The Case of the Crimson Kiss

Chapter nine

Judge Randolph Jordan ascended the bench and rapped the court to order.

“People versus Fay Allison.”

“Ready for the defendant,” Mason said.

“Ready for the prosecution,” Stewart Linn announced.

Linn, one of the best of the trial deputies in the district attorney’s office, was a thin-faced, steely-eyed, cautious individual who had the mind of an accountant, an encyclopedic knowledge of law, and the cold-blooded mercilessness of a steel trap.

Linn was under no illusions as to the resourcefulness of his adversary, and he had all the caution of a boxer approaching a heavyweight champion.

“Call Dr. Charles Keene,” he said.

Dr. Keene came forward, qualified himself as a physician and surgeon who had had great experience in medical necropsies, particularly in cases of homicide.

“On the tenth of this month did you have occasion to examine a body in apartment seven-oh-two at the Mandrake Arms?”

“I did.”

“What time was it?”

“It was about two o’clock in the morning.”

“What did you find?”

“I found the body of a man of approximately fifty-two years of age, fairly well-fleshed, quite bald, but otherwise very well preserved for a man of his age. The body was lying on the floor, sprawled forward, head toward the door, feet toward the interior of the apartment, the left arm doubled up and lying under him, the right arm flung out, the left side of the face resting on the carpet. The man had been dead for several hours. I fix the time of death as having been during a period between seven o’clock and nine o’clock that evening. I cannot place the time of death any closer than that, but I will swear that it was within those time limits.”

“And did you determine the cause of death?”

“Not at that time. I did later.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Poisoning caused by the ingestion of cyanide of potassium.”

“Did you notice anything about the physical appearance of the man’s body?”

“You mean with reference to lipstick?”

“Yes.”

“There was a red smear on the upper part of the forehead, apparently caused by lips that had been heavily coated with lipstick and then pressed against the skin in a somewhat puckered condition.”

“You mean the skin was puckered?”

“No,” Dr. Linn said, smiling. “I mean the lips were puckered. It was as though some woman had administered a last kiss. The lipstick was deposited at the upper part of the forehead, where the skin across the scalp was stretched tight and smooth. It would have been above the hairline of an individual who was not bald.”

“Cross-examine,” Linn announced.

“No questions,” Mason said.

“Call Benjamin Harlan,” Linn said.

Benjamin Harlan, a huge, lumbering giant of a man, took the stand with a good-natured smile, promptly proceeded to qualify himself as a fingerprint and identification expert of some twenty years’ experience.

Stewart Linn, by skillful, adroit questions, led him through an account of his activities on the date in question, the finding of the body, the dusting of various things in the apartment, the finding of no latent fingerprints on the glass which the prosecution referred to as the “murder glass,” indicating this glass had been wiped clean of prints, the finding of prints on the glass on the table which the prosecution referred to as the “decoy glass,” on the toothbrush, on the tube of toothpaste, and various other articles. These latent fingerprints had coincided with the rolled fingerprints taken from the hands of Fay Allison, the defendant in the case.

Harlan also identified a whole series of photographs taken by the police showing the position of the body when it was discovered, the furnishings in the apartment, the table, the overturned chair, the so-called murder glass which had rolled along the floor, the so-called decoy glass on the table, which bore unmistakably the fresh fingerprints of Fay Allison, the bottle of Scotch whiskey, the bottle of soda water, the thermos jar containing ice cubes.

“Cross-examine,” Linn said triumphantly.

Mason said, “You have had some twenty years’ experience as a fingerprint expert, Mr. Harlan?”

“That’s right.”

“And an identification expert?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, you have heard Dr. Keene’s testimony about the lipstick on the forehead of the dead man?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that lipstick, I believe, shows in this photograph which I now hand you?”

“Yes, sir. Not only that, but I have a close-up of that lipstick stain which I myself took with one of the cameras I use for close-up photography. I have an enlargement of that negative, in case you’re interested.”

“I’m very much interested,” Mason said. “Will you produce the enlargement, please?”

Harlan produced the photograph from his briefcase, showing a section of the forehead of the dead man, with the stain of lips outlined clearly and in microscopic detail.

“What is the scale of this photograph?” Mason asked.

“Life size,” Harlan said. “I have a standard of distances by which I can take photographs to a scale of exactly life size.”

“Thank you,” Mason said. “I’d like to have this photograph received in evidence.”

“No objection,” Linn said.

“And it is, is it not, a matter of fact that the little lines shown in this photograph are fully as distinctive as the ridges and whorls of a fingerprint?”

“Just what do you mean?”

“Isn’t it a fact well known to identification experts that the little wrinkles which form in a person’s lips are fully as individual as the lines of a fingerprint?”

“It’s not a ‘well-known’ fact.”

“But it is a fact?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“So that by measuring the distance between the little lines which are shown on this photograph, indicating the pucker lines of the skin, it would be fully as possible to identify the lips which made this lipstick print as it would be to identify a person who had left a fingerprint upon the scalp of the dead man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, you have testified to having made rolled imprints of the defendant s fingers and compared those with the fingerprints found on the glass.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you made any attempt to take an imprint of her lips and compare that print with the print of the lipstick on the forehead of the decedent?”

“No, sir,” Harlan said, shifting his position uneasily.

“Why not?”

“Well, in the first place, Mr. Mason, the fact that the pucker lines of lips are so highly individualized is not a generally known fact.”

“But you know it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the more skilled experts in your profession know it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you do it then?”

Harlan shifted his position again, crossed his legs, glanced somewhat helplessly at Stewart Linn, the deputy prosecutor.

“Oh, if the Court please,” Linn said, promptly taking his cue from that glance, “this hardly seems to be cross-examination. The inquiry is wandering far afield. I will object to the question on the ground that it’s incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial, and not proper cross-examination.”

“Overruled,” Judge Jordan snapped. “Answer the question!”

Harlan cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I guess I just never thought of it.”

“Think of it now,” Mason said with a gesture that was a flourish. “Go ahead and take the imprint right now and right here. Put on plenty of lipstick, Miss Allison. Let’s see how your lips compare with those on the dead man’s forehead.”

“Oh, if the Court please,” Linn said wearily, “this hardly seems to be cross-examination. If Mr. Mason wants to make Harlan his own witness and call for this test as a part of the defendant’s case, that will be one thing, but this certainly isn’t cross-examination.”

“It may be cross-examination of Harlan’s qualifications as an expert,” Judge Jordan ruled.

With faint sarcasm Linn said, “Isn’t that stretching a technicality rather far?”

“Your objection was highly technical,” Judge Jordan snapped. “It is overruled, and my ruling will stand. Take the impression, Mr. Harlan.”

Fay Allison, with trembling hand, daubed lipstick heavily on her mouth. Then, using the makeup mirror in her purse, smoothed off the lipstick with the tip of her little finger.

“Go ahead,” Mason said to Harlan, “check on her lips.”

Harlan, taking a piece of white paper from his briefcase, moved down to where the defendant was sitting beside Perry Mason and pressed the white paper against her lips. He removed the paper and examined the imprint.

“Go ahead,” Mason said to Harlan, “make your comparison and announce the result to the Court.”

Harlan said, “Of course, I have not the facilities here for making a microscopic comparison, but I can tell from even a superficial examination of the lip lines that these lips did not make that print.”

“Thank you,” Mason said. “That’s all.”

Judge Jordan was interested. “These lines appear in the lips only when the lips are puckered, as in giving a kiss?”

“No, Your Honor, they are in the lips all the time, as an examination will show, but when the lips are puckered, the lines are intensified.”

“And these lip markings are different with each individual?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“So that you are now prepared to state to the Court that despite the fingerprints of the defendant on the glass and other objects, her lips definitely could not have left the imprint on the dead man’s forehead?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“That’s all,” Judge Jordan said.

“Of course,” Linn pointed out, “the fact that the defendant did not leave that kiss imprint on the man’s forehead doesn’t necessarily mean a thing, Your Honor. In fact, he may have met his death because the defendant found that lipstick on his forehead. The evidence of the fingerprints is quite conclusive that the defendant was in that apartment.”

“The Court understands the evidence. Proceed with your case,” Judge Jordan said.

“Furthermore,” Linn went on angrily, “I will now show the Court that there was every possibility the print of that lipstick could have been deliberately planted by none other than the attorney for the defendant and his charming and very efficient secretary. I will proceed to prove that by calling Don B. Ralston to the stand.”

Ralston came forward and took the stand, his manner that of a man who wishes very much he were many miles away.

“Your name is Don B. Ralston? You reside at Two-nine-three-five Creelmore Avenue in this city?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you knew Carver L. Clements in his lifetime?”

“Yes.”

“Were rather intimately associated with him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In a business way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, on the night, or rather early in the morning, of the tenth of this month, did you have occasion to go to Carver L. Clements’ apartment, being apartment number seven-oh-two in the Mandrake Arms Apartments in this city?”

“I did, yes, sir.”

“What time was it?”

“Around... well, it was between one and two in the morning... I would say somewhere around one-thirty.”

“Were you alone?”

“No, sir.”

“Who was with you?”

“Richard P. Nolin, who is a business associate, or was a business associate of Mr. Clements; Manley L. Ogden, who handled some of Mr. Clements’ income tax work; and a Miss Vera Payson, a friend of — well, a friend of all of us.”

“What happened when you went to that apartment? Did you enter it?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell us just what happened.”

“Well, we left the elevator on the seventh floor, and as we were walking up the corridor, I noticed two people coming down the corridor toward us.”

“Now, when you say ‘down the corridor,’ do you mean from the direction of apartment seven-oh-two?”

“That’s right, yes, sir.”

“And who were these people?”

“Mr. Perry Mason and his secretary, Miss Street.”

“And did you actually enter the apartment of Carver Clements?”

“I did not.”

“Why not?”

“When I got to the door of apartment seven-oh-two, I pushed the doorbell and heard the sound of the buzzer on the inside of the apartment. Almost instantly the door of an apartment across the hall opened, and a woman who seemed to be somewhat irritated complained that she had been unable to sleep because of people ringing the buzzer of that apartment, and stated in effect that other people were in there with Mr. Clements. So we left immediately.”

“Now, then, Your Honor,” Stewart Linn said, “I propose to show that the two people referred to by the person living in the apartment across the hallway were none other than Mr. Mason and Miss Street, who had actually entered that apartment and were closeted in there with the dead man and the evidence for an undetermined length of time.”

“Go ahead and show it,” Judge Jordan said.

“Just a moment,” Mason said. “Before you do that, I want to cross-examine this witness.”

“Cross-examine him, then.”

“When you arrived at the Mandrake Arms, the door to the street was locked, was it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you do?”

“We went up to the seventh floor and—”

“I understand that, but how did you get in? How did you get past the entrance door? You had a key, didn’t you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how did you get in?”

“Why, you let us in.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Understand,” Mason said, “I am not now referring to the time you came up from the street in the custody of the police. I am now referring to the time when you first entered that apartment house on the morning of the tenth of this month — the first time you went in.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. You let us in.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, because you and your secretary were in Carver Clements’ apartment, and—”

“You, yourself, don’t know we were in there, do you?”

“Well, I surmise it. We met you just after you had left the apartment. You were hurrying down the hall toward the elevator.”

Mason said, “I don’t want your surmises. You don’t even know I had been in that apartment. I want you to tell us how you got past the locked street door. No surmises now. Just how did you get in? Exactly what did you do?”

“We pressed the button of Carver Clements’ apartment, and you — or at any rate someone — answered by pressing the button which released the electric door catch on the outer door. As soon as we heard the sound of buzzing, which indicated the lock was released, we pushed the door open and went in.”

“Let’s not have any misunderstanding about this,” Mason said. “Who was it pushed the button of Carver Clements’ apartment?”

“I did.”

“I’m talking now about the button in front of the outer door of the apartment house.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, having pressed that button, you waited until the buzzer announced the door was being opened?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long?”

“Not over a second or two.”

Mason said to the witness, “One more question: did you go right up after you entered the apartment house?”

“We... no, sir, not right away. We stopped for a few moments there in the lobby to talk about the type of poker we wanted to play. Miss Payson had lost some money on one of these wild poker games where the dealer has the opportunity of calling any kind of game he wants, some of them having the one-eyed jacks wild, and others having seven cards from which five are selected, and things of that sort.”

“How long were you talking?”

“Oh, a couple of minutes, perhaps.”

“And you decided on the type of poker you wanted to play?”

“Yes.”

“And then went right up?”

“Yes.”

“Where was the elevator?”

“The elevator was... now, wait a minute, I don’t remember exactly. It was on one of the upper floors. I remember we pressed the button and it took it a little while to come down to where we were.”

“That’s all,” Mason said.

Della Street’s fingers dug into his arm. “Aren’t you going to ask him about the key?” she whispered.

“Not yet,” Mason said, a light of triumph in his eyes. “I know what happened now, Della. Give us the breaks and we’ve got this case in the bag. First, make him prove we were in that apartment.”

Linn said, “I will now call Miss Shirley Tanner to the stand.”

The young woman who advanced to the stand was very different from the disheveled, sleepless, and nervous individual who had been so angry at the time Mason and Della Street had pressed the button of apartment 702.

“Your name is Shirley Tanner, and you reside in apartment seven-oh-one of the Mandrake Arms Apartments in this city?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have for how long?”

She smiled and said, “Not very long. I put in three weeks apartment hunting and finally secured a sublease on apartment seven-oh-one on the afternoon of the eighth. I moved in on the ninth, which explains why I was tired almost to the point of having hysterics.”

“You had difficulty sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“And on the morning of the tenth did you have any experiences which annoyed you — that is, experiences in connection with the ringing of the buzzer in the apartment next door?”

“I most certainly did, yes, sir.”

“Tell us exactly what happened.”

“I had been taking sleeping medicine from time to time, but for some reason or other this night I was so nervous the sleeping medicine didn’t do me any good. I had been moving and unpacking, and my nerves were all keyed up. I was physically and mentally exhausted. I tried to sleep, but I was too tired. I guess perhaps you know how it is, Your Honor,” she said, turning to the judge with a winsome smile.

The judge regarded the attractive young woman, smiled in a fatherly way, nodded, and said, “We all get overtired at times. Go on with your testimony, Miss Tanner.”

“Well, I think I had just gotten to sleep when I was awakened by a continual sounding of the buzzer over there in the apartment across the hall. It was a low, persistent noise which became exceedingly irritating to a person in my nervous state, who was trying to sleep.”

“Go on,” Linn said. “What did you do?”

“I finally got up and put on a robe and went to the door and flung it open. I was terribly angry at the very idea of people making so much noise at that hour of the morning. You see, those apartments aren’t too soundproof and there is a ventilating system over the doors of the apartments. The one over the door of seven-oh-two was apparently open, and I had left mine open for nighttime ventilation. And then I was angry at myself for getting so upset over the noise. I knew my allowing myself to get so angry would prevent me from sleeping at all, which is why I lay still for what seemed an interminable time before I opened the door.”

Linn smiled. “So you became angry at the people in the hallway and then became angry at yourself for being angry?”

Her laugh was musical. “That’s about the way it happened.”

“And you say you flung open the door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you find?”

“Two people across the hall.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“I didn’t know them at the time, but I know them now.”

“Who were they?”

She pointed a dramatic finger at Perry Mason.

“Mr. Perry Mason, the lawyer for the defendant, and the young woman, I believe his secretary, who is sitting there beside him — not the defendant, but the woman on the other side.”

“Miss Della Street,” Mason said with a bow.

“Thank you,” she said.

“And,” Linn went on, “what did you see those people do?” She said, “I saw them enter the apartment.”

“Did you see how they entered the apartment... I mean, how did they get the door open?”

“They must have used a key. Mr. Mason was just pushing the door open and I—”

“No surmises, please,” Linn broke in. “Did you actually see Mr. Mason using a key?”

“Well, I heard him.”

“What do you mean?”

“As I was opening my door I heard metal rasping against metal, the way a key does when it scrapes against a lock. And then when I had my door all the way open, I saw Mr. Mason pushing his way into seven-oh-two.”

“But you only know he must have had a key because you heard the sound of metal rubbing against metal?”

“Well, it stands to reason...”

“But you only heard the sound of metal against metal?”

“Yes, and the click of the lock.”

“Did you say anything to Mr. Mason and Miss Street?”

“I most certainly did, and then I slammed the door and went back to bed. But I was so mad by that time I simply couldn’t close my eyes and keep them closed. I couldn’t understand why, if a person had a key, he would go through all that agony of ringing a doorbell and waking me up. Why didn’t they simply go in there in the first place and—”

“Now, never mind that,” Linn interrupted impatiently, holding up his hand palm outward and moving it back and forth as though patting the words back into her mouth. “Never mind your conclusions, never mind your reasons. Just tell the Court what you saw.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened after that?”

“After that, when I was trying to sleep — I would say just a few seconds after that — I heard that buzzer again. And this time I was good and mad.”

“And what did you do?”

“I swung open the door and started to give these people a piece of my mind.”

“People?” Linn prompted.

“There were four people standing there. The Mr. Ralston who has just testified, two other men, and a woman. They were standing there at the doorway, jabbing away at the button, and I told them this was a sweet time to be calling on someone and making a racket and that anyway the gentleman already had company, so if he didn’t answer his door, it was because he didn’t want to.”

“Did you at that time see Mr. Mason and Miss Street walking down the corridor?”

“No, I did not. I had my door open only far enough to show me the door of apartment seven-oh-two across the way. You see, my door opens toward the end of the corridor away from the elevator. My apartment is a corner apartment and seven-oh-two is a corner apartment. So, when my door is open, I can only see just that blind end of the corridor unless I open it all the way.”

“Thank you,” Linn said. “Now you distinctly saw Mr. Mason and Miss Street enter that apartment?”

“Yes.”

“And close the door behind them?”

“Yes.”

“Cross-examine!” Linn said triumphantly.

Mason, taking a notebook from his pocket, walked up to stand beside Shirley Tanner, but his voice was good-natured. “Miss Tanner,” he said, “are you certain that you heard me rub metal against the keyhole of that door?”

“Certain,” she said.

“My back was toward you?”

“It was when I first opened my door, yes. I saw your face, however, just after you went in the door. You turned around and looked at me over your shoulder.”

“Oh, we’ll stipulate,” Linn said with an exaggerated note of weariness in his voice, “that the witness couldn’t see through Mr. Mason’s back. Perhaps learned counsel was carrying the key in his teeth.”

“Thank you,” Mason said, turning toward Linn. Then suddenly stepping forward, he clapped his notebook against Shirley Tanner’s face.

The witness screamed and jumped back.

Linn was on his feet. “What are you trying to do,” he shouted, “intimidate the witness?”

Judge Jordan pounded with his gavel. “Mr. Mason!” he reprimanded. “That is contempt of court!”

Mason said, “Please let me explain, Your Honor. The Prosecution took the lip prints of my client. I feel that I am entitled to take the lip prints of this witness. I will cheerfully admit to being in contempt of court, in the event I am wrong, but I would like to extend this imprint of Shirley Tanner’s lips to Mr. Benjamin Harlan, the identification expert, and ask him whether or not the print made by these lips is not the same as that of the lipstick kiss which was found on the forehead of the deceased, Carver I.. Clements.”

There was a tense, dramatic silence in the courtroom.

Mason stepped forward and handed the notebook to Benjamin Harlan.

From the witness stand came a shrill scream of terror. Shirley Tanner tried to get to her feet, her eyes fastened on Mason, wide, round, and terrified, her face the color of putty beneath the makeup which suddenly showed as dabbed-on bits of orange.

She couldn’t make it. Her knees buckled. She tried to catch herself, then fell to the floor.