The Case of the Baited Hook

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  Mason said, “Della Street had a body to bury. Heard anything from her?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “An address?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Mason said, “Go down the hall to the rest-room, and then duck out to a telephone where you won’t be heard. Ring her and tell her to grab a portable typewriter and meet me at the St. Germaine Hotel just as soon as a taxicab can get her there. Got that straight?”

  Gertie said, “Well, I’ll do it just this once, but don’t think you can pull that line on me all the time. You’re always having cousins come in from the country that need to be entertained. What did you try to date me up for if you knew she was coming? . . . It’s getting so that every time I check back on you, you’re chasing around to night spots with some dizzy blonde, and she always turns out to be a cousin or a sister-in-law. If you ask me, you’ve got too much of a family—all blondes.”

  Mason chuckled and said into the telephone, “Well, you have to admit, Gertie, that it’s always a new one. You shouldn’t get peeved as long as I’m playing the field.”

  Mason heard a man’s voice at the other end of the line saying something to Gertie and then her voice in the transmitter saying, “Now you listen to me, Stew. Maybe this is on the level, and maybe it ain’t. I’m broadminded, but I’m getting fed up with this. Now you just give me a ring about five minutes to five, and if I don’t have to work tonight, I’m going to go right along and crab your party. If that gal ain’t your cousin, I’m going to get a nice double handful of blonde hair. . . . And don’t think you can kid me.”

  “All right, sweetheart,” Mason said, “good-by,” and distinctly heard a masculine voice say at the other end of the line, “You just let me talk with that boy friend of yours, sister. I want to get his address.”

  Mason slipped the receiver back onto the hook, stepped out to the curb, waited for a taxi, and gave the address of the St. Germaine Hotel.

  He had to wait ten minutes before Della Street put in an appearance.

  “Made it as fast as I could, Chief,” she said. “How serious is it?”

  “Plenty,” he said. “They’ve framed me.”

  “Who?”

  “Mattern.”

  “That shrimp!”

  “He’s worked up a good story,” Mason said.

  “By himself?”

  “No. Some lawyer concocted it, and Bolus is back of it. They’ve lost ten grand, but they still have forty thousand to fight for, and Bolus doesn’t intend to let that go without a struggle.”

  “Where do you come in on that?”

  “I’m the sheep,” he said, “that’s being led to the slaughter.”

  “What do we do here?”

  Mason said, “We pay our respects to a man by the name of Herkimer Smith, who’s registered as being from Shreveport, Louisiana, and we don’t let him know we’re coming.”

  “Okay. You want to find out his room?”

  “Yes.”

  Della Street extended her hand. “Gimme.”

  Mason gave her a dime, and she walked over to the telephone booth. Mason stood by the open door while she dialed the number of the hotel switchboard and said to the operator, “This is the Credit Department of the Ville de Paris. We have a C.O.D. to send to your hotel to a Mr. Herkimer Smith of Shreveport, Louisiana. It’s a C.O.D. so all we’re interested in is checking on the registration. . . . If you will, please.”

  After a moment, she said, “Thank you,” hung up the receiver, and said, “Okay, Chief. He’s in 409.”

  Mason touched Della Street’s arm, signaling for her to leave the telephone booth. He pulled another coin from his pocket and dialed the number of the Drake Detective Agency. “Mason talking,” he said. “I want an operative who looks tough and is tough. I want him in a hurry. Send him to the St. Germaine Hotel. Have him go up to Room 409 and walk in without knocking. I’ll be there. Have him hold up two fingers so I’ll know he’s your man. He isn’t to say anything until I give him the lead. Got that?”

  He received an okay from Drake’s secretary, hung up the telephone, and said to Della Street, “Let’s go.”

  They walked silently to the elevator, went to the fourth floor, and Mason stood for a moment getting the run of the numbers on the doors before piloting Della Street down the corridor to the right. They paused in front of Room 409, and Mason knocked.

  The thin, reedy voice of Arthmont A. Freel, from the other side of the door, asked in high-pitched nervousness, “Who is it?”

  Della Street said sweetly, “Chambermaid with towels.”

  The door was unlocked from the inside. Mason placed his shoulder against it. As Freel turned the knob, Mason pushed the door back. He and Della Street entered the room, to confront the frightened eyes of Freel.

  Mason said, “Hello, sucker. How does it feel to be elected to the gas chamber? See if there’s anyone in the bathroom, Della. Go over by that table and sit down when you’ve looked.”

  Mason walked over to the closet, jerked the door open and looked inside. He carefully closed the door of the hotel bedroom, walked over to a comfortable chair, and sat down. Della Street completed her inspection of the bathroom, and drew up a chair to the wicker table near the window. She calmly set up her portable typewriter and fed two sheets of plain paper, sandwiched with a sheet of carbon paper, into the machine. Having done that, she sat back with her hands folded in her lap.

  Freel stared at her uneasily for a moment, then shifted his eyes to the lawyer.

  “Well,” Mason said, “I’m sorry they made you the goat. Personally, I don’t think you’re guilty, but you always were a sucker. You were half-smart, and you stuck your neck out just far enough so they could hang the murder rap on it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Freel demanded.

  Mason selected a cigarette, tapped it gently on the edge of the cigarette case, snapped a match into flame, lit up, and sucked in a deep, appreciative drag on the cigarette.

  “It really is too bad, Freel. You never were one to understand the fine points of the game.” Mason paused to inhale another deep drag of smoke, shook his head mournfully, and added, “Too bad.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Freel said.

  “I’ll say you don’t,” Mason said with a chuckle. “You don’t know what anyone’s talking about. That’s the trouble with you, Freel. You sit in on a game you don’t understand, and when someone tells you to stick your chips in the center of the table, you shove in the whole stack. . . . Now it’s just too bad.”

  “You can’t rattle me,” Freel said. “You did it once, but you can’t do it again.”

  Mason said, “You’ll pardon me if I take a rather detached interest in the thing from the standpoint of legal technique. Personally, I think some shrewd lawyer figured the play.”

  “You’re crazy,” Freel said.

  Mason smiled. “Don’t say it so scornfully, Freel. Within thirty days, your only defense will be insanity. You’ll have a bunch of doctors calling on you, and you’ll be sweating blood, trying to make them think you’re crazy. So don’t mention insanity so lightly.

  “You see, Freel, there are a flock of alibis in this case. Some of them are nice alibis. The alibis stay put, but the time of the murder doesn’t: it keeps jumping around.

  “Now you’re a nice little guy, but you have too much of an appetite—for money. You’re money hungry, money crazy. You’re getting along in years and you can’t get jobs now—not the clerical jobs you’re fitted to handle. That bothered you. You wanted money so you could have security. That’s a laugh, Freel. Security—for you!”

  Freel started twisting his fingers, worried eyes regarding Mason apprehensively, but he said nothing.

  Mason smoked leisurely, regarding Freel as one might look at an interesting specimen in an aquarium. Over at the table, Della Street sat motionless, keeping herself in the background, effacing her presence from Freel’s consciousness.

  “So,” Mason said, “you
were offered money to swear that you’d seen the murder committed. You were told that Peltham was dead, that he could never deny your accusation. And so you agreed to take the money and swear that you’d seen Peltham, and seen him fire the shot. What you overlooked was the fact that the murderer never had any intention of really pinning that crime on Peltham. You haven’t got it yet, Freel. You probably won’t get it for about a week. But you’ve been elected to a reserved seat in the state’s lethal gas chamber, and it’s been done so nicely that the operation will be virtually painless.

  “For about a week you’ll be the state’s star witness, then Peltham will show up with his alibi, and there you’ll be—right out in the open with your neck stuck way, way out. The district attorney will come down on you like a ton of brick.”

  “Peltham’s dead,” Freel said sullenly.

  Mason laughed and said, “You think he’s dead. That overcoat business was a gag. He was playing that in order to cover his escape. A woman he was sweet on was due to be put on the spot in connection with that murder, and he didn’t want to be examined. He took a powder so he wouldn’t have to testify concerning his relations with her. That’s all.”

  Freel squirmed uneasily. “I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

  Mason said, “Oh, yes, you have. You’ve made your crack to the D.A., and he’s given the newspapermen an interview on the strength of it. The D.A. isn’t going to back up on a thing like that.”

  “You’re stringing me again,” Freel said.

  “Think so?” Mason asked. “Well, think again. Get this, you poor dumb dope, and let it sink into that thick skull of yours. Albert Tidings was killed while he was sitting in his automobile sometime after it started to rain Monday night. He didn’t die instantly. He was found unconscious in his machine shortly after eleven o’clock. He was taken to Mrs. Tidings’ house, put into bed, and died almost instantly. There was a thirty-two caliber revolver in his hip pocket. He hadn’t fired that gun. Apparently, he’d made no effort to pull it. There was fresh lipstick on the handkerchief in his overcoat pocket.

  “Tidings had learned about Peltham and his wife. If Peltham had approached the automobile in which Tidings was seated, Tidings would have pulled his gun. There wouldn’t have been any lipstick on his handkerchief. If you’ll just get the cobwebs out of your brain and try to concentrate for a minute on that lipstick, you’ll find out a lot. Who kissed him, his wife? She hated him. No, Freel, there was only one woman whom he would have kissed who would have kissed him. He kissed that woman and then got shot. Figure it out for yourself.”

  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 fingers 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.

  15.

  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 w
asn’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.”