Erle Gardner - The Case of the Baited Hook

Freel twisted his fingers in an agony of apprehension. His bony knuckles cracked and in the silence of the room the sound seemed distorted, magnified.

Mason stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “Oh, well,” he said, “it’s all in the game. We live our little lives and they seem important to us. Ho-hum… Guess I must be getting sleepy. The state will take your name away and give you a number. Then they’ll present you with a nice suit of clothes, slide you into the lethal gas chamber, and leave you for fifteen minutes. When you come out, you’ll have a tag pinned on the lapel of your coat and be delivered to the undertaker as part of the day’s routine. I suppose it seems important to us, Freel, but it really doesn’t make much difference. We’re just cogs in a machine.”

Freel licked his lips, tried twice to swallow. He said nothing.

“Well,” Mason said, “God knows you’re responsible for what happened, Freel. You know why Tidings didn’t shoot his gun along at the last. He shot the ammunition you’d given him instead. You’re really responsible for what happened and it is only fair you should pay the price.”

Mason looked at his watch, then brought his eyes to hard focus on Freel. “Three minutes from now,” he said, “I’m going to walk out of this room. When I close the door, it’ll be too late for you to do anything to save that neck of yours. I’m your only hope, Freel.”

Freel leaned forward and said, in the manner of one who is unduly anxious to impress his audience, “You can’t pin it on me, Mason, you can’t do it. I tell you I’m in the clear.”

Mason laughed. “In the clear… you… that’s a hot one. You damn fool, you have admitted that you were on the ground when the crime was committed.”

“Honestly, Mr. Mason, I…”

Mason, looking at his wrist watch, motioned Freel to silence.

Abruptly the door opened. A man who seemed to be all chest and jaw steam-rollered his way into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He held up two lingers to Mason.

Mason jumped up from his chair, moved over to grasp the intruder’s hand cordially. “Well, well, Captain,” he said, “it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I wasn’t expecting you. I thought Sergeant Holcomb of Homicide would show up to make the arrest. I see you decided to come yourself.”

“Yeah,” the visitor said in a deep, booming voice, “I came myself.”

Mason, talking rapidly, said, “Now listen, Captain, this little guy is a rabbit. He’s a rat. He’s a poor, shrivelled-up, chicken-feed blackmailer. But I don’t like to see this murder rap hung on him. I think he’s about ready to tell the truth. If he tells the truth, I’m going to try and save his neck. If he tells the whole truth, they won’t give him first-degree murder. It’s his only chance. There’s my secretary over there with her typewriter all ready to take down what he says. Captain, let’s do the square thing… let’s be human… let’s give this guy a break. Give him sixty seconds. Won’t you do that for me?”

The private detective blinked his eyes. In a deep, rumbling voice he said, “Sixty seconds — for you.”

Mason turned to Freel. “All right, sucker, make up your mind.”

Freel, who had evidently been thinking while Mason and the operative were talking, said in a high-pitched, whining voice, “All right, I’ll confess. And if I confess you’ll try to save my neck?”

Mason nodded.

“You promise?”

Again there was a nod.

Freel took a soiled handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his forehead. “What do I do?” he asked.

Mason indicated Della Street with a nod of his head. “Start talking to her,” he said, “and sign your name to it when she gets it written.”

Freel looked across at Della Street. “It all started,” he said, “when I tried to blackmail Albert Tidings. First I wanted to sell him information and then…”

Della Street’s hands poised over the keyboard for a moment then crashed down on the keys as the portable typewriter exploded into staccato noise. As Freel paused in his statement, Mason said, “When that’s finished, Della, get him to sign it. Have the Captain sign as witness. Put the paper in an envelope, beat it over to The Clarion, and hand it to the editor personally. Take Freel along with you.”

Della Street nodded, then, with her hands held over the keyboard, glanced expectantly at Freel.

Mason said in a low voice to the private detective, “If he gets rusty, break him in two. If he tries to beat it, collar him and hold him.”

“How shall I hold him?” the operative asked.

Mason looked at him scornfully. “You have two hands — aren’t they enough?”

He pushed past the operative to the door, stepped out in the corridor, and pulled the door shut. He stood for a moment listening. Five seconds after the door had closed he heard the type bars on Della Street’s machine clack into rapid action.

Grinning, Mason started walking down the corridor.

In his private office, tilted back in the swivel chair, his feet resting on a corner of the desk, Mason grinned up at Sergeant Holcomb.

“This time,” Holcomb said grimly, “I have a warrant.”

“I don’t think the D.A. wants you to serve it, Sergeant.”

“Take another think.”

Mason said, “That was an interesting case, Sergeant. Two or three things about it were puzzling but after all it wasn’t as complicated as it seemed. The Clarion’s getting out an extra I understand. You’ll probably enjoy reading it.”

“Nuts,” Holcomb said.

Mason went on calmly, “Freel gave The Clarion a complete confession. Della Street delivered it personally and Freel along with it.”

Holcomb’s eyes showed both interest and suspicion. “What is this, a run-around?”

“Nope, the low-down. Better watch your step, Sergeant, or you’ll be pounding pavements.”

“I have a warrant,” Holcomb said.

“So you have.”

“Get your hat.”

Mason, holding his hands up in front of him as though holding an imaginary newspaper, pretended to read. “So rapidly did The Clarion work in breaking the case that the police were still baffled. Even after the Extra Edition hit the street, one of the more amusing sidelights was the spectacle of Sergeant Holcomb of the Homicide Squad, with the dogged persistence of an unimaginative police officer, serving a warrant on a well-known attorney just as Clarion newsboys were selling the extras which gave the true facts of the case. Sergeant Holcomb, however, dutifully plodding along in the line of duty, escorted the grinning Perry Mason into Headquarters, pushing aside as he did so newsboys who were shouting the name of the real murderer.”

Mason went through the pantomime of folding a newspaper and putting it down on the desk.

Sergeant Holcomb said, “You can’t stall along that way.”

“I’m not trying to stall, Sergeant. I’m trying to give you a break.”

“Yes, you always did like me.”

“No kidding, Holcomb, you’re not a bad sort… you’re obstinate and pig-headed and a little dumb, but you have the courage of your convictions, loyalty to your work and absolute honesty. Why don’t you get aboard the bandwagon?”

“Doing what, for instance?” Holcomb asked. “Not that you’re selling me anything, Mason.”

“The lipstick on Tidings’ face, for instance,” Mason commented. “That was an interesting angle, Sergeant. There were several women in the case but only one of them would have kissed Tidings. Only one of them could have approached Tidings out there on that lonely road without having him reach for his gun.”