Erle Gardner - The Case of the Baited Hook

“Where do you come in on that?”

“I’m the sheep,” he said, “that’s being led to the slaughter.”

“What do we do here?”

Mason said, “We pay our respects to a man by the name of Herkimer Smith, who’s registered as being from Shreveport, Louisiana, and we don’t let him know we’re coming.”

“Okay. You want to find out his room?”

“Yes.”

Della Street extended her hand. “Gimme.”

Mason gave her a dime, and she walked over to the telephone booth. Mason stood by the open door while she dialed the number of the hotel switchboard and said to the operator, “This is the Credit Department of the Ville de Paris. We have a C.O.D. to send to your hotel to a Mr. Herkimer Smith of Shreveport, Louisiana. It’s a C.O.D. so all we’re interested in is checking on the registration… If you will, please.”

After a moment, she said, “Thank you,” hung up the receiver, and said, “Okay, Chief. He’s in 409.”

Mason touched Della Street’s arm, signaling for her to leave the telephone booth. He pulled another coin from his pocket and dialed the number of the Drake Detective Agency. “Mason talking,” he said. “I want an operative who looks tough and is tough. I want him in a hurry. Send him to the St. Germaine Hotel. Have him go up to Room 409 and walk in without knocking. I’ll be there. Have him hold up two fingers so I’ll know he’s your man. He isn’t to say anything until I give him the lead. Got that?”

He received an okay from Drake’s secretary, hung up the telephone, and said to Della Street, “Let’s go.”

They walked silently to the elevator, went to the fourth floor, and Mason stood for a moment getting the run of the numbers on the doors before piloting Della Street down the corridor to the right. They paused in front of Room 409, and Mason knocked.

The thin, reedy voice of Arthmont A. Freel, from the other side of the door, asked in high-pitched nervousness, “Who is it?”

Della Street said sweetly, “Chambermaid with towels.”

The door was unlocked from the inside. Mason placed his shoulder against it. As Freel turned the knob, Mason pushed the door back. He and Della Street entered the room, to confront the frightened eyes of Freel.

Mason said, “Hello, sucker. How does it feel to be elected to the gas chamber? See if there’s anyone in the bathroom, Della. Go over by that table and sit down when you’ve looked.”

Mason walked over to the closet, jerked the door open and looked inside. He carefully closed the door of the hotel bedroom, walked over to a comfortable chair, and sat down. Della Street completed her inspection of the bathroom, and drew up a chair to the wicker table near the window. She calmly set up her portable typewriter and fed two sheets of plain paper, sandwiched with a sheet of carbon paper, into the machine. Having done that, she sat back with her hands folded in her lap.

Freel stared at her uneasily for a moment, then shifted his eyes to the lawyer.

“Well,” Mason said, “I’m sorry they made you the goat. Personally, I don’t think you’re guilty, but you always were a sucker. You were half-smart, and you stuck your neck out just far enough so they could hang the murder rap on it.”

“What are you talking about?” Freel demanded.

Mason selected a cigarette, tapped it gently on the edge of the cigarette case, snapped a match into flame, lit up, and sucked in a deep, appreciative drag on the cigarette.

“It really is too bad, Freel. You never were one to understand the fine points of the game.” Mason paused to inhale another deep drag of smoke, shook his head mournfully, and added, “Too bad.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Freel said.

“I’ll say you don’t,” Mason said with a chuckle. “You don’t know what anyone’s talking about. That’s the trouble with you, Freel. You sit in on a game you don’t understand, and when someone tells you to stick your chips in the center of the table, you shove in the whole stack… Now it’s just too bad.”

“You can’t rattle me,” Freel said. “You did it once, but you can’t do it again.”

Mason said, “You’ll pardon me if I take a rather detached interest in the thing from the standpoint of legal technique. Personally, I think some shrewd lawyer figured the play.”

“You’re crazy,” Freel said.

Mason smiled. “Don’t say it so scornfully, Freel. Within thirty days, your only defense will be insanity. You’ll have a bunch of doctors calling on you, and you’ll be sweating blood, trying to make them think you’re crazy. So don’t mention insanity so lightly.

“You see, Freel, there are a flock of alibis in this case. Some of them are nice alibis. The alibis stay put, but the time of the murder doesn’t: it keeps jumping around.

“Now you’re a nice little guy, but you have too much of an appetite — for money. You’re money hungry, money crazy. You’re getting along in years and you can’t get jobs now — not the clerical jobs you’re fitted to handle. That bothered you. You wanted money so you could have security. That’s a laugh, Freel. Security — for you!”

Freel started twisting his fingers, worried eyes regarding Mason apprehensively, but he said nothing.

Mason smoked leisurely, regarding Freel as one might look at an interesting specimen in an aquarium. Over at the table, Della Street sat motionless, keeping herself in the background, effacing her presence from Freel’s consciousness.

“So,” Mason said, “you were offered money to swear that you’d seen the murder committed. You were told that Peltham was dead, that he could never deny your accusation. And so you agreed to take the money and swear that you’d seen Peltham, and seen him fire the shot. What you overlooked was the fact that the murderer never had any intention of really pinning that crime on Peltham. You haven’t got it yet, Freel. You probably won’t get it for about a week. But you’ve been elected to a reserved seat in the state’s lethal gas chamber, and it’s been done so nicely that the operation will be virtually painless.

“For about a week you’ll be the state’s star witness, then Peltham will show up with his alibi, and there you’ll be — right out in the open with your neck stuck way, way out. The district attorney will come down on you like a ton of brick.”

“Peltham’s dead,” Freel said sullenly.

Mason laughed and said, “You think he’s dead. That overcoat business was a gag. He was playing that in order to cover his escape. A woman he was sweet on was due to be put on the spot in connection with that murder, and he didn’t want to be examined. He took a powder so he wouldn’t have to testify concerning his relations with her. That’s all.”

Freel squirmed uneasily. “I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

Mason said, “Oh, yes, you have. You’ve made your crack to the D.A., and he’s given the newspapermen an interview on the strength of it. The D.A. isn’t going to back up on a thing like that.”

“You’re stringing me again,” Freel said.

“Think so?” Mason asked. “Well, think again. Get this, your poor dumb dope, and let it sink into that thick skull of yours. Albert Tidings was killed while he was sitting in his automobile sometime after it started to rain Monday night. He didn’t die instantly. He was found unconscious in his machine shortly after eleven o’clock. He was taken to Mrs. Tidings’ house, put into bed, and died almost instantly. There was a thirty-two caliber revolver in his hip pocket. He hadn’t fired that gun. Apparently, he’d made no effort to pull it. There was fresh lipstick on the handkerchief in his overcoat pocket.

“Tidings had learned about Peltham and his wife. If Peltham had approached the automobile in which Tidings was seated, Tidings would have pulled his gun. There wouldn’t have been any lipstick on his handkerchief. If you’ll just get the cobwebs out of your brain and try to concentrate for a minute on that lipstick, you’ll find out a lot. Who kissed him, his wife? She hated him. No, Freel, there was only one woman whom he would have kissed who would have kissed him. He kissed that woman and then got shot. Figure it out for yourself.”