be some time before you have a good thick steak again.”

“Listen, Tragg, about that shirt. I...”

“I have told you all I am going to tell you, Mason. Miss Claire isn’t out in the clear, not by a long ways. You have got to go to work on Homan in order to get anywhere, and immediately after the court disposes of the Case of the People versus Claire, you are going to tell me who that young woman was who came down in the elevator with you, or you are going to be placed in custody as a material witness. And if that should be Paul Drake’s shirt, tell him he should better eat two steaks as well. Because I am eventually going to trace that laundry mark.”

And the receiver clicked at the other end of the line.

Mason hung up the telephone, walked slowly back to the table where Della Street and Paul Drake were seated, their faces turned toward the floor show which had just started. Other patrons of the establishment were showing the mellowing effects of good liquor, good food, and a good show. Drake and Della Street looked as though they had been sitting at a funeral.

Mason slid into his chair, pulled his steak over toward him, picked up knife and fork, and attacked the meat with extreme relish.

“Doesn’t seem to affect your appetite any,” Drake said.

“It doesn’t,” Mason admitted. “You have always said I would skate on thin ice, and break through, Paul. Well, get ready to smile. I have fallen in!”

“What is it?” Della asked.

“That wasn’t Greeley’s shirt. Someone planted it in the laundry bag for Mrs. Greeley to find.”

“Good God!” Drake exclaimed.

“That means we are elected.” Mason said, “Watch the floor show and quit worrying, Paul. Tragg says he won’t arrest us until after I have cross-examined Homan.”

There was a tense atmosphere of excitement permeating the courtroom as Judge Cortright called the Case of the People versus Stephane Claire, and Homan once more took the stand. “Just one or two further questions, Mr. Homan,” Mason said.

“Very well. Will you try and be as brief as possible?”

“If you will answer my questions,” Mason said, “without equivocation, I think we can finish with you very shortly. Lieutenant Tragg is in court, I believe?”

Mason turned to look at Tragg. Tragg returned the stare. His forehead puckered into a slightly perplexed frown.

Mason said, “Lieutenant Tragg, you have, I believe, in your possession a white starched shirt with some red stains on the bosom. May I ask you to show that shirt to this witness?”

“What is the idea?” Harold Hanley asked.

Mason said, “You will remember that according to the testimony of the witnesses, there was a smear of lipstick on the little finger of the right hand of the defendant in this case. I...”

“I think that question is proper,” Judge Cortright ruled. “Do you have such a shirt in your possession, Lieutenant Tragg?”

Tragg nodded.

“Here in court?” Mason asked.

Tragg hesitated a moment, then reached under the counsel table, and picked up a black handbag. He opened it while spectators craned curious necks to see the shirt with its telltale smear, then Tragg handed it to Mason.

“Thank you,” Mason said. “Now, Mr. Homan, will you examine this shirt carefully and tell me whether it is yours.”

“My shirt?” Homan exclaimed.

“Yes.”

“Great Heavens, man, I wasn’t driving that car! I was here...”

“But please examine it just the same, Mr. Homan, and then answer my question.”

He spread the shirt out across Homan’s knees.

Homan looked at the shirt with its crimson smear. “I don’t know,” he said promptly. “How could I tell whose shirt it is?”

Mason said, “Come, come, Mr. Homan. We can do better than that. Don’t you know your own laundry mark?”

“No, sir. I don’t.”

Mason said, “Well, perhaps I can help you. I am sorry to bother you, but will you loosen your tie so I can see the inside of your neckband?”

Homan complied and leaned forward. Mason read the laundry mark, “W. 362.”

“Now then,” Mason said, indicating a mark on the inside of the neckband of the shirt, “you will see this shirt has the same laundry mark.”

Homan regarded the shirt with narrowed eyes, took it in his hands, turned it over, looked at the smear of lipstick, then broke into bitter expostulation. “That’s a frame-up. I never saw the defendant in this case in my life. I didn’t give her any ride. I...”

“That will do,” Judge Cortright interrupted. “You will confine your answers to questions.”

“The question, Mr. Homan,” Mason said, “is whether that is your shirt.”

“I don’t know.”

“But it is your laundry mark?”

“I guess so, yes.”

“And you wear a sixteen and a quarter shirt?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see anything about it which indicates it is not your shirt?”

“No. I guess not.”

Mason said, “Very well, I am now going to call your attention to the keys which the defendant found in her purse, and ask you if this key is a key to the ignition switch of your automobile.”

“It looks like it. I presume so, yes.”

“And do you know what this one is a key to?”

“No, sir.”

“Doesn’t it look at all familiar?”

“No. It... wait a minute... No, I thought for a moment it looked like one of my keys, but it isn’t.”