Erle Gardner - The Case of the Rolling Bones

Abruptly, Mason said, “Okay, Della. We stick in our stack of chips. If we hold the low hand, we’re wiped out.”

“Chief, why mix yourself into it?” she asked. “After all, Leeds is just a client, just the same as any other client. If they can prove him guilty, it’s not your fault. He undoubtedly lied when he said he left Milicant alive. Apparently, Milicant really is Hogarty, and the sister’s given you a double cross. You’re certainly not called on to do any great amount of worrying. Let them come clean with you. Sit back and simply act as a lawyer, presenting a case.”

Mason grinned. “I can’t,” he confessed.

“Why not, Chief?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s the way I’m built. Come on, Della. We’re going to put in a call.”

He took her elbow, piloted her into a drugstore, crossed to the public telephone, and dialed police headquarters. “Homicide Squad,” he said, and, after a moment, “Sergeant Holcomb, please... Hello, Sergeant? Okay, here’s a hot tip for you. Harold Leeds, a nephew of Alden Leeds, was in Milicant’s apartment the night of the murder. He saw his uncle leave the apartment, and go down the hall to the elevator. He entered the apartment right after his uncle, and found Milicant dead. Inez Colton, his girl friend, knows all about it. She skipped out after the murder because she didn’t want to be involved. She’s living under the name of Helen Reid at the Ellery Arms Apartments. Harold Leeds is there now.”

Sergeant Holcomb’s voice was excited. “You’re certain?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Perry Mason said. “I know the whole business.”

“Fine,” Sergeant Holcomb exclaimed. “If this tip proves on the up and up, you’ll get the thanks of the department. Who is this talking?”

Mason said, “You know me well, Sergeant. I’m a short, fat guy with whiskers. I usually wear a long, red coat with a big black belt.”

“I don’t place you,” Sergeant Holcomb said, his voice puzzled.

Mason said, “Santa Claus, you damn fool,” and hung up.

The long table ran the length of the visitors‘room in the county jail. On each side of this table, chairs were grouped. Dividing the table, running lengthwise along it, and from one end of the room to the other, stretched a meshed screen of heavy wire, extending from the ceiling to the floor. This screen was supported by steel frameworks which contained two doors. Access to the room was through a species of anteroom which was separated from the visitors’ room by iron bars. In this anteroom, two men were constantly on guard, a locker, containing riot guns and tear gas bombs, close at hand.

Perry Mason entered the anteroom and presented a pass to the attendant. The attendant scrutinized it, stepped to the telephone, and said, “Send Alden Leeds up.” He stamped the pass with a rubber stamp, unlocked a steel door, ushered Mason into one side of the divided room, and locked the door behind the lawyer.

Mason strolled over to one of the chairs, sat down, and lit a cigarette. At that time, there were no other visitors in the room. Morning sunlight, striking the barred windows at an angle, filtered weakly through to form oblong patches of barred shadow on the floor.

When Mason’s cigarette was half consumed, a door at the far end of the room opened, and Alden Leeds stepped directly from the elevator into the visitors’ room. He saw Mason, nodded, and walked across to seat himself in a chair on the opposite side of the table and on the other side of the screen.

Mason studied the other man’s face, a face which was within five feet of his own, separated by a table and a wire screen. It was possible, by leaning on the table, for a prisoner to get his lips within a few inches of the screen, possible for the lawyer on the other side of the screen, to place his ear within a corresponding distance.

Mason, however, made no attempt to lean across the table. Lowering his voice so that it was inaudible to the deputies, who were busily engaged working with their books, Mason said, “Well, Leeds, in an hour court opens. In order to represent you, I ought to know where I stand.”

Leeds sat quietly, with none of that nervous fidgeting which so frequently characterizes a prisoner. The morning sunlight showed the pouches under his eyes, the calipers which stretched from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth, the seamed skin which had been cracked in Arctic frosts, baked by tropical suns. His eyes were cool, steady, and cautious. “What,” he asked, “do you want?”

“I want the truth.”

Leeds said, “You have the truth.”

Mason, hitching sideways in the chair, crossed his long legs in front of him, and said, “The way I figure it, you learned that Milicant and Conway were the same. You entered the apartment to find Milicant dead. You knew there was going to be hell to pay unless you could find the documents which you knew, by that time, Milicant had in his possession. You tried your best to find them, and finally had to give it up as a bad job.

“It wasn’t a time when you were at your best The thing had hit you right between the eyes. You knew what you were up against, and the knowledge didn’t help to steady you. When you realized you couldn’t find what you wanted, you became more frenzied in your search.”

“Thanks,” Alden Leeds said.

“For what?” Mason asked.

“For not thinking that I killed him. I was afraid you would.”

Mason said, “Your fingerprints are all over the place. A witness saw you leaving the apartment. He stepped into the apartment right after you’d left. He found evidences of a search and...”

“Where was John Milicant?” Leeds asked.

“Apparently lying in the bathroom dead.”

“This man didn’t look?”

“No.”

Leeds shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I’m not trying to tell you your business, Mason. You’re a lawyer. I’m not.”

Mason said, “If you hadn’t lied to me at the start, I might have thought so, too. But I don’t think we can put that across with a jury now.”

Leeds accepted the statement philosophically. “Too bad,” he observed.

Mason nodded. “Isn’t it?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Mason said, “The warden up at San Quentin doesn’t care particularly about capital punishment. He carries out a death sentence when he has to, as part of his duties of office. He claims that new gas chamber is worse than the rope.”

Leeds turned cold, frosty eyes on the lawyer.

“Are you,” he asked, “by any chance trying to frighten me with the idea of death?”

Mason, meeting his glance, said simply, “Yes.”

“Don’t do it,” Leeds commented. “It won’t work.”

Mason, watching the man’s calm face, let his own features soften into a smile. “I was afraid of that,”he admitted.

After a moment, Leeds said, “All right. Let’s begin from there.”

Mason said, “The way I figure it, Emily Milicant killed Hogarty. You were away from the cabin at the time. She must have dusted out in a panic. You tried to overtake her, and couldn’t. Then, you did the best you could to cover up evidences of what had happened and...”

He broke off as Alden Leeds’ face twisted into writhing expression.

“You weren’t looking for that one, were you?” Mason asked conversationally.

For a moment, Alden Leeds seemed to be fighting for his self-control. But when he spoke, his voice was calm and well-modulated.

“No,” he admitted. “I wasn’t. You’re smarter than I’d figured.”

Mason said, “The worst of being an attorney is that you’re obligated to protect your clients. Sometimes your clients don’t want to be protected. They get chivalrous and try to take a rap. Then it’s up to the lawyer to go ahead and protect them anyway.”