Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

“This way,” Mason said, walking toward the dining room. “Sit down if you will please, Miss Garland. I’ll be glad to talk with you.”

The officer said, “I can find my way okay.”

“I’ll switch on the lights for you,” Mason said, and added apologetically, “I’m batching here. Engaged in some research work. Afraid I’m not much of a housekeeper when it comes to dusting.”

The light Mason had switched on disclosed what his flashlight had failed to make plain — that the table and chairs were well covered with dust.

The officer, frowning at them, said, “You sure aren’t much on housekeeping. Don’t you eat here?”

Mason laughed. “I’m afraid I’m a typical scholar, the absentminded sort. As a matter of fact, I do most of my eating in the kitchen. And my eating is rather sketchy at that.”

The officer followed Mason on into the kitchen. As Mason switched on the lights, he could see the vague outlines of a burly figure standing on the back porch just outside the back door.

Mason said quite casually, apparently without noticing the man on the porch, “My diet is mostly milk, eggs, and things I can pick up at the delicatessen store. Incidentally, if you’d like a glass of milk, Officer, you’ll find a cold bottle in the icebox.” Mason laughed nervously and said, “I don’t know what the etiquette of the situation calls for, but in view of the fact that you’ve come to protect my property, I...”

The officer who had been looking around the kitchen, walked over to the door of the icebox, jerked it open, looked inside, took a quick mental inventory of the contents, closed the door, and said, “My partner’s out here,” and went to the back door. He opened it, said, “See anything, Jack?”

“No.”

“There was a jane up on the porch,” the first officer said, “soliciting subscriptions. She saw a girl come off this porch and walk around the corner down by the cable car tracks. Guess that was the one the fellow saw.”

“Get a description?”

“No. I’m going back to talk with her. Come on. This is my partner, Mr. — what’s your name?”

“Tragg,” Mason said. “George C. Tragg,” and then added somewhat hopefully, “I have a brother who’s on the police force in Los Angeles.”

“That so?” the officer asked, his manner undergoing a subtle change.

Mason nodded. “Lieutenant Tragg on Homicide,” he said. “You may have heard of him. He...”

“Sure I’ve heard of him,” the radio officer said. “So you’re Tragg’s brother. Well, well! Say, you know I ran onto Tragg at the convention here a couple of months ago. He gave us a talk on examining witnesses who were at the scene of a crime. Bright chap.”

Mason nodded eagerly. “Yes. He was up here a couple of months ago.” He added, somewhat ruefully, “But I didn’t see much of him. I had my work, and he was frightfully busy. I guess those police conventions are rather — well, I guess an officer has his time pretty well taken up.”

The radio men exchanged grins. “We do for a fact.”

Mason switched out the lights behind them. Della Street, making herself comfortable in a chair in the front room, unostentatiously glanced at her wristwatch as the trio entered the living room.

“What’d you say your name was?” the first officer asked.

“Miss Garland,” she said, with somewhat aloof dignity.

“Getting subscriptions for the Chronicle, ” the first officer explained. “Now, Miss Garland, let’s find out about this woman who went around the comer.”

Della Street raised her eyes, looking at a far comer of the ceiling. She placed her gloved finger against her chin, and said meditatively, “Well, let me see. I couldn’t tell how she was dressed, but there was something about her. Oh, yes, her walk. Rather an exaggerated swing to the... er... hips... I remember she had on a narrow-brimmed hat and... no, I don’t think she wore any coat other than a jacket. Her skirts were rather short, and she was — well, leggy.”

The radio officer laughed in high good humor. “Leggy,” he said. “That’s a good one. Damned if it doesn’t describe that breed of cat.”

“I don’t think you could miss her if you happened to see her walking along the street,” Della Street said.

The officers glanced at each other. “You didn’t see any man with her?”

“No. She was alone.”

“How close were you?”

“I was rather close,” she admitted, “just up on the porch of that other house. But you know how it is when you’re working. You have so many calls to make and such a limited time within which to make them. You don’t dare to start too early or you break in on a family right after dinner, usually with the woman of the house doing dishes in the kitchen. Then after it gets just so late, you feel rather conspicuous, even when you know people are still up. Lots of times the ringing of a doorbell will waken a child, and that makes for a bad reception. So there’s only a relatively short period of time in which you have to work.”

The officer looked at his watch. “Pretty late now, isn’t it?”

She nodded, bit her lip, lowered her eyes, and said in a halting voice, “But I had some emergencies — my kid sister — well, I just needed the extra money. I get paid so much a subscription, you see.”

The officer said, “Okay, Miss Garland. Come on, Jack, let’s take a run down the car track and see if we can’t pick up this moll. Not that we’ve got anything against her. You’re sure she wasn’t prowling around up here on the porch?”

Della Street grew thoughtful. “She just came up here for a few moments. I somehow had the impression that she might be just trying to avoid meeting the man who was walking along the street. That’s why I noticed him more than I did her. You know how it is. Unescorted girls who have work which keeps them out in the evening quite frequently have — oh, well, you know.”

“Guys make passes at you?” the officer asked, grinning.

“Uh huh,” Della said casually. “I don’t mind a nice clean pass at times, but it’s this street-mashing, smirking pick-up stuff that gets you. And then you never know when someone may get really violent. You get fed up on it after a while.”

The officers exchanged glances. “Well, we’ll be on our way. We’ll pick her up, and give her a shakedown. One thing’s certain, she can’t fool us if we once nab her. She talks tough... So you’re Lieutenant Tragg’s brother. Well, well. I didn’t know he had a brother here in San Francisco. He didn’t say anything about it.”

Mason beamed. “I’m very proud of him. I think he’s making a splendid record from all I can hear. Occasionally he sends me some newspaper clippings.”

“He’s a good man,” the officer agreed. “Well, so long. If you have any trouble, or see anybody prowling around, just give headquarters a ring. Probably nothing to it, but this guy said there was a couple talking about casing a lay in the neighborhood. He said he was trying to get past them on the sidewalk, and heard ’em distinctly. Well, good night, Tragg. Good night, Miss Garland.”

“Good night,” Della Street said graciously.

Perry Mason closed the front door, turned and bowed to Della Street. “It would be a pleasure to subscribe to a paper through such an attractive and poised young woman,” he announced. “I can appreciate how badly you need the money on account of your sister, but really, you know, if I were to subscribe just through sympathy...”

“Don’t mention it,” Della Street interrupted. “I know the approach already. We run into it so often. But I hardly expected that the brother of a police lieutenant would stoop to such a thing.”