The Case of the Counterfeit Eye

Chapter 9

Perry Mason, attired in the white uniform of a windowcleaner, a uniform which he had rented at a masquerade costumer's, carried several rubber windowcleaning blades in his right hand. Slightly behind him, Paul Drake, similarly attired, carried a pail of water in each hand.

"I suppose," the detective remarked lugubriously, "you had it all figured out when you arranged for the costumes."

"Had what figured out?" Mason asked.

"That I was to be the assistant, and carry the pails of water."

Mason grinned, but said nothing.

They rode up in the freight elevator to the sixth floor of the Ambassador Hotel. A man, lounging in the corridor, with broad shoulders, squaretoed shoes, and a belligerent jaw, eyed them in silent accusation.

The pair ignored the stare, walked purposefully to the end of the corridor, and opened the fireescape window at the end of the hallway.

"Is he looking?" Perry Mason asked, as he slid a leg out over the window sill.

"Looking in sort of a halfhearted manner," Paul Drake, standing in the corridor, reported. "You've got to work fast."

"Are you," asked Perry Mason, "telling me?"

He took a sponge from the pail, touched the window over the fire escape, and gently worked the rubber blades which cleaned the window.

"All right," he said; "now for the fast stuff."

"You're certain the room's empty?" asked Drake.

"No," Mason said, "I'm not. We've got to take a chance on that. Stand up close to the door with your back toward it. Knock on the lower panels. Don't let him see that you're knocking."

The lawyer finished putting the polish on the window with a dry rag. Drake said, "Okay. I've knocked twice and got no answer."

"Think you can get it open without too much fumbling around?"

"I think so. Let me study the lock a minute. Okay, I think I've got it. Let's go."

Drake took some keys from his pocket, selected one, inserted it in the door, twisted it into just the right position, put pressure on it, and heard the lock click back. He gave a muttered exclamation of satisfaction and the two men entered the room.

"The one next to this, on the right?" Mason asked.

"That's right."

"You're sure that's the woman?"

"Virtually certain."

"If it isn't, we're going to be in a jam."

Drake said irritably, "We're going to be in a jam anyway, if we get caught. It's going to be something we can't explain away."

"Forget it," Mason said. "Where's that belt?"

Drake handed him a safety belt. Mason slid out of the window and hooked the belt in an eye placed for that purpose in the wall just outside the window of the adjoining room. He stood out on the window ledge, caught Drake's hand, steadied himself, and then moved across to the adjoining window, standing for a long moment with his legs spread out across six stories of space.

"Take it easy," Drake cautioned.

Mason slipped the other hook of the belt through the eye on the near side of the window.

"Okay now," he said. "Hand me the water."

Drake stretched out and handed across a pail of water. Mason started sponging the window. A moment later, he knocked on the glass. A woman, attired in underthings, threw a kimono hastily about her shoulders and came to the window, glaring angrily.

Mason made motions indicating that she was to raise the window.

Sylvia Basset flung open the window.

"Look here," she said, "what do you mean by cleaning these windows when I'm dressing? I'm going to complain to the management. You can't…"

"Lower your voice," Perry Mason said, "and take it easy."

At the sound of his voice, she started; then her eyes widened with surprise.

"You!" she said.

Perry Mason slid the bucket of water along the ledge.

"Now, listen," he said. "You haven't much time to waste. I want to get the lowdown on this thing. Did you know Brunold was arrested?"

"Brunold?" she said, and frowned.

"Yes, Brunold."

"Who is he?"

"Don't you know who he is?"

"No."

"Why did you come here under an assumed name?"

"I wanted to rest."

He nodded toward some bags that were sitting on the floor by the bed.

"Those yours?"

"Yes."

"Did you bring them with you last night?"

"No."

"When did you get them?"

"Dick brought them to me early this morning."

"What's in them?"

"Things."

"You mean you're skipping out?"

"My nerves are all upset. I'm going away for a few days until this thing straightens out."

Mason tightened his lips and said, "You poor little fool, were you trying to take a runout powder?"

She said, "Well, what if I was?"

"That," he told her, "is exactly what they're trying to get you to do. Flight is an indication of guilt. It's something that can be proved in a case the same as any other fact."

"They'd never catch me—not where I'm going."

"They'd catch you," he said, "before you went there, with a ticket in your pocket."

"Don't fool yourself," she said. "I'd be too smart for that—only I'm not running away. I just don't want…"

"Listen," he told her. "There's a police detective in the hall, watching the door of your room. There's another one in the lobby and one at the elevators. The police have put in a special operator at the switchboard. You've been shadowed, your son has been shadowed, and all of your telephone conversations have been overheard. Now…"

She clutched her hand to her throat.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "Do you suppose…?"

"Give me the lowdown," he interrupted. "What happened after I left?"

"Nothing very much. They asked me a few questions. I had hysterics."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them the truth at first—that I had wanted to see my husband about a matter of business, that I went into the outer office and found Hazel Fenwick lying on the floor; that I worked with her and brought her to consciousness, and then she told a story of a man with an empty eye socket, running from the room where my husband had his office."

"Did they ask you why you didn't call your husband?"

"I told them that I was so engrossed thinking of Hazel Fenwick, and trying to bring her to consciousness, that I'd forgotten about my husband."

Mason made a grimace of disgust.

"What's wrong with that?"

"Everything," he said. "What happened after that?"

"Then," she said, "they started getting a little nasty and I became hysterical and lied to them."

"What did you lie to them about?"

"Everything. I told them I knew my husband had gone out, and then I told them I knew he hadn't gone out. They asked me if I knew anyone who had an artificial eye, and I told them my husband had an artificial eye. I laughed and screamed, and they called a doctor and I wouldn't let him touch me. I insisted that Dick call my own physician and then when he came out, he sized up the situation and gave me a hypo and sent me to my room."

"Then what?"

"Dick scouted around until he found a back way unguarded and then he came and got me. I was pretty groggy from the hypo, but I managed to walk, keeping an arm on his shoulder. He took me here and put me to bed. I woke up early this morning and telephoned him, using an assumed name so the police wouldn't know who it was—but, if they were listening over the switchboard—my heavens!"

"Did you make any admissions?" Mason asked.

"No. I didn't have anything to admit, except about the hysterics."

"What about the hysterics?"

"He asked me if I'd told the police anything, and I told him no, that my hysterics completely fooled them."

"Anything else?"

"I talked with him two or three times today."

"Make any admissions?"

"Well, I talked pretty freely with him, but I didn't make any damaging admissions."

"Did he?" Mason asked.

"He told me he was glad my husband was dead. Dick had hated him bitterly for some time."

"Now, listen," Mason told her. "You can't stall the police the next time they start questioning you. So you've got to get your story in order. How about the gun?"

"I'll tell them the truth, that I gave it to Dick to protect me with."

"Was that the gun that was used in the killing?"

"I don't know."

"How about Brunold?"

"I don't know any Brunold."

"You should," Mason said. "He's the father of your child."

She clutched at the edge of the table.

"What!" she exclaimed.

Mason nodded and said, "I found out that much through my own detectives. The police can find it out just as easily as I did, providing Brunold hasn't told them already. Brunold has been taken into custody."

"Even Dick doesn't know," she said.

"Does he suspect?"

"I don't think so."

"Brunold was out at the house last night?"

"No."

"Tell me the truth."

"Yes."

"What time did he leave?"

"Do I have to tell the police this?"

"I can't tell yet."

"He left just before I discovered Hazel Fenwick unconscious."

"What were you doing in your husband's outer office?"

"I went down there to see if Hazel had fixed things up with Hartley. She had been gone a long time and I was worried."

"Brunold was with you just before you went down?"

"Yes."

"Had he been with you all the time?"

"No, not all the time. I'd gone to my bedroom and left him in my sitting room. I think he stepped into the corridor for something. He wasn't there when I came back, but he came in after a few moments."

"You knew Hazel Fenwick was going down to see your husband?"

"Oh, yes. I wanted her to."

"Was it Brunold's eye your husband was holding in his hand?"

"I think it was."

"How long have you known Hazel Fenwick?"

"Not very long."

"Is there something phoney about this Fenwick woman?" Mason asked.

"I can't tell you that."

"You mean you won't. Is there something phoney about this marriage to Dick?"

"I don't know. She came to the house for the first time the night of the murder. Dick's Hartley's heir. Hartley wanted to control Dick's marriage. I knew there'd be a scene when he found out. I wanted her to tell him. I thought she'd make a good impression."

"How many at the house knew she was married to Dick?"

"None of them. Overton, the chauffeur, brought her to the house from the station. He thought she was a friend of mine. Edith Brite, the housekeeper, might have suspected, but I don't think so. Those were the only ones at the house who had seen her."

"Did you see Harry McLane last night?"

"No."

"Look here," Mason said; "every once in a while you tell me a lie. It's poor policy to lie to your lawyer. It might put you in a tough spot. Now, did you see Harry McLane last night?"

"No," she said defiantly.

"Do you know if he was out at the house?"

"He might have seen Hartley but I don't think so."

"Someone was in Hartley's office when this Fenwick woman knocked on the door. Who was that?"

"That," she said, "is something I can't understand. I wanted Hazel to have a clear field, so I watched the entrance door and waited until the last client had gone. Then I told Hazel the coast was clear and went as far as the entrance room with her. If someone was in the office with Hartley it must have been someone who came in through the back door."

"Well," Mason said, "did Harry McLane know about the back door?"

"Oh, yes."

"How about Pete Brunold?"

She hesitated a moment and then said slowly, "Pete knew about it, too. That is, sometimes he'd come in my side of the house through the back door. The two back doors are right together… Now you can't say I'm not telling you the truth."

Mason stared at her grimly and said, "I'm not saying anything, but I'm doing a lot of thinking. Was Pete Brunold with you all the time he was out at the house the night of the murder?"

"Not all the time."

"Where was he?"

"He thought Overton, the chauffeur, was spying on us. He thought Overton had been snooping around my room, and he went out to try and locate Overton."

"Did he do it?"

"No, he couldn't find Overton anywhere. He said he looked all over the house."

"When was this?"

"Just before I took Hazel down to Hartley's office."

Mason said slowly, "Look here, do you want to protect Pete Brunold or do you want to save your skin?"

"I want to protect Pete with my life."

"Don't ever forget," Mason warned her, "that you're in this thing yourself. You can't protect anyone unless you're in the clear, and unless you know and I know exactly what happened. I won't protect Brunold if he's guilty and I won't protect you if you're guilty. Now, Brunold was wandering around the house somewhere about the time the murder was committed. You say that he was looking for Overton. He might have met your husband and…"

"Look out," Paul Drake said, "just below you, Perry."

Perry Mason started polishing the window, glancing downward beneath his right armpit.

Sergeant Holcomb's frowning face was thrust out of the window directly below.

"This is the blowoff," Mason said. "Tell the police you came here for a rest, that you're ready to go back with them. If you didn't kill your husband and want to protect Brunold, refuse to answer any questions. If you want to protect yourself; tell them the God's truth. If Brunold's guilty, he'd better plead guilty. If you did kill your husband, and it wasn't justified, get another lawyer. If you're guilty of murder and you lie to me, I'll quit you cold; otherwise I'll stay with you until hell freezes."

"We're innocent," she said frantically. "Pete has been justified…"

"Hey, you, up there!" shouted Sergeant Holcomb. "Who told you to wash these windows?"

Mason mumbled an inaudible reply.

"Look around," Holcomb yelled. "I want to get a look at your face."

Mason turned around in such a manner that he kicked the bucket of water over. Sergeant Holcomb saw the water coming, but dodged too late. Some of the liquid splashed in his eyes and face as the bucket hurtled past. He jerked his head back in. Mason grabbed Paul Drake's extended hand, jumped to the adjoining sill, held himself precariously balanced for a moment, then slid down into the room.

"We can," Paul Drake said, "take the fire escape down to the second floor."

"Swell, if they aren't waiting for us at the second floor," the lawyer told him.

The two men opened the door of the room which led to the corridor. They stepped into the corridor turned to the left, and through the window which opened on the fire escape. The broadshouldered detective, still standing in the corridor where he could watch the door of Mrs. Basset's room glowered at them thoughtfully, took three purposeful steps toward them, and then hesitated.

Perry Mason called to Paul Drake in a loud voice, "Empty the buckets, Paul. We can fill them up from a faucet on the lower floor. We've got to get the rail on this fire escape cleaned up."

Drake nodded. The two men raced down the fire escape. They had gained the second floor, when there was a shout from above them. Sergeant Holcomb appeared on the fire escape, wildly waving his hands.

"Here," Mason said, "is where we take a transfer."

He dove through the open window to the second floor corridor and raced down the corridor. At the head of the stairs he slipped off the white uniform which he had out on over his business suit. Paul Drake, fumbling with a button of the white coveralls, delayed matters somewhat. Mason reached out, ripped off the button, and helped pull the uniform off.

"We've got just one chance," Mason said. "We've got to go up."

He walked to the elevator, the white bundle under his arm, and pressed the «up» button.

"If we have luck," he said, "we can…"

A light glowed, a door slid smoothly back. Mason and Drake entered the elevator, just as an adjoining elevator, coming down from the sixth floor, stopped, and its door slid open. Sergeant Holcomb ran into the corridor.

"Floors?" asked the elevator boy, as he slid the door shut.

"Top floor," Mason said.

As the elevator shot upward, Mason said conversationally, "A roof garden, isn't there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fine," Mason said. "We'll go out there and sit down for a while."

He left the elevator at the top floor, led the way to the roof garden, tossed the white uniforms behind a potted plant, and said, "Have you got that passkey, Paul?"

"Sure."

"Get it ready," Mason said, leading the way to the room corridor.

He picked an inside room, knocked on the door. There was no answer. He nodded to Drake. The detective turned the key in the lock. The door opened, the two men entered, and Mason twisted the knurled brass knob which shot the bolt into position. He took a cigarette case from his pocket, tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail, and grinned at the detective.

"Well," he said, "we're still out of jail."

"How the devil are we going to get out of this?" Drake asked, his face lugubrious.

Mason stretched out on the bed, pulled up pillows back of his head, blew smoke up toward the ceiling. His face was wreathed in a smile of serene satisfaction.

"They'll think we're playing tag in the corridors," he said. "After a half an hour or so, when they can't find us, they'll think we got down the freight elevator, or took the stairs, and gave them the slip. And, in the meantime…"

His voice trailed off into silence.

"In the meantime, what?" Drake inquired.

"I didn't get very much sleep last night," the lawyer said. He took one long, last puff of the cigarette and ground it out in the ash tray. "Call me at six o'clock," he said, "if I'm not awake by then," and closed his eyes.

The detective stared at him in openmouthed amazement for a moment; then moved toward the couch.

"Hey, you damned hog," he said, "give me one of those pillows. I didn't sleep at all."