The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde

13

Philip C. Rames was a broad-shouldered, flat-waisted officer in the thirties who regarded life with a somewhat puzzled frown as though trying to comprehend something which seemed always just a little beyond his mental grasp.

He frowned at Mason as Drake performed the introductions.

Mason said casually, “I wanted to ask you about this blond young woman who didn’t have a driving license with her.”

Rames nodded.

“Remember her name?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’d know her if you saw her again?”

“Yes. I think I would.”

“Can you recall the circumstances of the arrest, Mr. Rames? It’s rather important.”

“Why is it important?” Rames asked quickly.

Mason smiled. “A client of mine is very much concerned in certain incidental aspects of the case.”

Rames ran his hand along the back of his neck, scratched the hair over his ears, said, “Well, I didn’t give her a ticket. It wasn’t anything particularly serious. She was parked overtime and it just happened that as I was getting ready to make out a tag she showed up. I’d been making the rounds a little faster than usual, and she could have been only five minutes overdue on the parking — anyway, that’s what she claimed, and she might have been right at that. I decided to take a look at her driving license, and the way she acted when I pulled that one on her made me think perhaps she was operating a car without a license — you know, the usual excuse about running down to do a little shopping and leaving her purse in her apartment, not realizing she’d left it until after she’d got started, and then thinking it wasn’t worth while going back for it because she was going to shop where she had charge accounts.”

Mason exchanged a swift glance with the detective, then said, “Go on, Rames. What did you do?”

“Well, I asked her where she lived. It wasn’t too far from there, a matter of five or six blocks, so I decided to call her bluff. I told her, ‘All right, you say the car’s only been here five minutes more than an hour. Just leave it here and I’ll drive you up to your apartment and back to your car, and you can get your purse and show me your driving license.’”

“How did she take that?”

“She didn’t take it so very good,” Rames said. “I knew as soon as I pulled that line on her that I had her — at least that’s what I thought, and it ain’t very often that I get fooled.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, she climbed in the car with me. She didn’t want to, but it was either that or else get a ticket. We went to this apartment house, some place just off Washington, and she opened the door, and sure enough there was a purse lying on the table. She opened it and took out her driving license.”

“You checked the description?”

“You’re damn right I checked it.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I felt sort of cheap,” Rames confessed. “It ain’t often we make a bum guess that way, so I drove her back to her car and kidded her along a little bit and told her she’d better keep her driving license with her at all times after this, and that even five minutes overtime parking was technically just as much of a crime as parking for a longer time, and I was letting her off this time but I didn’t want to catch her again.”

Rames scratched his head once more and grinned. “I didn’t tell her I was a relief officer and that I might not be on that beat again for two months.”

“Do you remember where the car was parked?” Mason asked.

“Yes, as it happens I can tell exactly where it was parked, because it was next to a fire hydrant, and she only missed being within the limits by about half an inch. Here, you got a map of the city there? I’ll show you the exact spot.”

Drake spread out a large scale map of the city. The officer bent over the map, pulled a stubby lead pencil from his pocket, moistened it, moved around the table to orient himself and then made a little dot on the map. “Right there. There’s a fire hydrant, and she was parked over on this side of the fire hydrant. Been there for at least an hour and five minutes. I have an idea it might have been an hour and a half.”

“And you think you’d recognize this young woman?”

“I think I would. She was a pretty classy number, blonde with bluish green eyes and a blue outfit — just a neat package.”

Mason opened his brief case, took out a photograph of Mildred Danville. “Is this the woman?”

“She looks familiar. It’s hard to make an identification from a photograph... Say, wait a minute, I’ve seen this picture somewhere. Hey! What are you fellows trying to pull?”

“We’re simply trying to get you to identify a picture,” Mason said.

“Well, wait a minute. That picture’s been in the papers. Here, let’s take a look.”

Rames whirled and picked up a newspaper which was on the table at the back part of Drake’s office. “Shucks, I thought that picture looked familiar... Sure, here it is! Mildred Danville, the girl that was murdered by the blonde who shared the apartment with her. Say, this may be important!”

“You’re certain,” Mason asked, “that this is the young woman who took you to her apartment and showed you her driving license?”

Rames grinned at him. “Well, now, Mr. Mason, you’ve got your work to do, and I’ve got my work to do. I guess I’d better report this before I do any more talking.”

Mason said, “We’ve had a stenographer taking down your statement, Rames, and I’d appreciate it if you’d let her transcribe that and then sign it.”

“Stenographer? Where?”

“She’s in an adjoining room,” Mason said, “taking it down in shorthand over the interoffice communicating system. A girl can take shorthand much more accurately when she’s at her own desk, you know, and...”

“Say, what were you trying to do, trap me?”

“Certainly not,” Mason said. “No one has asked you to tell anything except the truth.”

“Well, I better report this before I do any more talking, and I’m not signing any statements until I get a clearance from the D.A.’s office. You write that up and send a copy over to the D.A. and...”

“Did you,” Mason asked, “make any statement that wasn’t the truth?”

Rames grinned at him. “Smart lawyer,” he said. “It’s okay. You work your side of the street and I work mine. So long, boys.”

“Can you,” Mason asked, “tell us approximately what time this was?”

Rames merely grinned at him, opened the door and walked out.

“Well,” Mason said, “that’s that.”

“Think it’ll do you some good?” Drake asked.

The lawyer grinned. “Sure it will do me some good, particularly when we have your stenographer read into the record the last part of the conversation. It shows Rames is biased and won’t do a thing that will hurt the prosecution’s case if he can possibly avoid it. How about the apartment, Paul? Are the police still keeping a guard there?”

“Leave it to Sergeant Holcomb,” Drake said. “They’ve sewed that apartment up as tight as a drum.”

“Someone watching the door?”

“Not only watching the door, but actually living in the apartment, staying right there, a man who’s on the job twenty-four hours a day, has his meals brought in three times a day. Sergeant Holcomb isn’t taking any chances. And if I know him, he’ll keep that man there until doomsday, or until Diana Regis gets convicted.”

“Then Carl Fretch managed to convince him he didn’t get the thing Holcomb wanted?”

“No one knows what happened with Carl Fretch. He was up at Headquarters for about twelve hours, then they released him. I guess they put him through the mill all right, but I have an idea Fretch talked his way out of something at that. He’s rather a smooth customer.”

Mason said moodily, “Holcomb hasn’t any right to have a man in the apartment. He can put a guard at the door if he wants, but to have a man live right in the apartment...”

“When Sergeant Holcomb wants to do anything,” Drake said, “he isn’t particularly hampered by a lot of technicalities. He goes ahead and does what he wants to do and leaves it up to the other man to stop him. Couldn’t you get a court order...”

Mason said, “The minute I tried, it would be a dead giveaway. Holcomb would know that the thing we both wanted was still in the apartment and I was hoping to get it out if I could get rid of his man.”

“Well, that’s the way it is,” Drake said.

“Look, Paul, could you get an operative to pull a fast one and try to...”

“Nix,” Drake interrupted, “not with a police guard on the job.”

“This would be just incidental, something that...”

“Not a chance, Perry. No private detective is going to take a chance on sneaking something out from under the noses of the Police Department. It’s too risky. You get caught and your license is revoked and you’re out of a job.”

Mason frowned down at the carpet. “Hang it, Paul, I’ve got to get that thing out of the apartment.”

“That’s one place where we can’t help you a bit, Perry. The police guards will know me. They’ll know you. They’ll know Della Street, and there isn’t another soul you’d dare to trust, or that would even consider doing the job. How about this cop, won’t he do you some good?”

“In all probability,” Mason said, “they’ll find some way of spiking my guns by having him get vague about something. But you can gamble one thing, he’ll take the position that he can’t possibly identify the purse, so that he can’t tell whether Mildred picked up her purse or Diana’s. And he won’t, under any circumstances, ever admit that the driving license that was shown to him was in the name of Diana Regis. He’ll say he can’t remember the name.”

“Case look pretty black against her?” Drake asked.

“Black as ink unless I can get some new facts. Of course this is just a preliminary hearing. If they bind her over, I’ll still stand a chance, but I’d like to do something to counteract the newspaper publicity they’re building up... One thing we’ve got to do, Paul. We’ve got to trace Mildred Danville’s moves on the day of the murder. That’s one place where Rames has given us something to work on. Her car was parked there for at least an hour and five minutes. Now what was she doing there? What’s in the general vicinity?”

“I don’t know, offhand,” Drake said, “but we’ll sure find out. I’ll have men working on that, and have a complete map of the block showing every building, who occupies it, and what it’s used for.”

Mason nodded, said, “Well, I’ve got to get a bite to eat and get back to court. By the way, Paul, who collects the garbage at this apartment house?”

“I don’t know. Why?” Drake asked grinning. “Think you could get the garbage collector to walk in and pick up what you want?”

“You never can tell,” Mason said casually. “I might hire myself out as a garbage collector and...”

“Don’t try it,” Drake warned. “Don’t ever kid yourself that Holcomb won’t have a man on the job who would spot you no matter how you tried to disguise yourself. And if they ever caught you pulling that stuff...”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mason said casually. “It might work out all right. Find out who collects the garbage and give me that information by the time court adjourns this afternoon, will you, Paul?”

“I’ll get you the information,” Drake said dryly, “and the advice goes with it. Don’t try anything with Holcomb. That guy is tough. He knows you want something that’s in that apartment. He wants it, too. He isn’t taking any chances of losing out, and he’ll be ruthless as hell. And if you know where that diary is, my lad, you just leave well enough alone and let it stay there.”

Mason’s eyes were focused on the distance. He said, “Find out who collects the garbage, and once you find him, put a man on him. I may want him in a hurry.”