The Case of the Baited Hook

by Erle Stanley Gardner

“Of course, when I learned of Tidings’ murder, I thought at once that that must be it. But I was employed on Monday night. The murder apparently hadn’t been committed until Tuesday. Then I started checking up on clues, and everything that I found indicated Tidings died on Monday night. . . . And my best guess is that it was before midnight on Monday.”

  “I still don’t see why your move isn’t to try to force a confession out of the secretary,” Drake said, “—if you’re certain your client was a woman.”

  Mason said, “Because I’m not certain the secretary murdered him.”

  “Good Lord, Perry! If he’s lying about Tidings’ having been in the office, and if he impersonated Tidings over the telephone in talking with you . . .”

  “It doesn’t prove a damn thing,” Mason interposed, “except that the secretary had some very definite reason for not wanting anyone to know that Tidings wasn’t there in the office. Suppose, for some reason, it was vital to have it appear Tidings was sitting in his office on Tuesday morning. The secretary did the best he could to create the impression Tidings was there. Then Tidings’ body was found, and the indications pointed to the time of death as Monday night—little things which wouldn’t be significant to a stranger, but which caused the secretary to realize what he was up against.

  “You can see what a fix the secretary was in. He didn’t dare to back up and reverse his previous statements, because that would put him in an awful jam. He simply had to go ahead and bluff the thing through.

  “Now then, Paul, suppose the secretary isn’t guilty of murder, but merely used a subterfuge to make it appear Tidings was in the office on Tuesday morning. Then suppose I rush in, browbeat Tidings’ secretary with a lot of facts, force him to confess. He confesses that he was lying about Tidings, but advances some logical reason for the lie. Thereupon, the police come down on my client and charge her with murder. My officious interference has wiped out the only defense she could possibly make in front of a jury.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An alibi for Tuesday morning and for Tuesday afternoon and evening.”

  “What makes you think she has such an alibi?”

  “Because,” Mason said, “the shoes and the counterpane were missing.”

  “Talk sense, Perry.”

  “I am talking sense. Don’t you see, Paul? The only reason for taking the man’s shoes from his feet and the counterpane from the bed was to conceal the fact that it was raining when Tidings entered that house. That means that this person knew that that particular location would be the last place on earth where anyone would think to look for Tidings. It means that the person who did it knew that Mrs. Tidings wasn’t in the city and didn’t expect to return for several days. The only logical solution is that this person must have left my office Monday night, and then started building an alibi . . . This looks like the party we want, Paul.”

  Drake glanced swiftly at the young woman who was standing in the door of the beauty shop drawing on dark gloves.

  “Looks like it,” he said. “The operative didn’t miss it far. She could get my vote for Miss America any time.”

  Drake shifted his eyes to Mason’s face as the lawyer remained watchfully silent. “What’s the matter, Perry?” he asked.

  Mason said, “I would have bet ten to one that she would be a woman I’d seen before. I didn’t expect to find a stranger.”

  “She’s the one we want all right,” Drake told him. “The operative in the car ahead is giving us the high sign.”

  Mason lowered his head so that his hat brim shielded a portion of his face. “Keep your eye on her, Paul,” he said. “She may know me when she sees me. Tell me what she’s doing.”

  “Finishing drawing on her gloves,” Drake said. “There she is out on the sidewalk. . . . Just a curious and flickering glance at the operative in the car ahead. . . . Seems to have passed us up entirely. . . . Okay, Perry. She’s on her way. Want to tag along?”

  “Yes,” Mason said. “And get this, Paul. . . . Look up that secretary, Mattern. Find out all you can about him. Investigate particularly whether there’s any connection between Mattern and a guy named Bolus who’s the president of the Western Prospecting Company. I’m on my way.”

  Mason stepped to the sidewalk, sauntered casually over to the inner lane of traffic, and moved quietly along behind the young woman.

  She was walking with a brisk step, but her gait was not sufficiently hurried to destroy the easy swing of perfectly co-ordinating muscles. Her hips moved in graceful rhythm as she strode easily but rapidly, very apparently headed toward some definite objective.

  Mason followed her to a drgustore where she went into a telephone booth and remained long enough to dial a number and engage in swiftly rapid conversation with some unknown party. She hung up, swept past the counter where Mason was buying a toothbrush, and again reached the sidewalk. Once more, she flashed a quick glance at the car which the operative was driving, but it was no more than a mere flicker of the eyes.

  Out in the street, she seemed to lose much of her former haste. Her step became more leisurely. Twice she paused to look in at store windows. The second time she seemed to tear herself reluctantly away from the inspection of a black velvet dinner dress, which was draped on a model in the window. She walked half a dozen steps, then abruptly turned to come back and once more study the dress, giving Mason an opportunity, after an uncomfortable second or two, to wander past, noticing as he did so, that her eyes were only interested in the department store window.

  Mason stepped into the doorway of the department store and waited for her to walk past.

  Instead she marched swiftly through the doorway, and mingled with the crowd which was moving slowly through the aisles. She branched off toward the elevators, then abruptly turned, walked around a staircase, back to the ready-to-wear department, and out of the door to another street.

  Mason, following behind, was entirely unprepared when she suddenly stopped. He was faced with the necessity of making himself conspicuous by also stopping or else trying to saunter casually past. He decided to keep moving.

  A well-modulated voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Mason. Was there something you wished to say to me?”

  Mason raised his hat, and looked into intense black eyes in which there was just a twinkle of mocking humor.

  “I don’t think I know you,” he said.

  She laughed up into his face. “That’s the line a woman falls back on when she’s trying to make up her mind whether to fall for a pick-up,” she said. “Surely the great Perry Mason should be expected to do better than that! Why are you following me?”

  “Just my appreciation of the beautiful.”

  “Don’t be silly. . . . Come along. If you want to tag me around, there’s no reason why you should walk along behind me.”

  She tucked her arm through his, smiled up at him, and said, “There. That’s better. I was going to turn to the left. I presume that means you were also going to turn to the left.”

  He nodded.

  “Did you,” she asked, “notice the two cars that were also following me?”

  “Two?” Mason asked.

  “Well,” she admitted, “one of them I’m certain of. The other, I’m not positive about.”

  “You seem to be rather popular,” Mason said.

  “Apparently, I am.”

  “Really, I don’t recall having met you.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I’ve seen your picture dozens of times, and had you pointed out to me in nightclubs. You probably don’t realize it, Mr. Mason, but you’re something of a popular idol here in the city—definitely more than a celebrity.”

  “I’m flattered,” Mason murmured.

  She looked up at his profile, and said, “My, I’d certainly hate to have you cross-examine me.”

  “And I,” Mason said, “would hate to have to crossexamine you. Anyone who can avoid questions as well as you would make a deadly witness.”

  “Why? What question was I avoidin
g?”

  “You haven’t told me your name—as yet.”

  She laughed and said, “That’s right. I haven’t. I’m not even certain that I will, Mr. Mason. . . . Rather clever, those detectives, aren’t they?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “One of them evidently stayed at the entrance where I went in. The other’s circling the block. Here he comes now. Shall we try to ditch him, or string him along?”

  Mason said, “Oh, let’s string him along. They’re getting paid by the day, and we may as well give him a break. I hope my entering into the picture doesn’t cause complications.”

  “Why? Why should it?”

  “Oh,” he said, “you don’t know to whom they’re reporting, and, of course, they don’t know why I was following you. As a result, their reports will read, ‘Shortly after subject left beauty parlor, Perry Mason started to follow. After observing that coast was apparently clear, Mason contacted subject, and they departed arm in arm, talking earnestly.’ ”

  She frowned and said, “That would complicate things. I wouldn’t want—well, you know. It looks rather peculiar when you mention it that way.”

  “That’s undoubtedly the way a detective would write it up in his report,” Mason said.

  “Were you following me all the way from the beauty parlor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t spot you until the drugstore,” she said. “What do you want with me?”

  “I’d like to know who you are,” Mason said.

  “Suppose I don’t tell you?”

  “Then it will probably take me all of half an hour to find out.”

  She said, “Don’t be silly, Mr. Mason. There are a dozen ways I could ditch you.”

  Mason said, “You wouldn’t stoop so low as to try the rest-room trick on me, would you? That’s hardly sporting.”

  “Good heavens, no!” she said. “It’s so obvious. . . . And then I’m not entirely certain about you. I’m not even certain you’d stop at the rest-room door. You look as though you’d call any ordinary bet—perhaps raise it. You’re capable of it.”

  “Well then, why not be a good scout and tell me.”

  “Because that’s the one thing I don’t want you to know. I’m not quite ready for you to know.”

  “When will you be ready?”

  “When I know why you were following and what led you to me in the first place. I also want to know whether you know anything about those detectives who were trailing me in the automobiles. In other words, Mr. Mason, I seem to have achieved a very sudden and flattering popularity. To be shadowed by one detective is bad enough. To have two detectives on the job is disconcerting, and then to look back and see the city’s most famous attorney taking an unusual interest in my activities is enough to run my pulse up in the hundreds.”

  “Are you,” Mason asked, “going to tell me who you are?”

  She turned then to face him. “No,” she said, “and I’m not going to let you follow me. I’m warning you, Mr. Mason, that I want very much to be left alone. . . . Now then, suppose we shake hands and part friends. I’ll stand here and watch you walk down that street. When you’re a block away, I’ll resume my afternoon shopping.”

  Mason shook his head. “Having gone to all this trouble to find you,” he said, “I don’t intend to let you escape so easily.”

  “Then they’re your detectives!”

  Mason said nothing.

  She tilted her head defiantly. “Very well,” she said. “You brought this on yourself.”

  “Do we have to declare war?” Mason asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “unless you retreat.”

  “Answer four or five questions,” Mason said, “and I’ll sue for an armistice.”

  “No.”

  “All right,” he said, “it’s war then.”

  They had been swinging along the sidewalk as they talked, apparently a couple gaily chatting with each other. Only a close observer would have noticed the dogged determination on the lawyer’s face and the nervous uneasiness in the girl’s manner.

  A signal changed. The crossing officer turned with the approaching stream of pedestrians, walking quietly to stand at watchful attention near the edge of the crossing, his eye shrewdly appraising the automobile traffic, alert to detect the first symptoms of a prohibited left-hand turn.

  Abruptly the young woman at Mason’s side pushed him away violently and called out, “Officer! This man is annoying me! He . . .”

  Moving with lightning swiftness and before the officer could turn to get them in his field of vision, Mason snatched the purse from under her arm.

  Speechless with surprise and indignation, she whirled to stare at him with startled eyes. Mason raised his hat and said, “I’m only trying to return the purse, Madam.”

  The officer pushed toward them. “What’s all this? What’s all this?” he asked.

  “He’s annoying me,” the young woman said. “He grabbed . . .”

  Mason smiled. “A young woman left her purse on the counter in the drugstore,” he explained to the officer. “I believe the purse belongs to this young woman, but I won’t give it up until she can identify it. That’s only reasonable, isn’t it? Here, you can take it if you want.”

  Mason calmly opened the purse and said, “You can see for yourself, officer. There’s . . .”

  She jumped toward Mason, grabbing frantically at the purse. “Don’t you dare . . .”

  Mason turned so as to present one of his broad shoulders to her rushing attack. He pulled a leather folder from her purse, opened it to glance quickly at her driving license, and said, “You can see for yourself, officer. The name and address of the owner of the purse are here on this driving license. All she has to do is give me her name, and I’ll surrender the purse.”

  There were quick tears of humiliation and indignation in her eyes.

  The officer said, “Say, buddy. You’re acting kinda funny about this.”

  “I fail to see anything strange about it,” Mason said with dignity. “Permit me to introduce myself, officer. I’m Perry Mason, the attorney. I . . .”

  “Say,” the officer exclaimed, “you are for a fact! Pardon me, Mr. Mason. I didn’t recognize you. I’ve seen you in court some, and seen your picture in the papers a lot.”

  Mason bowed and smiled acknowledgment, then said to the young woman, in his most conciliatory manner, “You can appreciate my position. I think this is your purse. I certainly can’t turn it over to you unless you can at least identify it.”

  “Oh, very well,” she said. “The name on the driving license is Adelle Hastings. The address is 906 Cleveland Square. There’s even a fingerprint of my thumb on the driving license in case you want any further identification.”

  Mason said, “It’s quite all right, Miss Hastings. I’m satisfied it’s your purse. That’s the name and address on the driving license.”

  The officer looked past them to the curious onlookers who had stopped to listen. “On your way,” he growled. “This is an intersection, not a club-room. Keep moving. Don’t be blocking the traffic.”

  Mason raised his hat, bowed to the officer, and said to Adelle Hastings, “Are you going my way, Miss Hastings?”

  She blinked back the tears. “Yes,” she said, and then added after a moment, “I am now,” and fell into step at his side.

  Mason said, “I was sorry I didn’t have an opportunity to make a more detailed investigation of your coin purse.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I thought I might find a torn bill in there.”

  “A torn bill?” she asked, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

  “Well, at least one that had been cut along the edges.”

  She said, with quick vehemence, “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about, Mr. Mason.”

  “Well,” he said, “we can discuss that later. Why didn’t you want me to know who you were?”

  “For various reasons.”


  “Can you tell me what they are?”

  “I can, but I won’t.”

  “Don’t you think it might be well for you to be frank with me?”

  “No.”

  “You’re the one who insisted on the investigation which disclosed the shortage in the hospital trust fund?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know Tidings had been embezzling funds?”

  “I simply asked for an investigation,” she said. “I made no charges.”

  “The question still stands,” Mason said.

  “So does the answer,” she retorted.

  Mason said, “Well, we’ll try it from another angle. I’m very anxious to talk with a certain architect. Of course, I can wait until tomorrow and read the answer to my ad in the Contractor’s Journal, but I thought it would simplify matters if you told me what Mr. Peltham had said.”

  She stood stock-still, and Mason, looking at her, saw that her face was drained of color. The eyes were dark with panic. Her lips quivered. She tried twice to speak before she managed to say, “Oh,” in a choking voice that was half a sob. Then after a moment, she said again, “Oh, my God!”

  Mason said, “No need to be so upset, Miss Hastings. Just tell me what he said.”

  She clutched his arm then, and he could feel the tips of her fingers digging into his flesh. “No, no,” she cried. “No, no! You mustn’t ever, ever let anyone know about that. . . . Oh, I should have known you’d trap me!”

  Mason patted her shoulder. Noticing the curious glances of several pedestrians, he piloted her toward a doorway. “Take it easy,” he said. “Perhaps there’s some place we can talk. . . . Here’s a cocktail lounge. Let’s go in.”

  She permitted him to pilot her into the cocktail lounge, and seated herself as though glad to relieve the strain of her weight on wobbling knees.

  “How did you know that?” she asked, as Mason seated himself on the other side of the little table.

  A white-coated waiter appeared, and Mason raised his eyebrows at Adelle Hastings.

  “A double brandy,” she said.

  “Make it two,” Mason ordered, and, when the waiter had withdrawn, Mason said in a kindly voice, “You should have known you couldn’t get away with it.”