The Case of the Haunted Husband

Chapter 19

There was a tense atmosphere of excitement permeating the courtroom as Judge Cortright called the Case of the People versus Stephane Claire, and Homan once more took the stand. “Just one or two further questions, Mr. Homan,” Mason said.

“Very well. Will you try and be as brief as possible?”

“If you will answer my questions,” Mason said, “without equivocation, I think we can finish with you very shortly. Lieutenant Tragg is in court, I believe?”

Mason turned to look at Tragg. Tragg returned the stare. His forehead puckered into a slightly perplexed frown.

Mason said, “Lieutenant Tragg, you have, I believe, in your possession a white starched shirt with some red stains on the bosom. May I ask you to show that shirt to this witness?”

“What is the idea?” Harold Hanley asked.

Mason said, “You will remember that according to the testimony of the witnesses, there was a smear of lipstick on the little finger of the right hand of the defendant in this case. I...”

“I think that question is proper,” Judge Cortright ruled. “Do you have such a shirt in your possession, Lieutenant Tragg?”

Tragg nodded.

“Here in court?” Mason asked.

Tragg hesitated a moment, then reached under the counsel table, and picked up a black handbag. He opened it while spectators craned curious necks to see the shirt with its telltale smear, then Tragg handed it to Mason.

“Thank you,” Mason said. “Now, Mr. Homan, will you examine this shirt carefully and tell me whether it is yours.”

“My shirt?” Homan exclaimed.

“Yes.”

“Great Heavens, man, I wasn’t driving that car! I was here...”

“But please examine it just the same, Mr. Homan, and then answer my question.”

He spread the shirt out across Homan’s knees.

Homan looked at the shirt with its crimson smear. “I don’t know,” he said promptly. “How could I tell whose shirt it is?”

Mason said, “Come, come, Mr. Homan. We can do better than that. Don’t you know your own laundry mark?”

“No, sir. I don’t.”

Mason said, “Well, perhaps I can help you. I am sorry to bother you, but will you loosen your tie so I can see the inside of your neckband?”

Homan complied and leaned forward. Mason read the laundry mark, “W. 362.”

“Now then,” Mason said, indicating a mark on the inside of the neckband of the shirt, “you will see this shirt has the same laundry mark.”

Homan regarded the shirt with narrowed eyes, took it in his hands, turned it over, looked at the smear of lipstick, then broke into bitter expostulation. “That’s a frame-up. I never saw the defendant in this case in my life. I didn’t give her any ride. I...”

“That will do,” Judge Cortright interrupted. “You will confine your answers to questions.”

“The question, Mr. Homan,” Mason said, “is whether that is your shirt.”

“I don’t know.”

“But it is your laundry mark?”

“I guess so, yes.”

“And you wear a sixteen and a quarter shirt?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see anything about it which indicates it is not your shirt?”

“No. I guess not.”

Mason said, “Very well, I am now going to call your attention to the keys which the defendant found in her purse, and ask you if this key is a key to the ignition switch of your automobile.”

“It looks like it. I presume so, yes.”

“And do you know what this one is a key to?”

“No, sir.”

“Doesn’t it look at all familiar?”

“No. It... wait a minute... No, I thought for a moment it looked like one of my keys, but it isn’t.”

“These are not your keys?”

“No, sir. Absolutely not.”

“Do you happen to have your keys in your pocket?”

“Why... yes.”

“May I see them, please?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

“The witness will produce his keys,” Judge Cortright ordered. Homan reluctantly took a leather-covered key container from his pocket.

Mason said, “Let’s compare these keys and see we can find any that check. Why, yes, here are two that are identical. Can you tell me what this key in your key container is to, Mr. Homan?”

“My yacht.”

“A lock on the cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Now this other key. Do you have one that is identical with that key?”

“I wouldn’t know. I can remember what all my keys look like.”

Mason checked through the key container. “No,” he said, “you don’t seem to have one.”

Homan shifted his position.

“Now you don’t think these are your keys?”

“No.”

“You didn’t leave your keys in the car by mistake when you parked it — the day it was stolen?”

“No.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes.”

Mason jingled the key ring. “This third key — the one you haven’t been able to identify — you haven’t any idea what lock this key fits?”

“No.”

Mason regarded him steadily for several seconds. “Eventually, Mr. Homan,” he said at length, “the police are going to find the lock this key fits. It would be unfortunate if that should prove to be...”

“Wait a minute,” Homan interrupted. “I am very absent-minded when I am working. I may have left my keys in the car when I parked it.”

“Then these may be your keys?”

Judge Cortright said sternly, “Do you want this court to understand you don’t know your own keys?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I have so many keys... I am afraid that... well, you see, I am always giving keys to servants and chauffeurs, and then getting them back. These may have been some old keys I had left in the glove compartment. Yes, that must be it, some keys I had inadvertently left in the glove compartment.”

Judge Cortright looked down at the witness for several contemptuous seconds, then said to Perry Mason, “Go ahead with your questions, Counselor.”

Mason smiled. “I am finished.”

“What!” Hanley exclaimed in surprise.

“I have no further questions,” Mason announced.

Tragg and Hanley whispered, then Hanley got up and crossed over to Mason. “What is the idea?” he whispered. “You have got him on the run.”

Mason said, “You can question him if you want to.”

“Not me,” Hanley said. “I can’t ride him with spurs. His studio would be gunning for my job before noon.”

Judge Cortright looked down at Mason. “Counsel will understand,” he said, “that the court is interested in this phase of the testimony. There have been enough facts adduced to cast some doubt in the court’s mind, but not enough as yet to overcome all of the evidence introduced by the prosecution.”

Mason said, “I am sorry, Your Honor, but I have no further questions.”

Judge Cortright hesitated, then turned to Homan. “Mr. Homan, were you driving that car on Wednesday the nineteenth?”

“No, sir. Absolutely not.”

“Do you know who was?”

“No, sir.”

“Where were you on Wednesday the nineteenth?”

“On Wednesday the nineteenth,” Homan said, “I was at my residence in Beverly Hills. As soon as I missed the car, and verified the fact that my younger brother was out in my yacht, fishing, so that there was no possibility he could have unlocked it with his keys, and taken it without consulting me, I reported the car as being stolen to the city police at Beverly Hills. A representative of the police called on me to ask me the details. That can be verified.”

“That was Wednesday the nineteenth,” Judge Cortright asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“At what time?”

“I would say about five or six o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Have you any explanation as to how this stain of lipstick got on your shirt?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Judge Cortright looked down at Lieutenant Tragg. “Is there,” he asked, “any reason to doubt this evidence? In other words, is there anything to indicate it has been fabricated?”

“I hadn’t thought so,” Lieutenant Tragg said, his voice showing that he was badly perplexed. “But apparently — well, something must be wrong. Of course, if Mr. Homan can account for his whereabouts at the time of the accident...”

“I can,” Homan said calmly. “I was at my home in Beverly Hills. I reported the car as being stolen as I have said. I had a conference with a representative of the police of Beverly Hills, and then I went to the studio, taking the script on which I had been working and had a conference with a certain department head.”

“What time did that conference start?” Judge Cortright asked.

“At about nine o’clock in the evening, and continued through until nearly midnight.”

Cortright and Tragg exchanged glances, then Tragg and Hanley went into a whispered conference.

Mason said suavely, “These, gentlemen, were your questions, not mine.”

Judge Cortright looked down at Mason. “Evidently, Counselor,” he said with some acerbity, “you knew exactly where to stop in your examination.”

Mason smiled serenely at the baffled judge. “Quite evidently I did, Your Honor.”

Hanley got slowly to his feet. “Your Honor,” he said, “some of this evidence comes as a distinct surprise to us. We had anticipated that the examination of the witness would be more complete, that there would be some effort to show the identity of all the keys on this key ring. It might even be the police could furnish Mr. Mason with an opportunity to get this evidence, or at any rate to see if this witness... Well, we shall cooperate with Mr. Mason in any and every way.” He stopped and looked across at Mason, but Mason returned his gaze with eyes which showed only bland disinterest.

Hanley turned back to Judge Cortright. “The situation is one which is very peculiar, Your Honor. The district attorney’s office doesn’t wish to be a party to any injustice. As the court may well know, further developments in this case have become exceedingly grave and somewhat complicated. We feel that in justice to all concerned, the hearing should be continued while we check Mr. Homan’s testimony carefully.”

“Does that mean I have got to come back here again?” Homan demanded indignantly.

Judge Cortright studied the indignant picture producer for several thoughtful seconds, then said quietly, “It does. The court will continue this case until Monday morning at ten o’clock at which time the witnesses will return to court.”

“But, Your Honor, I can’t keep trotting back and forth here to court...”

“You are a witness,” Judge Cortright said. “Furthermore, Mr. Homan, there are some matters in your testimony which have not been explained to the court’s satisfaction. The case is continued until Monday morning at ten o’clock. The defendant remains on bail, Mr. Deputy District Attorney?”

“She is on bail at the present time.”

“Is there any motion to have that bail increased?”

Hanley said, “No, Your Honor, I guess not,” and then added, “The defendant seems to have a perfect and complete alibi for all of yesterday evening when the second murder was committed.”

“Very well,” Judge Cortright said, “the court will take a recess for ten minutes, and then take up the Case of People versus Sampson.”

As Judge Cortright left the bench, Tragg came over to Mason. “What is the idea, Mason?” he asked.

Mason said, “It is your move, Tragg. You said you would give me until this morning, and unless I could make some satisfactory explanation, you would arrest me after I had cross-examined Homan. Well, here I am.”

Tragg said, “Mason, you knew about that murder last night.”

Mason smiled and said nothing.

“I have enough circumstantial evidence to hold you — at least as a material witness.”

“Do it,” Mason said, “and you will regret it as long as you live.”

Tragg sighed. “I wish,” he said to Mason, “we could get along. After all, we should be working together on this case.”

“We could if you weren’t always trying to get something on me,” Mason said.

“Get something on you! Good Lord, you play tag with corpses, violate half of the laws in the penal code, and then expect me to tag along with a happy smile. How the hell did you know it was Homan’s shirt?”

Homan, who had marched from the witness stand and was standing on the outskirts of the group, pressed forward and said, “Gentlemen, I dislike to interrupt, but I simply want to tell Mr. Mason I think his questions are impertinent.”

Mason merely smiled.

Tragg said, “Mr. Homan, I don’t want to bother you, but it is imperative that we check up on your statements as to what you were doing on Wednesday. Will you kindly sit down over there and write the names of every person with whom you talked on Wednesday afternoon?”

“Gladly, sir,” Homan snapped. “I will do everything in my power to contribute to a solution of this case. I know I wasn’t driving that automobile, and I don’t believe Adler Greeley was driving it. What I object to is the manner in which my private affairs are being pried into.”

“I understand your position perfectly,” Mason said. “You object. You have made your objection — and it is overruled.” He turned his shoulder.

Homan glowered indignantly, then strode over to the table which Tragg had indicated, whipped some paper from his brief case, adjusted his horned-rimmed spectacles, and started to scribble.

Mrs. Greeley came walking toward them from the back of the courtroom. She said, “Mr. Mason, I had no idea that was not my husband’s shirt when I brought it to you last night. But I knew Adler wouldn’t have been guilty of the things they claim the driver of this car did. And I most certainly had no idea that shirt belonged to Mr. Homan. You evidently know something I don’t. Apparently, there is some mysterious connection between my husband and Mr. Homan. Can you tell me what it is?”

Mason shook his head. “Not right now, Mrs. Greeley. But if you can wait a few hours, I think I will have a lot more information.”

She said, “You were so helpful last night, Mr. Mason, so... so encouraging. You made things so much easier for me.”

“I am glad I did. And here is one way you can help. In going over your husband’s correspondence, did you find anything that would connect him with a Mrs. Warfield?”

She frowned. “There is nothing at the house. Perhaps his secretary at the office could tell you.”

“I would prefer to have you try to dig it up, Mrs. Greeley.” He turned to Tragg and said, “After all, Lieutenant, Della Street is the one who really called my attention to the key clue in the entire case.”

“What’s that?” Tragg asked as Jackson Sterne came up to stand diffidently on the edge of the group.

“Mrs. Warfield. She didn’t leave the Gateview Hotel that night. On the other hand, she certainly didn’t sleep in her room.”

Tragg said, “I don’t get you, Mason.”

Mason smiled. “I am going to the Gateview Hotel. I am going to take a room, and I am going to question the various employees in detail concerning a theory I have. Any objections?”

Tragg’s eyes narrowed. “No objections right at the moment, but until you have accounted for that feather, Mason...”

“Really, Lieutenant, you mustn’t attach too much importance to these inanimate clues. It is much more satisfactory to analyze motivations and opportunities, and deduce what must have happened. Well, I shall be seeing you.”

He picked up his briefcase and calmly walked away.

Jackson Sterne stood watching him, blinking slowly.

Mrs. Greeley watched Mason’s back with eyes in which there were quick tears. “He is going to clear Adler of getting out of that car and leaving Miss Claire to take the blame,” she said in a voice which carried conviction.

Hanley said with feeling, “There never was a more clever outlaw. Essentially, the man is nonsocial, nonconventional, a nonconformist. He may respect justice, but he certainly has no regard for the letter of the law!”

“But,” Tragg pointed out, “he has done more to solve murders than any man on the force; but... well, damn him!”