Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

“Well,” Mason said, “he’s got something to tell his friends now. He’s really seen a moll in action. What’s the number of this house where Luceman lived?”

“Thirteen-o-nine Delington.”

“That’s in the next block. Now listen, when I go in, you stand out by the curb. The minute you see anyone coming along the sidewalk, no matter who it is, walk up to the front door and ring the bell once. Don’t seem to hurry. Don’t act self-conscious, and, above all, don’t look back over your shoulder. Simply walk up and ring the bell, making your action look as natural as possible.”

“Ring it once?” she asked.

“That’s right. Now, if that person should turn toward the house, ring the bell three times, three short, sharp rings. When you have done that, turn to walk back toward the street, and then apparently see this person for the first time. You can smile and say, ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone home.’ Then go to the next house and ring the bell. When someone comes to the door, ask them if they’re taking the Chronicle. Tell them you’re representing the newspaper and would like very much to take their subscription on a special introductory offer. Talk loudly enough so you can be heard across to the next house.”

“Suppose he doesn’t wait that long but goes right on in?”

“It’s all right,” Mason said, “just so you give me those three short, sharp rings on the doorbell the minute you see he’s heading toward the house. That’ll give me time to get out.”

“Not much time,” she said, “particularly if you’re on the second floor.”

“It’s all right,” he told her. “It’ll take a man a little while to get in, and it doesn’t make any difference if I don’t get out of the back door until he unlatches the front door — just so I get out. After all, there’s not very much chance it will happen. We’re just playing safe. That’s all. Be absolutely certain the minute anyone shows up anywhere on the street, to give me a signal on the bell. I’ll probably have to use the flashlight, and a person who happens to see the beam of light reflected against the window glass might call the police.”

“And that’s all I have to do?” she asked.

“That’s enough.”

“You’re not trying to make things easy for me just to keep me out of it?”

“No.”

“You take care of yourself?”

“I’ll try to.”

“How are you going to get in?”

“I’ll try the back door and actually cut through the screen just to make Luceman’s burglar come to life.”

She placed her hand on his arm. “Take care of yourself, Chief,” she said in a low voice.

“I intend to.”

“There’s no good telling you not to take any risks,” she said, “because you aren’t built that way. You could no more sit in your office, wait for business to come in, and handle it in an orthodox manner than a trout could live in stagnant water. But do keep an eye open.”

“Okay, I will, and if you have to start back to town, meet me at...”

“Locarno’s Grill,” she interrupted. “Over the biggest, thickest filet mignon in the place.”

Mason looked rapidly up and down the sidewalk, surveyed the dark outlines of the two-storied frame house, said, “Okay, Della, here we go. Keep your eyes open, and remember the signals.”

He started as though headed for the front steps, then suddenly detoured to pass around between the houses. A small flashlight hardly larger than a fountain pen gave him sufficient illumination to show the cement walk which led around to the back of the house.

An inspection of the back door showed Mason that entering the place was not going to be as easy as he had anticipated. The screen door was unhooked, but behind it was a wooden door equipped with a formidable lock, a lock which had cost much more than the average back-door lock. A casual inspection of the windows showed that they were locked tightly, and there was something in the unshaking rigidity of the window frames which indicated the locks were more efficient than those a nocturnal prowler would ordinarily expect to find.

Puzzled, as well as interested, Mason returned to the back door. His small flashlight once more explored the lock. He turned the knob and tentatively pushed against the door. It was anchored as firmly as though it had been embedded in concrete.

Mason raised the flashlight to inspect the small square glass panels in the upper part of the door, and then suddenly realized that someone had been there ahead of him.

The putty which held one of the panes of thick glass in place had been neatly cut away, so that a pane some eleven by fifteen inches was now held in place only by four small brads which had been driven into the wood at the corners of the panel.

It took Mason but a few moments to get these brads removed. Then with the blade of his penknife, he was able to pull the glass toward him, so that it dropped gently into his extended palm. Thereafter, it was a simple matter to reach through the opening, find the knurled brass knob on the inside of the spring lock, turn it, and open the door.

When Mason had the door opened, he took the precaution of putting the square of glass back into place and inserting the small brads so that it was once more held in position. In doing this, the realization that someone had anticipated him in his entire procedure was a disquieting thought.

This person, Mason realized, had gone about his work with the cunning skill of a good technician. The putty had been carefully removed with a knife. The dried particles had been gathered up so that there would be no telltale clue left on the threshold or on the wooden floor of the back porch. Replacing the pane of glass with the four brads so neatly and precisely driven into the corners of the supports had made the door seem quite all right to a casual observer.

Mason was just closing the door when he heard the sharp sound of a buzzer cutting through the fog-swept silence of the night.

So explosive was the sound, and so engrossed had he been in the problem which confronted him, that Mason gave a convulsive start as the warning signal sounded. Then, tense with the effort to listen for every sound, Mason stood waiting. When nothing happened, he turned the knurled knob of the lock, and threw the catch which left the bolt held back. He slipped out to the porch, gently closing the door behind him. He could hear no steps, but as he neared the front of the house, he saw a dark form drifting past on the sidewalk, walking so rapidly that it seemed he must almost be running. Mason realized that it was the man who had passed them a few minutes earlier. Probably some neighboring householder, he reassured himself, who had gone down to mail a letter at the mailbox, or to a corner drugstore to replenish some toilet articles.

Moving silently, Mason walked around the house to reassure Della. He gave a low whistle as he saw her standing on the front porch in the position of one ringing the bell.

She came over to the railing at the edge of the porch, and said in a hoarse whisper, “My same little man. He came around the corner as though he’d been shot out of a gun.”

Mason said, “He probably lives here in the neighborhood. I’ve got the back door open, Della. I’m going in.”

“Don’t you think we’d better call it off, Chief?”

“No. I only want to give the place a quick once-over. That old man has probably forgotten all about you by this time.”

She said in a whisper, “I don’t forget that easily.”

“Okay. Sit tight. You hadn’t better go back to the curb. Your friend might have another errand to run. If he saw you crossing from the curb to the door for the second time, he’d get suspicious. Just stand here in the shadows of the porch. If anyone comes along, be ringing the bell. Remember the signals. I want to know when anyone comes along the street. Don’t get rattled. I may even have to turn on the lights.”