The Case of the Counterfeit Eye

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.

Mason walked swiftly to the stairs, climbed the two flights to the eleventh floor, rang for the elevator, and was whisked down to the lobby. He entered a telephone booth, called his office and said, "Okay, Della, burn that envelope."

He left the hotel, walked through an alley to the street where he had left his car, and stood concealed in the alleyway, looking up and down the street.

He spotted a police car, which was parked at the curb some fifty feet behind his own car. Two men sat in the police car, slouched down in the seat, as though they were prepared for a long wait.

They were watching Mason's car.

The lawyer narrowed his eyes in thoughtful scrutiny and stepped back into the alley. As he stood there, another car swung around the corner and slid to a stop directly opposite the police car. Sergeant Holcomb, of the Homicide Squad, leaped out from the driver's seat and conversed in low tones with the two men in the car.

Perry Mason abruptly turned and retraced his steps down the alley to the next street. He walked with quick steps to the hotel, entered the hotel, crossed to the clerk's desk, and said, "I'm not anxious to have the information broadcast, but I'm looking for a chap by the name of Harry McLane. I've got a tip that he's here in the hotel some place. Have you a McLane registered?"

The clerk looked through the register, and shook his head.

"Funny," Mason said slowly. "I was told he'd be here. My name's Perry Mason. I m going into the diningroom and get something to eat. If he should register, please have me paged. But don't tell him that I'm looking for him."

He stepped into the diningroom and ordered a sandwich and a bottle of beer. When the sandwich was brought to him, he accepted the check, and insisted on tipping the waitress a halfdollar. He ate the sandwich leisurely, drank the bottle of beer, sauntered to the door of the diningroom and stood there looking into the lobby.

Sergeant Holcomb was standing in a corner of the lobby behind a potted palm.

Mason stepped back into the diningroom and walked directly to the public telephone near the cashier's desk. He dropped a nickel and asked for police headquarters.

"I want to speak to Sergeant Holcomb," he said.

"Sergeant Holcomb isn't in."

"Is there anyone who can take a message for him?"

"What about?"

"About some developments in connection with a case I'm working on."

"Who is this talking?"

"Perry Mason, the lawyer."

"What's the message?"

"Ask him to come to the Maryland Hotel as soon as he gets in. Tell him I'm waiting for him there."

He hung up the receiver.

He dropped another nickel and called the district attorney's office.

"Perry Mason, the lawyer," he said. "I want to talk to Hamilton Burger on a matter of considerable importance… No, I won't talk with anyone else. I want to talk with Mr. Burger personally. Tell him Mr. Mason is on the line."

After a few seconds he heard Burger's voice, calm, suave, yet wary.

"What is it, Mason?"

"I'm down at the Maryland Hotel, Burger. I was told to come here by someone who gave me a tip over the telephone and wouldn't leave his name. I was told that Harry McLane was here, and was ready to talk. I've inquired at the desk, and McLane isn't registered here. I have an idea he may be coming in almost any minute. The voice of my informant sounded as though he knew what he was talking about.

"Now, McLane worked for Basset. It, incidentally, happens that he's a client of mine on another matter…"

"Yes," Burger said, "I know all about that matter, Mason. You don't need to explain it."

"That simplifies things," Mason said. "You can appreciate the fact that McLane might give some important information if he wanted to."

"'If he wanted to' is good," the district attorney said. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm in rather a peculiar position in this thing," Mason explained. "In a way, I'm acting as attorney for McLane. Therefore, if he's going to talk, I'd like to have some representative of your office here when he talks. I've called Sergeant Holcomb at the Homicide Squad, but can't get him."

There was a moment of silence. Then Burger said, "You're at the Maryland Hotel now?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been there?"

"Oh, quite a little while. I waited around for McLane, and he didn't show up. I had a meal in the diningroom and put in a call for Sergeant Holcomb."

"Well," Burger said slowly. "I'll send a man down, if you think it isn't a wildgoose chase. But understand one thing—from the minute my man arrives, my office is going to be in charge."

"Okay by me," Mason said.

"Thank you for calling," Burger said, and hung up.

Mason slipped the receiver back into place, lit a cigarette, opened the door from the diningroom and walked into the lobby, taking care not to look in the direction of the corner where Sergeant Holcomb was standing, one foot on the rim of the tub which held the potted palm, his elbow resting on his bent knee, a cigarette between his fingers.

Mason walked to the desk and said, "McLane hasn't registered yet?"

"No."

Mason took a chair, sprawled out his legs, made himself comfortable and puffed placidly on his cigarette.

When the cigarette was threequarters finished, he went to the desk again and said, "Say, I hate to keep bothering you, but this man McLane may have registered under another name. He's a young fellow about twentyfour or twentyfive, with celluloidrimmed glasses. He has a few pimples on his face, dresses well, has light reddish hair, and freckles on the backs of his hands. I'm wondering if…"

The clerk said, "Just a minute. I'll get the house detective."

He pressed a button, and, a moment later, a paunchy man with hard, intolerant eyes stepped from an office and looked Mason over in uncordial appraisal.

"This is Mr. Muldoon, our house officer," the clerk said.

"I'm looking for a man whose real name is Harry McLane," Mason said, "but who may have registered under another name. He's about twentyfour or twentyfive, with a mottled complexion. He has light reddish hair and freckles on the backs of his hands. He's slender, welldressed. The last time I saw him, he had on a dark blue suit; with a white stripe, and he wore a very light gray hat. I'm wondering if you'd remember him."

"What do you want him for?"

"I want to talk with him."

"But you don't know what name he's registered under?"

"No."

"How do you know he's here?"

"I was advised that he's here."

"Who advised you?"

"Really," Mason said, "I don't know as that's any of your business."

"You've got a crust," Muldoon told him, "coming in here and insinuating to me that one of our guests is a crook."

"I didn't insinuate any such thing."

"You insinuated he was registered under another name."

"A man might do that for lots of reasons."

"Well, suppose you come clean," the house detective said. "You're holding something back. Who are you? Why do you want…?"

There was the sound of steps behind them. Muldoon looked up, stared for a moment with surprise, then let his lips break away from his teeth in a grin.

"Sergeant Holcomb!" he said. "I ain't seen you for a month of Sundays."

Perry Mason whirled with a quick start of feigned surprise.

"I've been trying to call you," he said.

"From where?" asked Sergeant Holcomb.

"From here—from the hotel."

"What did you want with me?"

"I wanted to tell you about a tip that was given me, a tip that I think is hot."

"What was it?"

"That Harry McLane was at this hotel, and he wanted to talk."

"Well, have you seen him?"

"They say he isn't registered here."

"What's the excitement about with the house dick?"

"He described a guy," Muldoon said, "and wanted to find out if he was here in the hotel, registered under another name."

Sergeant Holcomb's eyes stared steadily at Muldoon.

"Is he?"

"Yes, I think so."

"What's the name?"

"George Purdey. He's in 904. He came in about an hour and a half ago. He looked phoney, which is why I spotted him."

Sergeant Holcomb turned to Perry Mason.

"How long have you been here, Mason?"

"Quite a little while," Mason said.

"What have you been doing?"

"Been waiting for McLane to show up. I thought I'd got here ahead of him. I was told he was going to register at this hotel, and that he'd be willing to talk."

"You said you were calling me?"

"Yes, I wanted to have some officer present when he talked—that is, if he was going to talk."

"What was he going to talk about?"

"Something about that Basset case. I don't know just what it was."

"Listen," Sergeant Holcomb said. "You can't fool me a damn bit. You didn't call me and you never intended to call me. You've been here over half an hour. What have you been doing?"

"I was in the diningroom."

"Getting something to eat, I suppose, because it just happened you were too hungry to wait."

Mason looked appealingly at the clerk.

"That's right, sir," the clerk said. "He said he was going into the diningroom."

"Where this bird says he's going, and where he goes, aren't always the same things," Sergeant Holcomb remarked. He took Mason's arm, and pushed him toward the diningroom.

"Come on, buddy," he said. "If you can pick out the girl that waited on you, I'm going to give you a written apology."

Mason stood in the doorway, looking uncertainly.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't do it, Sergeant. You know I seldom pay attention to waitresses. I know it was a young woman in a blue uniform."

Sergeant Holcomb laughed sneeringly.

"They all have on blue uniforms," he said. "It's just like I thought, Mason. You can't get away with it."

"Wait a minute," the lawyer said. "That girl over there looks familiar."

Sergeant Holcomb beckoned to her with his linger.

"You wait on this man a few minutes ago?" he asked.

She shook her head.

Sergeant Holcomb sneered.

The waitress who had brought Mason his sandwich and beer came forward.

"I'm the one that waited on him," she said.

Mason's face suddenly lit with recognition.

"That's right," he said. "You are. I'm sorry but I didn't remember you very clearly. You see, I was rather preoccupied at the time."

"Well, I remember you all right," she said. "You gave me a fiftycent tip for a sandwich and beer order. I don't get fiftycent tips with sandwich and beer orders often enough to forget the people who gave them to me."

Sergeant Holcomb's face was a study in surprised consternation.

The cashier, who had overheard the conversation said, "Why, I remember this gentleman. He paid his check and then stood at the telephone by the desk making a couple of calls."

"Who'd he call?" Holcomb asked.

"A Sergeant Holcomb at police headquarters, and then the district attorney's office. I thought he was a detective and I listened to the conversation."

"The district attorney's office!" Holcomb said.

"Why, yes," the cashier told him. "He called the district attorney when he couldn't get Sergeant Holcomb. He asked the district attorney to send a man over to be with him when he interviewed a chap by the name of McLane, who was a witness to something or other."

Sergeant Holcomb said slowly, "Well—I'll—be—damned!"

"What do we do now?" Mason inquired. "Do we talk with Harry McLane?"

"I talk with Harry McLane," Sergeant Holcomb said. "You wait in the corridor."

Holcomb pushed Mason toward the elevator.

"Ninth floor," he said.

They reached the ninth floor and Mason, hastily stepping from the elevator, started to walk in the wrong direction, then, glancing at the numbers on the rooms, caught himself, turned and walked down the corridor toward 904. Sergeant Holcomb caught Mason's sleeve and pulled him back.

"I'll be the one who makes the contact," he said. "You keep back of me."

He stood in front of the door of 904 and knocked gently. When there was no answer, he knocked again, then turned the knob of the door and opened it. He stepped inside the room and said over his shoulder to Perry Mason, "You wait there."

The door closed.

Mason stood motionless.

Abruptly the door opened. Sergeant Holcomb's white, excited face stared at Perry Mason.

"Is he going to talk?" the lawyer inquired.

"No," Sergeant Holcomb said grimly, "he's not going to talk. Now you're a busy man, Mason. Suppose you go right back to your law office. I'll attend to things here."

"But," Mason said, "I want to see McLane."

A spasm of impatience registered on Sergeant Holcomb's face.

"You," he said, "get the hell out of here before I get rough about it. This is one investigation I'm going to make before your masterly touch manipulates the evidence and spirits away the witness."

"Has something happened?" Mason asked, standing his ground.

"It will happen if you don't beat it," Sergeant Holcomb said.

Mason turned with dignity and said, "The next time I try to give you a tip you'll not know it."

Sergeant Holcomb said nothing but stepped back into the room and closed and locked the door.

Mason went directly to his car, drove to his office, pushed his way into Della Street's office and said, "Listen, Della, we've got to work fast…"

He broke off as a figure stirred in the shadows. Pete Brunold, grinning, got up from his chair and extended a hand to Perry Mason.

"Congratulations," he said.

Sheer surprise held Mason motionless.

"You!" he remarked. "What the devil are you doing out of jail?"

"They turned me loose."

"Who did?"

"The cops—Sergeant Holcomb."

"When?"

"About an hour and a half ago. I thought you knew about it. You got a writ of habeas corpus. They didn't want to make a charge against me just yet, so they turned me loose."

"Where's Sylvia Basset?"

"I don't know. I think she's in the district attorney's office. They're questioning her."

Mason said slowly, "Probably the worst break you ever got in your life was when they turned you loose. You get out of here. Go to a hotel, register under your name, telephone the district attorney, and tell him that you're there."

"But why," Brunold asked, "should I telephone the district attorney? He doesn't…"

"Because I told you to," Mason interrupted savagely. "Damn it. Do what I tell you to. Seconds are precious—minutes might be fatal. Get started! I thought you were safely in jail, and any minute now…"

The door pushed open. Two men entered without knocking. One of them looked at Brunold and jerked his head significantly toward the door.

"Okay, buddy," he said. "Get started."

"Where?" Brunold asked.

"We're from the D.A.'s office," the man said. "The Chief wants to see you right now and it'll take more than a writ of habeas corpus to spring you this time. Your friend, Mrs. Basset, spilled some information to the D.A. We've got a warrant for you and she's already been arrested."

"What's the charge?" Mason asked.

"Murder," the man said grimly.

Mason said, "Brunold, don't answer any questions. Don't tell them…"

"Hooey!" one of the men said, grabbing Brunold's arm and pushing him toward the door. "He'll answer questions about where he spent his time during the last hour and a half or he'll have two murder charges against him."

"Two?" Brunold asked.

"Yeah," the man said. "Every time you get out of jail there's an epidemic of dead guys holding glass eyes in their hands. Come on, let's get started."

The door slammed shut behind them.

Della Street glanced inquiringly at Perry Mason.

Mason crossed the office in swift strides, jerked open the door of the safe, and took out the pasteboard box containing the bloodshot glass eyes. He crossed to the coat closet and took out an iron mortar and pestle. One by one, he dropped the glass eyes into the mortar and pounded them to fine dust.

"Della," he said, "see that I'm not disturbed."