Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

Mrs. Gentrie interrupted firmly, “Now, Rebecca, Lieutenant Tragg isn’t interested in your theories, and I certainly am not going to have you make any veiled insinuation that it was a code communication between Opal Sunley and Junior. Thought your crossword-puzzle club was having a meeting today.”

Rebecca sniffed. “I’m quite capable of arranging my own affairs, Florence. I don’t have to leave for an hour yet, and the way you’re trying to get rid of me only makes Lieutenant Tragg all the more suspicious of Junior. You know just as well as I do that these messages in the can may as well as not be the way they made their dates. They never dared to do it over the telephone. Land sakes, you’d have thought she was a married woman from the way Junior was acting! She might have...”

From the cellar came Hester’s voice, calling out without emotion, “Mrs. Gentrie, here’s another one.”

Mrs. Gentrie walked toward the cellar door, looking back over her shoulder, conscious of the fact she was leaving Rebecca and Lieutenant Tragg alone, conscious also that this might well be what Lieutenant Tragg wanted. It was certainly what Rebecca wanted.

“What is it, Hester?” she called.

“Another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another empty tin on the shelf,” she said.

Mrs. Gentrie turned to where Lieutenant Tragg was drawing up a chair close to Rebecca, preparatory to the intimacy of a low-voiced conversation.

Tragg looked up.

Mrs. Gentrie said, “Hester says there’s another empty tin on the shelf in the basement, Lieutenant.”

Tragg came up out of the chair and reached the cellar door with long, quick strides. He pushed past Mrs. Gentrie and took the cellar stairs two at a time.

“Where is it?” Tragg asked Hester.

“Here. I...”

“Good Lord, don’t touch it!” Tragg shouted.

There was the sound of an empty tin clattering to the cement floor.

“I didn’t mean for you to drop it.”

“You said not to touch it,” Hester said stolidly.

Tragg carefully picked up the tin, holding it in such a way that his fingers touched it only in one place. He placed it on the workbench and took from his pocket a small leather case across the top of which was a zipper, a case not much larger than a flexible spectacle case.

The two women who had dashed down the cellar stairs after him, watched him in silent fascination as he slid open the catch on the zipper, took out a camel’s-hair brush, and three small containers. Selecting one of the containers, he removed the top to disclose a fine powder. With the camel’s-hair brush he dusted the powder evenly over the surface of the can.

Carefully, Tragg examined the fingerprints which the powder brought to light.

“Let me see your hands,” he said to Hester, and when she had extended her hands for his inspection, he opened one of the other small tins to disclose a sticky black ink which he placed upon the tips of her fingers. He recorded her inked impressions on paper in his notebook.

“What’s the matter?” Hester asked sullenly. “I didn’t do nothing.”

Lieutenant Tragg had nothing of the bulldozing, arrogant manner of the detective who has graduated from pavement-pounding to the Homicide Squad. He was, instead, suavely courteous and never more so than when he was hot on the trail of a significant clue. “I’m sorry,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I thought you’d understand. I am trying to find the fingerprints of the person who placed the tin on the shelf. In order to do that, I have to eliminate your fingerprints.”

Mrs. Gentrie knew that Hester didn’t quite know what Tragg meant by eliminate, so she added by way of explanation, “He just wants to find out which fingerprints are yours, so he can rub them off, and get them out of the way, Hester.”

Hester said, “Oh.”

But Tragg didn’t rub off any of the fingerprints. He did, however, check them off one at a time, after comparing them, with the aid of a magnifying glass, with the prints Hester’s fingers had left on the paper. During the time he was doing this, he was exceedingly careful not to get any of his own fingerprints on the surface of the can.

“Where was that tin?” Rebecca asked.

Lieutenant Tragg seemed to feel it was unnecessary to answer the question. Rebecca turned to Hester. “Where did you find it, Hester?” she demanded.

Hester mutely pointed toward the shelf.

“Humph,” Rebecca said. “The exact place where that other can was!”

Mrs. Gentrie nodded.

Rebecca said, “There was something written on the top of that other tin on the inside. Mr. Mason discovered that.”

“I overlooked a bet there,” Tragg said, laughing. “Don’t ever underestimate the ability of Mr. Perry Mason. He’s a very shrewd, very adroit attorney. And is there a can opener here I can use, Mrs. Gentrie?”

“Yes. How about fingerprints?”

He shook his head. “Everyone of them that we can use seems to have been made by Hester. Apparently, whoever placed the tin there had first taken the precaution of wiping it free of fingerprints.”

“Well, a person couldn’t have put it up there without leaving some prints,” Rebecca said.

“Not unless he’d deliberately tried to avoid doing so,” Tragg said.

Mrs. Gentrie showed him the location of the can opener. Lieutenant Tragg fed the can into the holder, rolled the rotating blade around the edges, and then shook out the detached circle of tin which was the top of the can.

Hester remained sullenly aloof, but Mrs. Gentrie and Rebecca crowded close to look over his shoulder as Tragg tilted the circle of tin so that the light would enable him to examine the surface closely.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve got something here. Looks like another code message.”

“You don’t say!” Rebecca said, her voice quivering with excitement. “Now, don’t tell me there’s going to be another murder, Lieutenant.”

Tragg turned to Mrs. Gentrie. “Can you read these letters off for me while I copy them into my notebook?”

Mrs. Gentrie squinted at the top of the can. “I haven’t my reading glasses and this print is pretty fine...”

“I can,” Rebecca volunteered.

“Her eyes are sharp as needles,” Mrs. Gentrie said.

Tragg said, “Hold it by the edges so you don’t get your fingerprints on it. After I’ve seen what the words are, I’m going to try dusting it for fingerprints.”

Slowly Rebecca spelled off the code words while Tragg made a note of them in his notebook. Then Tragg stood behind Rebecca so that he could look over her shoulder and compare what he had written with the message which appeared on the tin.

“Right,” he said at length. “Now let’s just try dusting it. I don’t think we’ll find any fingerprints, but we’ll go through the motions just the same.”

When he had found no fingerprints, Tragg said, “Well, that’s that.”

Rebecca sniffed. “If you ask me,” she said pointedly to Mrs. Gentrie, “it’s a lovers’ post office, and that stenographer is getting Junior to pull some more chestnuts out of the fire.”

“Where is Junior?” Tragg asked Mrs. Gentrie.

“At the hardware store with his father.”

“I think it might be a good idea to call him on the telephone and ask if he can come home at once,” Tragg said.

Mrs. Gentrie obediently moved toward the stairs, but halfway up she paused to inquire, “Am I to tell him why you want him?”

“No. Just that I’m here and want him to come at once.”

Mrs. Gentrie said, “As far as that tin is concerned, Junior wouldn’t...”

“I understand,” Tragg interrupted, “but wouldn’t it be better to let Junior speak for himself?”