The Case of the Baited Hook

Chapter 4

Mason shifted into second at the foot of the grade. The road wound upward, twisting and turning around the steep sides of typical Southern California mountains. The subdivision was relatively new, and there were many vacant lots, some marked with a red placard bearing the word, SOLD. Here and there were scattered bungalows, obviously new. Up nearer the top of the grade, where a ridge offered more level building sites, half a dozen small homes were clustered.

“It’ll be one of those,” Drake said.

Mason looked at the house numbers and said, “Probably the last one in the row… Yes, here it is.”

The bungalow faced to the south and east. Above it, on the west, towered the slopes of the hill, covered with a thick growth of chaparral. Below, to the east, the city stretched in glistening brilliance, the white buildings reflecting the brilliant sunlight, spotless gems of intense white below the red patches of tiled roofs.

Mason looked the place over before he went up to ring the bell. It was within two hundred feet of the end of the subdivision, and, just beyond the house, the road, taking advantage of the little bench on the hillside, terminated in a big circle where cars could be turned around. The sunlight was warm and the air balmy. The sky was a blue, cloudless vault. Of to the far northeast mountain crests sparkled, a white coating of snow suspended above the pastel blues of distant slopes.

Mason said, “Curtains drawn tight. Doesn’t look as though anyone’s home.”

“If he’s here,” Drake said, “it’s a hide-out.”

Mason led the way up the short stretch of cement walk to the porch, and pressed his thumb against the bell button. They could hear the ringing of a bell on the inside of the house, but there was no answering sound of motion. There was about the place that dead silence indicative of an untenanted house.

“Might try the back door,” Drake suggested.

Mason shook his head, pressed his thumb against the button once more, and said, “Well, I guess… Wait a minute, Paul. What’s this?”

Drake followed the direction of his eyes. Just below the threshold was a jagged, irregular splotch of rusty, reddish brown.

Mason moved his feet and said, “There’s another one, Paul.”

“And another one back of that,” Drake said.

“All within eighteen inches of the doorstep,” Mason pointed out. “Looks as though someone had been wounded and gone in, or had been wounded and gone out. He must have been losing quite a bit of blood at that.”

“So what?” Drake asked.

Mason pulled back the screen door, examined the front door, and said, “It isn’t tightly closed, Paul.”

“Let’s keep our noses clean,” Drake warned.

Mason bent down to examine the bloodstains. “They’ve been here for a while,” he announced. “Wonder if the sun would shine in here later on in the afternoon… They look baked.”

He raised his eyes to determine the course of the shadows. The porch consisted of a slab of cement with a gable roof extending not over three feet from the side of the house, furnishing a somewhat scanty protection for the door, a roof which was more ornamental than useful.

“How about it, Perry?” the detective asked.

By way of answer, Mason knocked on the door, at the same time pushing against the panels with his knee.

The door swung slowly open.

“There you are, Paul,” Mason said. “You’re a witness to what happened. We knocked on the door, and the force of the knocking pushed the door open.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “but I don’t like it. Now what?”

Mason stepped inside. “Anyone home?” he called.

It was a typical bungalow with wide windows, gas radiators, an ornamental half-partition opening to a dining room, and a swinging door evidently leading to a kitchen. On the side of the living room were two doors which evidently opened into bedrooms.

The house had the atmosphere of a place that had been lived in. There were magazines on a wicker table in the center of the living room, with a comfortable chair drawn up near the table, a floor lamp behind it. A magazine lay face down and open on the wicker table.

Mason lowered his eyes to the floor on which were several Navajo rugs.

He pointed to a red splotch on one of the Navajo rugs. A few inches farther on was another. Then there was a spattering drop with irregular edges on the floor, another on the rug nearest the bedroom door on the left.

Mason followed the trail directly to the closed door of the bedroom.

Drake hung back. “Going in?” he asked.

By way of answer, Mason turned the knob and opened the door.

A blast of hot, fetid air rushed out of the bedroom to assail their nostrils. It was the oxygen-exhausted air of a room tightly closed in which gas heat has been generated, and it was an atmosphere which held the suggestion of death.

It needed only a glance at the fully clothed figure lying on the bed to confirm the message of that superheated, lifeless air.

Mason turned back to Paul Drake. “Call Homicide, Paul,” he said. “There’s a phone.”

The detective whirled to the telephone.

Mason stepped into the room and gave a quick look around.

Apparently it was a woman’s bedroom. There were jars of cream and bottles of lotion on the dresser. There were bloodstains on the floor. There was no counterpane on the bed. The top blanket had been soaked with blood which had dried into a stiff circular stain beneath the still body.

The corpse was clothed in a double-breasted gray suit, with the coat unbuttoned. Red had trickled down the trousers to dry in sinister incrustations. There were no shoes on the body. Gray, silk, embroidered socks which harmonized with the gray trousers covered the feet. The man lay on his back. His lids were half closed over glassy eyes. The jaw was sunken, and the interior of the partially opened mouth showed a grayish purple. About the lips was a crimson smear, which might have been the faint traces of lipstick, a stain which would hardly have been noticeable in life but which was now strikingly evident against the pallid skin of the dead man.

The gas radiator was hissing at full blast. The windows were tightly closed, the shades drawn.

Somewhere in the room a fly was buzzing importantly.

Mason dropped to one knee, looked under the bed, and saw nothing. He opened a closet door. It was filled with articles of feminine wearing apparel. He looked in the bathroom. It was immaculate save for rusty red splotches on the side of the wash bowl. A towel on the floor was stiff with dried blood. Mason opened the door into the adjoining bedroom. It was evidently used as a spare room for guests. There was no sign that it had been occupied recently.

Mason retraced his steps to find Paul Drake just hanging up the telephone.

“Tidings?” Drake asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Mason said. “Probably.”

“Look in his clothes?”

“No.”

Drake heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you’re showing some sense. For God’s sake, Perry, close that door… Let’s open a few windows, first.”

Mason said, “No, let’s go outside. We’ll leave things here just as they were when we came in.”

Drake said, “We’ve got our fingerprints on things. The boys from Homicide aren’t going to…” He broke off to listen. “Car coming,” he said.

A car purred past the house, swung in a turn at the end of the roadway, came back, and stopped.

Drake, who was nearest the front window, slid one of the drapes a few inches to one side, and said, “Coupe. Class at the wheel… She’s getting out… Swell legs… Overnight bag, brown coat, fox fur collar… Here she comes. What do we do, Perry? Answer the bell?”

Mason said, “Push that door shut with your foot, Paul. I think there’s a spring lock. Try and get the license number on the car.”

Drake said, “I can’t see it right now. She’s parked right in front of the house. If she drives away, I’ll get it.”

“Sit still and shut up,” Mason said.

They could hear the click-clack of heels on the cement, the sound of the screen door opening. They waited for the doorbell to ring, but heard instead the scrape of a key against the metal lock plate on the door. Then the latch shot back, and a woman entered the room.

For a moment her eyes, adjusting themselves to the subdued light of the interior, failed to take note of the two men. She started directly for the bedroom, then suddenly stopped. Her eyes became wide and round as she saw Mason. She dropped her bag and the coat from nerveless fingers, turned, and started toward the door. A key container dropped with a muffled clang to the wooden floor.

Drake stepped from the window to stand between her and the door.

She screamed.

Mason said, “Hold it.”

She whirled, at the sound of his voice, back to face him. She stared steadily for a moment, then said simply, “Oh.”

Mason said, “I’m an attorney. This man is a detective. In other words, we’re not thieves. Who are you?”

“How… how did you get in?”

“Walked in,” Mason said. “The door was unlocked and slightly ajar.”

“It was locked just now when I… when I…” She gulped as her voice caught in her throat, laughed nervously, and said, “This has knocked me for a loop. What’s it all about?”

She was in the late twenties or early thirties, a striking brunette with jaunty clothes which set off her figure to advantage, and she wore those clothes with an air of chic individuality. Her face had been drained of color, and the pattern of the orange rouge showed clearly against the pasty white of her skin.

“Do you,” Mason asked, “happen to live here?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re…”

“Mrs. Tidings,” she said.

“Does your husband live here?”

“I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions. What do you want here anyway? What right did you have breaking in?”

“We didn’t break in,” Drake said. “We…”

“We just walked in,” Mason assured her, keeping Drake out of the conversation by interruption. “I think it will be to your advantage to answer that question, Mrs. Tidings. Does your husband live here?”

“No. We’ve separated.”

“Didn’t you patch up your differences recently?”

“No.”

“Weren’t there negotiations looking toward that?”

“No,” she said, and then added with defiance in her voice, “—if it’s any of your business, which it isn’t.”

Color was returning to her cheeks now, and her eyes flashed with resentment.

Mason said, “I think you’d better just sit down and take it easy for a few minutes, Mrs. Tidings. Officers are on their way out here.”

“Why should officers be on their way here?”

“Because of something we found in the bedroom.” And Mason pointed to the stains on the floor.

“What’s that,” she asked, “ink? What is that on my floor? Good God! I…”

She took a step forward, stared down at the stains, and then a gloved knuckle crept toward her mouth. She bit hard on the black leather stretched taut over her knuckles.

“Take it easy,” Mason said.

“Who… who… what…”

Mason said, “We don’t know yet. I think you’d better prepare yourself for a shock. I think it’s someone you know.”

“Not… not… Oh, my God, it can’t be…”

“Your husband,” Mason said.

“My husband!” she exclaimed. There were both incredulity in her voice and a something which might have been relief. Then there was sudden panic again. “You mean that he… he might have done it, might have…”

“I think that the body is that of your husband,” Mason explained.

She gave a half-stifled exclamation and moved swiftly toward the bedroom door. Mason caught her arm.

“Don’t do it,” he said.

“Why not? I must find out…”

“You will, later. Right now, don’t spoil any of the fingerprints on that doorknob.”

“But I have a right to know. Can’t you see how I…”

“Quit looking at it from your viewpoint,” the lawyer interrupted. “Figure it from the police viewpoint. Do a little thinking.”

She stared at him silently for several seconds, then crossed over to sit down on the davenport. “What happened?” she asked.

“Apparently he was shot.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. He was in his office yesterday morning. I talked with him on the telephone. He must have come out here shortly afterwards… Would you know anything about that?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve been away ever since Monday afternoon.”

“May I ask what time Monday?” Mason asked.

“Why?”

Mason smiled and said, “The officers will ask these questions. After all, it’s your house, you know. I thought perhaps it might help you a little if I gave you a chance to collect your thoughts before the officers get here.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” she said. “Was it suicide?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I haven’t made any investigation.”

“How about this detective?”

“He’s a private detective employed by me.”

“Why did you come here?”

“We thought Mr. Tidings might have come out here after he left his office Tuesday. Had you seen him lately?”

“No. We — didn’t get along at all.”

“Now then,” Mason asked, “would you mind telling me where you went on Monday afternoon?”

“I drove nearly all night,” she said. “I was upset.”

“And where did you drive?”

“To a friend’s house. I spent a couple of days with her.”

“You didn’t take much baggage,” Mason pointed out.

“No. I decided to go on the spur of the moment. I’ve had — well, troubles of my own.”

“Where does this friend live?”

“In Reno.”

“And you drove to Reno Monday?”

“Yes. I got in about daylight Tuesday morning. I felt a lot better after the drive.”

“And you’ve been there ever since?”

“Until late last night. I left about ten o’clock.”

“Where did you stay last night?”

She laughed nervously, and shook her head. “I don’t drive that way. When I want to go some place, I start driving. When I get sleepy, I pull off to the side of the road and get a few minutes’ sleep, then I start driving again. I much prefer to drive at night. I don’t like the glare of the sun on paved roads.”

“You slept some last night?”

“Yes, a few cat-naps here and there along the side of the road.”

Mason said, “The officers will probably want to check your time pretty carefully. If you can give them all the data they need it will make it a lot easier for you. I’m just telling you as a friend. Here they come now.”

A siren screamed up the hill. A police radio car finished the ascent, raced along the level stretch of roadway, and swerved sharply to park up against the curb. An officer jumped out of the car and came striding toward the house.

Drake opened the door.

The radio officer looked at Drake, pushed a foot through the door. “Which one of you telephoned Homicide?” he asked.

“I did,” Drake said. “I’m a private detective.”

“Your name Drake?”

“Yes.”

“Got a card on you?”

Drake handed him a card.

“How about the woman and this other guy?” the officer asked.

“This is Mrs. Tidings. She came in right after I telephoned headquarters.”

The officer stared at her suspiciously.

“I just this minute returned from Reno,” she explained. “I drove.”

“When did you leave there?”

“Last night.”

“She lives here,” Mason explained. “This is her house. She’s been visiting a friend in Reno for a couple of days.”

“I see. And who are you? Oh, I place you now. You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer. What are you doing here?”

“We came out to see Mr. Tidings.”

“Find him?”

“I think he’s the dead man in the next room.”

“I thought you said this woman came here after you did.”

“She did.”

“Then how’d you get in?”

“The door was unlocked and slightly ajar,” Mason said.

“Well, Homicide will be here in a minute or two. The radio dispatcher rushed us out to hold things until Homicide could get here. You haven’t touched anything, have you?”

“No, nothing important.”

“Doorknobs and things like that?”

“Perhaps.”

The officer frowned. “Okay,” he said. “Get out. It’s a pleasant day. You can wait outside as well as in. Let’s not get any more fingerprints around… You didn’t touch the body, did you?”

“No.”

“Go through the clothes?”

“No.”

“Where is it?”

“In that bedroom.”

“Okay,” the officer said. “Go on out… What’s this — blood on the floor?”

“That’s what led us to the corpse,” Mason said. “We noticed the bloodstains on the floor. You notice they go from the outer threshold into the door of the bedroom.”

“Okay,” the officer said. “Go on out. I’ll take a peek in that bedroom.” He opened the door, looked in, then stepped back and pulled the door shut.

Mason said, “There’s some reason to believe the body is that of Albert Tidings, this woman’s husband. Wouldn’t it be well to have her make an identification?”

“She can do that when Homicide gets here,” the radio officer said. “I’m just keeping the evidence lined up. Go on. Out with you. I’ll call you if I want anything.”

Mason led the way out into the fresh air and warm sunlight. The radio officer followed them to the door and called to his partner, who sat behind the wheel of the radio car. “Keep an eye on this outfit, Jack. There’s a stiff in here. It’s a job for Homicide right enough.”

He stepped back inside the house and slammed the door.

Mason offered Mrs. Tidings a cigarette, which she accepted gratefully. Drake shook his head in refusal. Mason placed one between his own lips, and snapped a match into flame. As he held the light to Mrs. Tidings’ cigarette, the grind of a motor running fast in second gear could be heard from the grade.

“That’ll be Homicide,” Mason said.

The Homicide car flashed swiftly around the turn, hit the more level stretch of roadway along the ridge, and swept down upon them. Men jumped out. The radio officer got out from his car and reported in a low voice. The other radio officer appeared at the door of the house. “In here, boys,” he said.

Sergeant Holcomb strode across to Mason. “Hello, Mason.”

“Good morning, Sergeant.”

“How’s it happen you’re here?”

“I had some business with Albert Tidings,” Mason said. “I had a tip I could find him here.”

“Did you?”

“I think it’s his body,” Mason said. “On a guess, I’d say it had been here at least since yesterday afternoon. The gas heat’s turned on, and the windows and doors are tightly closed. That’s a condition you’ll have to take into consideration in determining the time of death.”

“When did you get here?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“You didn’t have any reason to think you’d find a body?”

“No.”

“You’ve seen him before?”

“No.”

“Talked with him over the telephone?”

“I called his office yesterday, yes.”

“What time?”

“I don’t know. I would say it was shortly before eleven o’clock.”

“What did he say?”

“I had a tentative appointment with him,” Mason said. “I wanted to cancel it, and make one at a later date.”

“Have any argument?”

“Not exactly.”

“What was your business with him?”

Mason smiled and shook his head.

“Come on,” Sergeant Holcomb said. “Kick through. If we’re going to solve a murder, we’ve got to have motives. If we knew something about that business you wanted to discuss with him, we might have a swell motive.”

“And again,” Mason said, “you might not.”

Sergeant Holcomb clamped his lips shut. “Okay,” he said. “Don’t leave here until I tell you you can… That your car?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s the other one belong to?”

“Mrs. Tidings… Mrs. Tidings, may I present Sergeant Holcomb?”

Sergeant Holcomb didn’t remove his hat. “What are you to him?” he asked.

“His wife.”

“Living with him?”

“No. We’ve separated.”

“Divorced?”

“No, not yet… That is, no. I haven’t divorced him.”

“Why not?”

She flushed. “I prefer not to discuss that.”

“You’ll have to, sooner or later,” Sergeant Holcomb said. “I don’t want to pry into your private affairs, just to be doing it, but you can’t hold out on the police. You stick right around here. I’m going in.”

The others had already gone on into the house, and Sergeant Holcomb joined them. Mason dropped his cigarette to the cement, ground it out with the sole of his shoe.

“Just as a matter of curiosity, Mrs. Tidings,” he said, “had your husband been here before?”

“Once.”

“On a friendly visit?”

“A business visit.”

“Was there some question of alimony between you?”

“No. Well, it wasn’t serious. Alimony was a detail. I didn’t care about that.”

“You wanted your freedom?”

“Why do you ask these questions?”

“Because it might help my client if I knew some of the answers, and the police are going to make you answer them anyway.”

“Who,” she asked, “is your client?”

Mason said, “I’m not ready to make any statements yet.”

“Is it that Gailord girl?”

“Why?” Mason asked. “What makes you think it’s she?”

She watched him with narrowed eyes. “That,” she said, “isn’t answering my question.”

Mason said, “And you aren’t answering mine.”

He strode out to the curb to stand gazing thoughtfully. The radio officer watched him narrowly. Paul Drake stood close by, his manner seemingly detached.

Suddenly Mason turned to Mrs. Tidings. He said, “You look like a nice girl.”

“Thank you.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance be trying to kid anyone, would you?” Mason asked.

“Why, what do you mean, Mr. Mason?”

Sergeant Holcomb opened the door of the house, motioned to Mrs. Tidings. “Come in here,” he said.

Mason took his cigarette case from his pocket and carefully selected another cigarette. “Watch your step,” he said in a low voice, his eyes turned toward the distant horizon with its gleam of snow-capped mountains. “And if you have anything to say to me, you’d better say it now.”

Mrs. Tidings shook her head in a swiftly decisive gesture of negation and walked firmly toward the house.