Erle Gardner - The Case of the Rolling Bones

“And the knives and forks were on the tray?”

“Yes.”

“You evidently looked that over pretty carefully.”

“I did. I wondered if Uncle Alden had been eating dinner with Conway because — well, I thought Uncle Alden had broken in and stolen those papers Milicant — Hogarty — bad.”

“You say there was a pot of coffee?”

“The pot had contained coffee. You could smell it.”

“There wasn’t any left?”

“No, not a drop.”

“Any food left?”

“No. The plates were slick and clean.”

“No bread, no butter?” Mason asked.

“Nothing, just the bare plates.”

“Go on from there,” Mason said.

“Well, I looked around the apartment a little, and opened the bathroom door.”

“It was closed?”

“Yes, it was closed but not locked.”

“What did you find?” Mason asked.

“The body.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I stood right there with cold sweat breaking out all over me,” Leeds said, talking more rapidly now as he warmed to the story. “Then I realized what a sweet spot I was in. I’d messed around there altogether too much. So I took my silk handkerchief, polished off the doorknobs I’d touched, and beat it.”

“Did you leave the door open?”

“No. I wanted to delay the discovery of the body as long as possible so we could clear out. I pulled the door shut. The spring lock clicked into place.”

“How long was it after your uncle had left the apartment when you went in?”

“Perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, just long enough for Uncle Alden to walk rapidly to the elevator and start down in the cage.”

“How long were you in there?”

“Not over two minutes.”

“To whom have you told this?” Mason asked.

“Not a living soul except Inez.”

Mason glanced significantly at Paul Drake, then looked over to where Della Street, catching up with her fountain pen on the rapid-fire conversation, held her hand poised over the shorthand notebook.

Inez Colton said, “So you see Harold’s position. He can’t help your client any, Mr. Mason, and his testimony would clinch the case against Alden Leeds.”

“You think Alden Leeds did it?” Mason asked, staring steadily at Harold.

“I don’t know,” the young man said. “I do know that Uncle Alden was raised in a hard school. If Hogarty’s claim was justified, I hope Uncle Alden would have done something about it. I like to think so, anyway. But if it wasn’t justified, and Hogarty was trying to hold him up, I... Well, I don’t know just where Uncle Alden would draw the line. I know one thing, I’d hate to have him on my trail. Any time you cross Uncle Alden, you have a fight on your hands... I think Uncle Alden found him... No, I don’t know what happened.”

Abruptly, Mason got to his feet “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”

“How about this subpoena?” Inez Colton asked.

“Forget it,” Mason said. “As far as we’re concerned, it hasn’t been served. Tear it up.”

Harold Leeds shot forth an impulsive hand. “That’s mighty white of you, Mr. Mason,” he said, “and you can rest assured that I’ll keep all of this under my hat.”

“Sorry we broke in on you this way,” Mason said to Inez Colton. “Come on, folks. Let’s go.”

Della Street closed her notebook, slipped it back into her purse. Drake glanced sidelong at Mason, then got to his feet without a word. Mason led the way out into the corridor. Inez Colton bid them goodnight and closed the door.

As the three marched wordlessly down the corridor, the fat, blonde woman, who had stood in the doorway when Mason brought Harold Leeds back into the room, opened the door and stood staring silent, expressionless, motionless. She was still standing there when the trio entered the automatic elevator.

“Well,” Mason said, on the ride down, “I’ve played right into the D.A.’s hands. Apparently, Milicant really was Hogarty.”

“I thought you knew he was,” Drake said.

Mason twisted his lips into a lopsided grin. “I wanted the police to think I thought he was,” he said. “Let’s get to a telephone where I can put through a long distance call.”

“Want me any more?” Drake asked.

Mason said, “No. Get to work and try to plug some of these other loopholes.”

“Looks as though you’d bitten off a little more than you can chew, Perry,” Drake said, dropping a hand on the lawyer’s shoulder. “Take it easy this time. Remember this isn’t your funeral. If your client’s guilty, he’s guilty. Evidently he’s lied to you. Don’t throw yourself into the case and leave yourself wide open.”

Mason said, “He isn’t guilty, Paul — at least not the way they claim.”

Drake said, “Okay, Perry. I’ll take a taxi back to the office.”

He walked over to the curb, gave a shrill whistle, and sprinted for the corner to stop a cruising cab.

Della Street glanced at Perry Mason. “Well, Chief,” she said, “we seem to be taking it on the chin.”

Mason said, “There’s a hotel in the next block, Della, with a switchboard and telephone booths. I think we can get a call through.”

“Whom are you going to call, Chief?” she asked.

“Emily Milicant,” he said. “There are some holes I want mended... Evidently she knew there would be.”

They walked to the hotel. Mason gave the switchboard operator his call and told her to rush it. “Mrs. J. B. Beems at the Border City Hotel, Yuma, Arizona.”

They smoked a silent cigarette. Della Street’s hand moved over to grip Mason’s arm, a wordless pledge of loyalty. Then the telephone operator beckoned to Mason. “The hotel’s on the line,” she said, “but they have no such party registered.”

“I’ll talk with whoever’s on the line,” Mason told her.

“Okay,” she announced, snapping a key on the switchboard. “Booth three.”

Mason entered the telephone booth, said, “Hello, is this the night clerk of the Border City Hotel?”

“That’s right,” a man’s voice said.

“I’m anxious to find out about Mrs. Beems.”

“We have no one by that name registered here.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely certain.”

Mason said, “I received a letter from her, stating that she was registered there under that name and would stay there until she heard from me. She’s heavy around the hips, thin in the face, with big, black eyes. She’s around fifty, although she could pass for forty-two or forty-three, medium height, with black hair, talks with a quick, nervous accent, and keeps her hands moving while she’s talking.”

“She isn’t here,” the night clerk said “This isn’t a large hotel. We only have three unescorted women, none of whom answer the description — and it happens we know something about all three. One of them has been here a year, one going on to three months, and the other two weeks.”

Mason said, “Okay, thanks a lot. Sorry I bothered you,” and hung up. He crossed over to the switchboard operator, paid the toll charges, left her a dollar tip, and said, “Come on, Della. Let’s go.”

Out on the street, she said, “Chief, what does it mean?”

Mason, frowning, reaching in his pocket for a cigarette, offered no explanation.

“Suppose the district attorney should get hold of Harold Leeds?” Della Street asked. “We found him, and why couldn’t the D.A. find him? After all, we’ve given them the lead by dragging Inez Colton into it.”

Mason’s reply was an inarticulate grunt. He shoved his hands down deep into his trousers pockets, lowered his chin to his chest, and slowed his walk until it was a slow, even, regular pace. Della Street, accustomed to his moods, slowed her own steps and remained silent.