Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

“Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“But why the devil couldn’t they telephone to each other? There wouldn’t be any danger in that. A person can go into a telephone booth anywhere, drop a nickel, dial a number, and talk with any person he wants. In that way, a man could give another complete instructions without the possibility of having them garbled, or, as happened in this case, having the woman of the house find the can and toss it into the discard.”

She frowned. “Well, why not?”

“That’s just it. There’s only one explanation. The person can’t use a telephone.”

“Why?”

Mason said, “Either because they can’t get to a telephone, or because they couldn’t use it if they did.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, a deaf person couldn’t use a telephone.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And,” Mason said slowly, “a crippled person might not be able to get to a telephone.”

Della Street said, “Wouldn’t a crippled person have a telephone by the side of his bed? After all, a person who could put a can on a shelf, could certainly get to a telephone.”

Mason said, “There’s one person who doesn’t have a phone by his bed, yet is crippled. Remember Karr said he got so nervous at the sound of a bell he wouldn’t have a phone by his bed?”

Della said, “You’ve put your finger on something there.”

Mason stroked the angle of his jaw. “This begins to look like something,” he admitted. “But why should Karr communicate in code with anyone in the Gentrie house?”

“He’s the only one in the case who really couldn’t get to a telephone when he wanted one,” Della said.

Mason pursed his lips. “He is, for a fact. We’ll have to keep our eye on Mr. Elston A. Karr. It’s beginning to look very much as though he engineered the burglary of Hocksley’s flat. Of course, that doesn’t mean he suggested the murder of Hocksley.”

“Wouldn’t it make him legally responsible for it though — if he engineered the burglary?” Della Street asked.

“It would,” Mason agreed, a slight twinkle in his eyes, “on one condition.”

“What’s the condition?”

“That they can prove it on him.”

Della said, “You’ve just about done that by cold, remorseless logic.”

“I have, but that doesn’t mean Tragg’s going to. He may overlook that angle entirely.”

“Bosh! He pretends to be just dawdling along, and then— Wham!”

Mason abruptly walked over to the hat closet. “Be sure to get that can and the sealing machine, Della. Take that vase down to Paul Drake’s office. I’m going out to get a shave, a face massage, a manicure, and a quart of coffee.”

“I will,” Della Street said, then added, “and don’t you let that Sunley girl mix any more sex, simpers, and sweetness to kid you along.”

“You could have added pseudo-sincerity,” Mason grinned. “That also is alliterative.”

Della said, “Damn! I knew we shouldn’t have bought that dictionary.”

Lieutenant Tragg rang the front doorbell, then raised his hat as Mrs. Gentrie opened the door.

“I’m sorry to keep on disturbing you,” he said, “but there are one or two minor matters on which I have to get more information.”

She seemed apprehensive for a moment, then smiled and said, “Come right on in, Lieutenant.”

“I’m not inconveniencing you?”

“Not at all, but now those other officers just came bursting in here without so much as a by-your-leave or without taking their hats off. You’re always a perfect gentleman.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then added after a moment, “but let me put in a good word for the hard-boiled officers. They’re overworked and have so many things to do, they simply don’t have time to think of people as human beings. They regard them as witnesses, suspects, possible victims, and accomplices — if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I see,” Mrs. Gentrie said, ushering Tragg into the living room.

Rebecca looked up with a quick smile, a smile that was almost a simper. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”

Tragg came across to stand before her. “And how are you today?” he asked.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Well, you’re certainly looking well.”

“Isn’t she,” Mrs. Gentrie said. “I believe murder cases agree with her. She’s perked up no end.”

“Now, Florence,” Rebecca said, “you’re talking as though I had been an invalid.”

“Don’t be silly. But you must know you’re looking a lot better, and I think you’re feeling a lot better. Now that you have something to interest you.” She turned to Lieutenant Tragg, and said, “Rebecca spends too much time in her darkroom, and she stays in the house too much of the time. I keep trying to persuade her to get out, and take more exercise, but I don’t have much luck.”

“Well, sakes alive, what’s a body going to do?” Rebecca demanded. “I never stand a chance at getting the family car — even if I knew how to drive, which I don’t. And as far as walking is concerned, it isn’t any pleasure to get up and pound your feet to pieces on the cement sidewalk while automobiles go whizzing by and spewing a lot of poison gas into the atmosphere. I don’t see why they allow automobiles on residential streets, Lieutenant. I think it’s an outrage and a menace to health.”

“It may be at that,” Tragg agreed. “Are there any new developments?”

Mrs. Gentrie shook her head.

Rebecca, having started to talk, rambled on. She said, “Mr. Mason was out here just about an hour ago. He was making what he called a final check-up.”

Tragg’s finely chiseled features lost some of their boyish look. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Mr. Mason. He’s been out here several times, hasn’t he?”

“Well, off and on,” Rebecca said.

Lieutenant Tragg was looking at Mrs. Gentrie. “I wonder just what Mason’s interest is in the case,” he said.

“Why, what do you mean?”

Tragg said, “Mason is a lawyer. He doesn’t go around solving mysteries. He isn’t particularly interested in apprehending murderers. He’s interested in making fees, and he makes fees because he represents some one client. I haven’t been able to find out whom he’s representing in this case. He hasn’t said anything, has he?”

Mrs. Gentrie said, “Well... no. I can’t say that he has.”

He frowned. “Rather strange. Mrs. Gentrie, I am going to have to talk frankly with you about rather a disagreeable matter.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s about your oldest son.”

“Yes.”

“I’m wondering if you’ve found him always truthful?”

Mrs. Gentrie said somewhat defiantly, “Junior is a good boy.”

“Of course he is,” Tragg said. “But I am asking you if you have found him entirely truthful.”

Rebecca, who had been squirming uneasily on her chair, anxious for an excuse to enter the conversation, said, “Of course, Florence, you must admit that since he’s started going...”

Florence turned to her. “Please, Rebecca,” she said.

Tragg was apologetic, but insistent. “This is rather embarrassing to me,” he said, “but I think your sister-in-law was commenting on the exact phase that I wanted to bring up, Mrs. Gentrie.” He turned to Rebecca. “You were going to say that since he became interested in that stenographer next door, he’s been a little secretive, weren’t you?”

Rebecca sniffed. “Secretive’s no name for it. There’s no good going to come of it, if you ask me. A young boy like him running around with a woman that’s so much older. They certainly didn’t do anything like that when I was a girl.”