Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

Mrs. Gentrie resumed her climbing up the stairs, closed the kitchen door behind her. Tragg turned to Rebecca, said, “We’ll try...”

“Look,” Rebecca exclaimed, her eyes bright with excitement, “I’ve just thought of a way to find out if it’s Junior.”

“Yes?” Tragg’s tone was only politely courteous.

Rebecca said, “We can seal this tin again and put it back on the shelf.” She was plainly trying to make an impression on Tragg, smiling coquettishly.

Tragg’s eyes narrowed. “You might have something there,” he said. “Provided, of course, we could get that top back into the can without it appearing the tin had been opened.”

Rebecca countered that objection with the rapid-fire retort of an enthusiast upholding a pet idea. “We could copy the message on to the top of another can and seal that one up and put it up there on the shelf. After all, the person who’s going to get that message couldn’t tell one tin from the other.”

Tragg regarded Rebecca with a certain respect appearing in his eyes. “That might be an excellent thing to do,” he admitted.

Rebecca, conscious of the impression she had made, modestly lowered her eyes. Her skirt swung slightly as she moved her bony hips from side to side. “Somehow, you really inspire a person to get ideas, Lieutenant.”

Tragg hesitated for only a moment, then he was running up the cellar stairs two at a time, calling Mrs. Gentrie away from the telephone.

“Now look,” he said when he had the three women gathered around him in the basement, “I’m going to take this tin for evidence. But I’m going to copy this message in another new tin, seal it, and place it on the shelf. I don’t want anyone to know anything about what I’ve done. That means anyone. None of you women are to communicate to a soul what has happened. Do you understand, Hester?”

She looked at Mrs. Gentrie. “If Mrs. Gentrie says so...”

“I do, Hester,” Mrs. Gentrie said. “You mustn’t tell a soul.”

“And you?” Tragg asked Rebecca.

The spinster clamped her lips together tightly and nodded with vehemence.

Tragg shifted his glance to Mrs. Gentrie. She said, “I can’t understand the fact that my cellar is being used for...”

“But you do appreciate the necessity of keeping this matter absolutely to ourselves?” Tragg asked.

Slowly, Mrs. Gentrie nodded.

“That means that you mustn’t tell even your husband about it,” Tragg said.

“I don’t keep secrets from Arthur. I...”

“But this is a secret you must keep. Everyone must maintain absolute and complete silence about this. Do you understand?”

“Well, if you say so.”

“I do say so, and that means particularly that Junior isn’t to know anything about it.”

Mrs. Gentrie glanced resentfully at Rebecca. “I suppose I have you to thank...”

“Do I have your promise?” Tragg interrupted.

“Yes,” Mrs. Gentrie said. “I guess so — yes, if you say so. But you’ll see Junior isn’t the one who will walk into your trap.”

Tragg said, “Now let’s go some place where we can get a can. I’ll etch these letters in the top of the can with the point of my jackknife.”

Rebecca beamed at Tragg with the smile an unattached woman in the forties bestows upon an attractive male. “I’ll get the can for you and show you how to seal it.”

“Thanks,” Tragg said. “First, however, I want to use the telephone. Is it where I can have absolute privacy?”

“Well,” Mrs. Gentrie said apologetically, “it isn’t in a phone booth, if that’s what you mean. It’s in the living room, but...”

“I guess that will do,” Tragg said.

“We won’t listen,” Rebecca assured him.

“And to make certain we don’t,” Mrs. Gentrie said with the ghost of a smile twitching the corners of her lips, “we’ll all go out in the kitchen.”

Rebecca said indignantly, “Well, I don’t see any reason for us being herded around like...”

“We’ll all go out in the kitchen,” Mrs. Gentrie interrupted firmly.

Rebecca, her lips compressed into a thin line of indignation, marched up the cellar stairs and followed Mrs. Gentrie into the kitchen while Hester tagged along behind her. Tragg turned toward the living room. Carefully closing the doors behind him, he surreptitiously twisted the key. To his discomfiture, the lock clicked noisily. But there was nothing to do about it now. Tragg picked up the telephone, took out his notebook, called for Detective Texman, and when he had him on the line, said in a low voice, “This is Tragg, Tex. Get that dictionary and look up these words. Got a pencil?... Okay. The seventh word in the first column on page 569. The sixth word in the first column on page 615. The second word in the second column on page 455. Seventh word in the first column, page 377. Twelfth word in the first column, page 748. Seventeenth word in the second column, 472. Eleventh word in the second column, page 1131. Sixth word, second column, page 364. Twenty-second word, second column, page 1094. Fourth word, first column, page 832, and the twenty-sixth word in the second column on page 600. When you have that list of words, call me back at the residence of Arthur Gentrie. I’ll be sticking around here, stalling along until I get your call. It shouldn’t take long. Read me those words in that order. And keep absolutely mum about this message. I don’t want a word of it to get out to the newspapers — not even to anyone else on the force. Keep this as the most closely guarded secret in the office. Got it? All right, good-by.”

Tragg hung up, and went back to the kitchen where Hester was matter-of-factly engaged in peeling potatoes, where Mrs. Gentrie was rubbing a tin can with a rag and watching her sister-in-law with tolerant good humor.

Rebecca, sitting in the straight-backed kitchen chair, was tapping the floor with her toe. Her thin, rigid form fairly quivered with indignation. She got to her feet to face the officer.

“Was it necessary to lock that door?” she snapped.

Tragg regarded her with candid surprise in his blue eyes. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed. “Did I do that? That’s what the force of habit does for a man who’s detecting murders for a living. Miss Gentrie, I apologize. No hard feelings, I hope.”

He extended his hand, and as Rebecca hesitantly placed her thin, bony hand in his, Tragg put his left hand over hers, and stood for a moment smiling down at her.

The indignation vanished from her face. Her smile became coy and arch. “No one could withhold forgiveness from so attractive a penitent,” she said.

Mrs. Gentrie said matter-of-factly, “Forget it, Rebecca. The lieutenant’s a busy man. He doesn’t have time to think of all the little things. After all, he isn’t a suitor.”

Rebecca turned to her sister-in-law, started to say something, then changed her mind. The anger in her face gave way once more to a smile as she turned back to Lieutenant Tragg. “Do be seated, Lieutenant.”

He bowed, holding her chair gallantly. “After you, Miss Gentrie,” he said.

Rebecca sighed with satisfaction. She settled down into the straight-backed kitchen chair as though she had been the star in a movie receiving a penitent but ardent swain. “Do you ever do crossword puzzles — on your days off, Lieutenant?” she asked invitingly.

Mason left the elevator and came walking down the long corridor of his office building. His hat was tilted back on his head at a jaunty angle, and his hands were thrust deep in his pockets. He was whistling the catchy chorus of one of the popular tunes and his manner was that of a man who was very well pleased with himself and the world.