Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

“Just what are you looking for?” she asked.

Mason dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, and once more retraced his steps to the rear of the house. Back inside the kitchen, he debated whether to leave the back door unlocked, but finally decided to release the catch and let the spring lock remain in position.

His flashlight showed him a conventional kitchen. Stale smells of ancient cooking clung to the woodwork. The linoleum was worn almost through in front of the kitchen sink and in front of the stove, the places which would naturally receive the most wear.

The icebox was electric, and the modern freshness of its white enamel stood out against the darker finishings of the kitchen. It gave the impression of having been recently installed.

Mindful of the story of the nocturnal cat, Mason opened the icebox door. As he did so, an electric light flashed on, illuminating the immaculate white of the interior.

Here was food such as a lone bachelor might cook for a quick repast, a saucer containing what evidently represented the half of a can of beans which had not been eaten. There was a full quart of milk, and a bottle which was half emptied. A dish contained a quarter-pound square of butter, still in its original tissue wrapping, and a smaller piece of irregular shape. There was a small bottle of whipping cream, a jar of mustard, some sliced boiled ham which had evidently been picked up at a delicatessen store, and a small pasteboard container holding macaroni salad of the type featured by virtually every delicatessen counter.

There were other odds and ends in the icebox, but Mason didn’t stop to explore them. The quick inventory which he took told all he needed to know. He noticed that the milk and cream were still sweet. The temperature regulator on the icebox was set at a point which would hold the contents at a low temperature. The food smelled sweet and clean, but with an ice box of this efficiency, that meant absolutely nothing. The food might have been left there yesterday or last week.

Mason closed the door of the icebox, let his small flashlight cover the kitchen in a quick survey. Then he moved on into the dining room.

His flashlight gave him a general idea of the furniture, an old-fashioned assortment which had evidently been purchased years before. The dining-room rug was new and cheap. The surface of the table had been refinished. The chairs had evidently been gone over with furniture polish, but the incongruity of the new dining-room rug simply made it all the more apparent that someone, after having lived in the house for years, had decided to rent it furnished, and had made an attempt to replace only the things which had been the most worn.

Mason moved on through the dining room and into the living room.

Here were bookcases built in on each side of a fireplace, wide windows fronting on the porch. The drapes on these windows seemed relatively new, and Mason realized with some apprehension that while these drapes had been pulled so that they entirely covered the front windows, the material was not heavy enough to shut out all light. The beam of Mason’s flashlight would quite probably show through from the street, and the small rectangular windows placed high in the wall above the bookcases on each side of the fireplace were not curtained at all. Della Street could warn him of any approaching pedestrian, but persons in the adjoining houses would be apt to notice the traveling beam of the flashlight as it moved around the walls.

Mason’s problem was not that of an ordinary prowler. He needed his flashlight for more than mere illumination to enable him to avoid furniture. He wanted to make a detailed study of the things in that room, to segregate those things which had been furnished with the house, so that he could more fully appreciate the significance of those things which had been brought in by the tenant.

Mason hesitated only a moment. Then he walked across toward the front door and pressed the light switch.

Instantly the room was flooded with brilliance. Mason found several floor lamps, turned these on. He opened a book, placed it face down on the table. In case some curious neighbor might be peering in through those uncurtained windows above the fireplace, he removed his hat and slowed down his motions so that they would seem to be the casual moves of a legitimate tenant, rather than the hasty motions of a prowler.

An automobile driven at high speed slewed around the corner. Tires shrilled in protest as the car slid to an abrupt stop. The doorbell rang — once. Mason paused, motionless.

He heard the businesslike slam of a car door. The doorbell rang three short, sharp rings. Mason heard running steps as someone dashed past the living room, running along the cement walk toward the back of the house. Once more there were three rings, then the sound of heavy steps on the porch.

Mason, conscious of Della Street trapped on the front porch, reached an instant decision. He turned the brass knob which released the bolt on the front door, opened the door, said, “Good evening,” to his white-faced secretary who was standing on the threshold. “Was there something I could do for you?” he asked, and then, apparently for the first time, became conscious of the police car at the curb and the broad-shouldered plainclothes officer who was standing just behind Della Street.

“Good evening,” Mason said cheerfully. “Are you together?”

Della Street said quickly, “No. I am soliciting subscriptions for the Chronicle. We have a very attractive—”

“Just a minute, sister. Jus-s-s-s-t a minute!” growled the officer.

Della Street turned to survey him with hostile eyes. “Thank you,” she said acidly. “I’m trying to make a living at this, and I don’t want to see any etchings. Just because I’m unescorted doesn’t mean a thing — to you.”

Mason said, “Won’t you come in?” and to the officer, “And what can I do for you?”

The officer came pushing in on Della Street’s heels.

“Really,” Mason said with the polite indignation of an outraged householder, “My invitation was to...”

The officer threw back his coat, disclosing a badge. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

Mason let his face show startled surprise. “Why!.. That’s what I’d like to know.”

The officer said, “We’re in a radio car. A man who lives a block down the street telephoned that he heard a couple of crooks planning on cracking a joint.”

Mason looked at Della Street. “A couple,” he said. “Have you seen any couple, Miss...”

“Miss Garland.”

“Do sit down, Miss Garland. I take it you’re covering the entire block. Perhaps you’ve seen...”

“Not a couple,” she said. “But I did see a rather suspicious-looking woman. I thought she was just coming down off the porch. I was ringing the bell at the adjoining house, where there seems to be no one home, and I noticed her come up on this porch, pause for a moment, then turn around and go back down. There was a little old man walking past at the time, and I saw him looking at her as though he’d known her.”

“Up on this porch?” Mason asked.

“That’s right, but I don’t think she rang the bell. She walked up on the porch, stood there for a moment, then turned around and went back down the stairs and walked rapidly down toward the corner.”

“Which direction?” the officer asked.

“Down toward the cable car tracks,” Della Street said.

“Did you get a good look at her?”

“She was rather — well, she looked rather — well cheap,” Della Street said. “Something in the way she walked.”

The radio officer frowned, said, “Guess I’ll check up with my partner. How do you get through to the back of the house?”