The Case of the Counterfeit Eye пм-7

by Эрл Стенли Гарднер

  "Is he alone?" Mason asked.

  Della Street repeated the interrogation into the transmitter, then nodded her head.

  "Bring him in," Mason said. "Stick in here, and be sure that you take down every single word that's said. Perhaps he won't deliberately misquote me, but it's one of those situations where a lot may depend on having an ace in the hole."

  She nodded and moved toward the door which led to the outer office. Mason got to his feet and stood straddlelegged, his fists resting on the edge of the desk.

  Della Street opened the door and stood to one side. Hamilton Burger, a broadshouldered, thicknecked individual with a closecropped mustache, walked into the room and said affably, "Good afternoon, Mason."

  Perry Mason nodded cautiously, indicated a chair and said, "Sit down. Is this an official or a social visit?"

  "I think it's going to be social," Burger said.

  Mason passed him cigarettes. Burger took one, lit up and smiled at Della Street, who had taken up her position at the far end of the desk.

  "It won't be necessary to take down what I'm going to say," he said.

  Mason said, "It's going to be necessary to take down what I'm not going to say, and the only way you can be certain of what I didn't say is by having some record of exactly what I did say."

  The district attorney sized Perry Mason up with speculative eyes and said, "Look here, Mason, I've been checking up on you."

  "That's not surprising to me," Mason told him.

  "I've found," Burger said, "that you've got a reputation for being tricky."

  Mason said, with a trace of belligerence, "Did you come here to discuss my reputation?"

  "In a way, yes."

  "All right, go ahead and discuss it, but be careful what you say."

  "You've got a reputation," Burger went on, "for being tricky, and I find that you are tricky, but I think they're legitimate tricks."

  "I'm glad you think so," Mason told him. "Your predecessor in office didn't think so."

  "I think an attorney has a right to work any legitimate trick in order to bring out the truth," Burger went on. "I notice that your tricks aren't for the purpose of confusing a witness, but for the purpose of blasting preconceived notions out of his head, so that he can tell the truth."

  Mason bowed and said, "I'll thank you when you've entirely finished. Experience has taught me that words of praise like this are generally preliminary to a slap."

  "No slaps this time," Burger went on. "I just want you to understand my attitude."

  "If that's your attitude," Mason said, "I understand it."

  "Then you'll appreciate what I'm going to say."

  "Go on and say it."

  "District attorneys have a habit of wanting to get convictions. That's natural. The police work up a case and dump it in the lap of the district attorney. It's up to him to get a conviction. In fact, the reputation of a district attorney is predicated on the percentage of convictions he gets on the number of cases tried."

  Mason said in a very casual voice, "Go ahead, I'm listening."

  "When I took this job," Burger said, "I wanted to be conscientious. I have a horror of prosecuting an innocent person. I have been impressed by your work. You probably won't agree with the conclusion I have reached concerning it."

  "What's the conclusion?" Mason asked.

  "That you're a better detective than you are a lawyer, and that isn't any disparagement of your legal ability, either. Your courtroom technique is clever, but it's all of it founded on having first reached a correct solution of the case. When you resort to unorthodox tricks as a part of your courtroom technique I'm opposed to them, but when you use those tricks to bring about a correct solution of a mystery I'm for them. My hands are tied. I can't resort to unorthodox spectacular tactics. Sometimes I wish I could, particularly when I think a witness is lying to me about the identity of a criminal."

  Mason said slowly, "Since you're being frank with me, which is something no other district attorney has ever done, I'll be frank with you, which, incidentally is something I've never bothered to be with any other district attorney. I don't ask a man if he's guilty or innocent. When I start to represent him, I take his money and handle his case. Guilty or innocent, he's entitled to his day in court, but if I should find one of my clients was really guilty of murder and wasn't morally or legally justified, I'd make that client plead guilty and trust to the mercy of the Court."

  Burger nodded his head heartily. "I had an idea you would, Mason."

  "Remember what I said," Mason warned him, "that there was no moral or legal justification for the homicide. If a person is morally justified in killing, I'll save that person from the legal penalty if it's possible to do so."

  "Well," Burger said, "I can't agree with you on that. I believe the law is the only machine of justification, but I want you to understand I'm not prejudiced against you and I would like to be friendly with you. Therefore, I want you to produce Hazel Fenwick."

  "I don't know where she is."

  "That may be true, and yet you may be able to produce her."

  "I tell you I don't know where she is."

  "You spirited her away."

  "I sent her to my office."

  "Your action in doing that is open to grave suspicion."

  "I don't know just why," Mason said evenly. "If you'd been the first one on the scene you'd have thought nothing of sending her to your office so you could get a statement out of her."

  "I'm a public official and it's my duty to investigate murder," Burger said.

  "That doesn't prevent me from making an investigation on behalf of my client, does it?"

  "It depends on how it's done."

  "There's no secret of how it was done in this case," Mason told him. "I did what I did in the presence of witnesses."

  "What happened after that?"

  "Hazel Fenwick took my car and disappeared."

  "I have reason to believe," Burger said, "that the woman's life is in danger."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "She is the only person who can positively identify the murderer."

  "Not the murderer," Mason said. "The man who was seen coming out of the room."

  "They're one and the same."

  "You think so?"

  "It stands to reason."

  "Nothing stands to reason until it can be proven."

  "Well, let us express it this way, then: It's a matter of opinion. You're entitled to yours and I'm entitled to mine. At least, the man may be the murderer. That man is desperate. I think that Hazel Fenwick either has met with foul play, or will meet with foul play."

  "Therefore, what?"

  "Therefore, I want to put her where she'll be safe."

  "And you think I can tell you where she is?"

  "I feel quite certain of it."

  "I can't."

  "Can't or won't?"

  "Can't."

  Burger got to his feet and said slowly, "I wanted you to understand my attitude. If your clients are innocent I want to know it, but, by God, if you think you can pull a stunt like the one you pulled in concealing that witness in a murder case and not get into trouble you're crazy."

  Mason said slowly, "I tell you I don't know where she is."

  Burger jerked open the door to the corridor and paused in the doorway to deliver an ultimatum. "You've got fortyeight hours," he said, "to change your mind. That's final." The door shut.

  Della Street glanced apprehensively at the lawyer.

  "Chief," she said, "you've got to do something about that woman."

  Mason nodded moodily, then grinned and said, "I can do a lot in fortyeight hours, Della."

  Chapter 11

  Paul Drake's eyes showed loss of sleep.

  "Whenever a detective gets to digging around in people's lives," he said, "he finds skeletons."

  Mason nodded moodily and said, "Who is it this time, Paul?"

  "Hazel Fenwick," the detective said.

  The lawyer mot
ioned to Della Street to make notes.

  "What about her?" he asked. "Did you get anything out of those fingerprints?"

  "I'll say I did," the detective said. "I got ten perfect fingerprints, pulled a few wires to get the dope I wanted, and found out all about her."

  "Her prints are registered then?"

  "I'll say they are. She's suspected of being a female Bluebeard."

  "A what?"

  "A female Bluebeard."

  "All right, go ahead and spill it."

  "The police haven't anything very definite," the detective said, "but this woman marries men, the men then die, and she inherits the property."

  "How many men?" Mason asked.

  "I can't find out. The police aren't sure, but they've got some pretty strong suspicions. One of her husbands had arsenic in his stomach. They started an investigation. They exhumed another husband and found more arsenic. They arrested her, took her fingerprints, questioned her, and didn't find out anything. While they were collecting more data, some kindhearted friend slipped her a couple of saws. She sawed through the bars of the county jail, where she was being held, and disappeared."

  Mason gave a low whistle, and said, "Any living husbands?"

  "Yes. There's Stephen Chalmers. She married him and he walked out on her two days after the marriage. She didn't get a chance to feed him arsenic."

  "Does he know about her past record?" Mason asked.

  "No. I think he lied about his property when she married him. She found out the truth and there was quite a scene. Chalmers called her a gold digger and walked out. He hasn't seen her since."

  "Are you sure of the identification?" the lawyer asked.

  "Yes," Drake said. "I managed to copy the photograph from the back of Dick Basset's watch."

  "I didn't know there was any photograph," Mason said.

  "Neither do the police. Basset has the only photograph. He hasn't said a word about it."

  "How did you get it?"

  "Oh, I just figured he probably had one somewhere, so I picked his pocket, pried open the back of the watch, took a photograph of the photograph that was in it, and checked it with the police photographs on file in the Rogues, Gallery."

  "And Chalmers identified the photograph?"

  "Yeah, the one I'd stolen from Basset's watch. I didn't show him the police photographs because I didn't want him to know she had a record."

  Mason said slowly, "Look here, Paul; do you suppose you could get Chalmers to let me get him a divorce if it didn't cost him anything?"

  "Sure," Drake said. "But that might make him suspicious. He wants to get married again, anyway. Let him give you his note for a hundred bucks. He's a slicker and he'll beat you out of the note."

  Mason nodded slowly and said, "All right, send him in. Tell him you can fix it up."

  "But," the detective said, "what's the idea in getting the divorce?"

  "I'm going to make a buildup," Mason told him.

  "Build up to what?"

  Mason said slowly, "The hardest thing on earth to describe is a woman. Notice the description of Hazel Fenwick which the police have given to the newspapers—height five feet two, weight one hundred and thirteen, age twentyseven, complexion and eyes dark, last seen wearing a tailored brown suit with brown shoes and stockings."

  "Well?" Drake asked.

  "Darn few people ever saw this woman. She entered the picture mysteriously. Evidently Dick Basset courted her strictly on the quiet. The description is all anyone has to go by and that description would fit almost any darkhaired woman in the middle twenties."

  Drake, watching him narrowly, said, "So what?"

  Mason took Della Street's arm, piloted her to a corner, away from the detective, and said, in a whisper, "Go to an employment agency and find a young woman in the middle twenties, about five feet two, with dark hair and eyes, weight about one hundred thirteen, and who is hungry. If she's got a brown tailored suit, brown shoes and stockings, so much the better. If she hasn't, get her that kind of an outfit, and be damn sure she's hungry."

  "How hungry?" Della Street asked.

  "Hungry enough so she won't argue with cash."

  "Will she go to jail?" Della Street, inquired.

  "She may, but she won't stay there, and she'll be paid for it if she does. Wait a few minutes before you go, Della I've got a couple of other things."

  He walked back to the detective and said, "Paul, you stand pretty well with the newspaper boys, don't you?"

  "I think so. Why?"

  "Slip one of your newspaper friends fifty bucks," the lawyer said. "Get him to take photographs of everyone in Basset's house. Tell him to say that he wants the pictures for his newspaper. Do you think you can do that?"

  "Sure, it would be simple."

  "All right, now here's the catch in it. I want those pictures taken at a particular place."

  "What place?"

  "I want the subjects sitting in the chair that Basset was sitting in when he was killed. I want closeups that will show their facial expressions."

  "Why that particular place?" the detective asked.

  "That's a secret," Mason told him, grinning.

  "It's pretty dark there."

  "Not in the early morning," Mason said. "Have those pictures taken between nine and ten o'clock in the morning. Have the subjects facing that east window. Sunlight will be streaming in through that window."

  The detective pulled out a notebook. "Okay," he said. "There's Overton, the chauffeur, Colemar, the Brite woman, Dick Basset, and who else?"

  "Anyone else who had access to the house on the night of the murder."

  "Seated at the desk?"

  "Seated at the desk, facing the window."

  "You want closeups?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay," Drake said. "It sounds goofy, but I'll do it." The telephone rang, Della Street picked up the receiver and said, "Hello," and passed it quickly across to Perry Mason, saying in an undertone, "It's Harry McLane on the wire. He wants to talk with you personally."

  Mason waved Paul Drake through the door and said into the transmitter, "Yes, this is Mason talking."

  Harry McLane's voice was highpitched with excitement.

  "Listen," he said. "I've been a damned fool. I was used as a cat'spaw and didn't realize it until just now. Now I know what a fool I've been. I'm going to tell you the whole business and make a clean breast of the entire affair."

  "All right," Mason said, "come on in. I'll be waiting for you."

  "I can't come," McLane said. "I don't dare to."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm being watched."

  "Who's watching you?"

  "That's part of the story I'll have to tell you when I see you."

  "Well, when am I going to see you?" Mason asked.

  "You'll have to come to me. I don't dare to try and come to your office. I tell you, I'm being watched, and it would be as much as my life was worth to see you. Now, listen. I'm registered at the Maryland Hotel under the name of George Purdey. I'm in Room 904. Don't ask for me at the desk. Come in the hotel, go up the elevator and walk down the corridor. If there's anyone in the corridor, don't hesitate as you walk by my room. Just keep right on going as though you were looking for some other room. If there's no one in the corridor, twist the knob of the door and step in. I'll leave it open for you. Don't knock."

  "Listen," Mason said. "Tell me just one thing. Who was the accomplice? Who…?"

  "No," McLane said, "I won't tell you a damn thing over the telephone. I've told you too much now. If you want to come, come. If you don't, go to hell."

  The receiver made noise at the other end of the line as it was slammed on the hook.

  Perry Mason gently slipped the receiver back into position, glanced at Della Street and at Paul Drake.

  "I've got to go out," he said.

  "Can I reach you," his secretary asked, "if anything important should develop?"

  Mason hesitated a moment, then scribbled on a sheet of paper t
he words, "Maryland Hotel, Room 904, care George Purdey." He folded the paper, put it in an envelope, sealed the envelope and handed it to her.

  "If I don't call you within fifteen minutes," he said, "tear open that envelope. You, Paul, will then come for me at that address. And be certain to take a gun with you."

  He reached for his hat and started for the door of the office.

  Chapter 12

  Perry Mason slid his car in close to the curb a block and a half away from the Maryland Hotel. He sat at the steering wheel, smoking a cigarette, peering up and down the street for a matter of some fifteen or twenty seconds before he opened the door and got to the sidewalk.

  He did not walk directly to the hotel, but swung around the block, and approached the hotel from a side entrance.

  A clerk was on duty at the desk. Mason sauntered past him to the cigar counter, picked out a package of cigarettes, contemplated the cover of a magazine, drifted toward the elevators, and stepped into one of the cages just as the operator was on the point of closing the door.

  "Eleventh floor," he said.

  He got off at the eleventh, walked down two flights of steps to the ninth, and waited to make certain that the corridor was empty before he stepped from the stairway into the corridor. He strode purposefully to the door of 904, turned the knob without knocking, opened the door, stepped into the room, and pushed the door closed behind him.

  The shades were down in the room. Drawers had been pulled from the dresser. A suitcase had been opened, and the contents were strewn over the floor. The body of a man lay face down on the bed, the left arm dangling down to the floor, the head lolling at an angle, the right arm doubled up under the chest.

  Mason, taking care to touch nothing, tiptoed around the bed, dropped to his knees and leaned forward so that he could look up under the portion of the body which lay over the edge of the bed.

  He saw that the man's right hand clutched the hilt of a knife; that the knife had been buried in the heart. The twisted features were those of Harry McLane.

  Mason was warily watchful. He stepped back a couple of paces and cocked his head to one side, listening. He fished in his left waistcoat pocket with thumb and forefinger, pulled out one of the counterfeit eyes which Drake had had made. He polished the eye with his handkerchief so there would be no fingerprints on it, stepped to the side of the bed, bent forward and inserted the counterfeit eye between the loosely clutched fingers of McLane's left hand. He tiptoed to the door, polished the inner knob with his handkerchief, jerked open the door, stepped into the corridor, rubbed the outer knob hastily with his handkerchief, and let the door close behind him.