The Case of the Nervous Accomplice

Chapter 8

Perry Mason, fresh and debonair, latchkeyed the door of his private office.

Della Street, who had been opening mail, looked up at him with a smile.

“How’s everything coming, Della?” Mason asked.

“So-so. Drake says he has a more complete report on what happened than he was able to give us when we phoned last night.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Give him a ring and tell him to come in. What’s in the mail?”

“The usual assortment of trouble. Letters from mothers, telling you of their sons who have been convicted on perjured evidence. A letter from Cleve Rector, stating that he would like to discuss a business matter with you at your earliest possible opportunity. A letter from Ezekiel Elkins, stating that he would like an appointment regarding a matter in which you have a mutual interest. An attorney named Arthur Nebitt Hagan has telephoned twice; he says that he is representing Roxy Claffin and that because of statements which you made to the board of directors of the Sylvan Glade Development Company, she finds herself suffering a pecuniary loss, that your statement misinterpreted the law and misstated the facts. It seems Mrs. Claffin wants you held strictly accountable, but that Attorney Hagan is counseling moderation and is suggesting that she hold off any action until after it has become fully apparent that, as her representative, he can’t work out any amicable basis of approach.”

“How interesting,” Mason said.

“He wanted you to call him as soon as you came in.”

“Get Paul Drake,” Mason said. “Tell him to come in.”

Mason busied himself reading the mail while Della Street phoned Paul Drake.

“No word from Mrs. Harlan?” Mason asked.

“Not yet.”

“Paul Drake coming down?”

“He said he’d be in right away. He... here he is now.”

Drake’s code knock sounded on the door of the office, and Della Street opened it.

“How are you feeling this morning, Paul?” Mason asked.

“Terrible,” Drake said, “I had acid indigestion all night.”

“Comes from taking too much soda,” Mason told him. “You destroy the alkaline balance in your system.”

“I know,” Drake said, “but taking too much soda comes from eating too many soggy hamburgers, and eating too many soggy hamburgers comes from working for a lawyer who wants everything fast. Actually, the way things developed, I could have gone out last night, had a nice dinner and then come back about eleven o’clock and got all of the information you needed.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but then we would have missed Mrs. Harlan’s message about her fifth wedding anniversary.”

“Yes, wasn’t it wonderful. How are you connected with this Lutts’ murder, Perry?”

“I’m not connected with it. Lutts was on the board of directors of a corporation in which I have invested a fairly large amount of money. I’m afraid his death may upset the balance of power.”

“Then,” Drake said, “why worry about the circumstances of his death? All you needed was a physician’s certificate that he was dead. I could have told you that within a few minutes after you telephoned. He was dead as an iced mackerel.”

“Anything else, Paul?”

“It seems the police found you at the scene of the murder.”

“Yes. It was most unfortunate. I went out to inspect the property, and the corpse of Mr. Lutts made it impossible for me to carry out my inspection. The police were rather narrow-minded about the entire procedure.”

“They’re inclined to be that way,” Drake said. “Then you know all about the place where the body was found?”

“That’s right. An old three-story building which has been abandoned for some little time. This company Lutts was with was making a real estate development out of it. Lutts evidently went out there to look it over just before I arrived, and somebody shot him.”

“That’s right. With a thirty-eight revolver, right in the chest from a distance of about eighteen or twenty inches.”

“In the chest?”

“Yes. Severed the aorta or something. Death was almost instantaneous.”

“He was facing the person who shot him?”

“That’s right.”

“About eighteen inches away?”

Drake nodded. “Eighteen or twenty.”

“They got that from a powder pattern, I presume,” Mason said.

“That’s right. They processed the vest and shirt at the police laboratory. The chemical pattern reaction of powder stains shows about eighteen inches — assuming that the weapon used was an ordinary thirty-eight calibre revolver with a standard barrel.”

“When?” Mason asked.

“Probably around four-thirty yesterday afternoon.”

“How do they fix the time?”

“They know that he didn’t go to lunch until after a directors’ meeting. They know just what he ate and exactly when. The post-mortem shows the condition of food in the stomach. Also, there’s a question of body temperature. Police feel that they can fix the time of death within not more than a thirty-minute period. In other words, that the maximum period of variation will be fifteen minutes either way.”

“I take it they haven’t found the gun?”

“Not yet. They do have one clue.”

“What?”

“When they broadcast the news of the murder — now this is confidential, Perry; it hasn’t been released to the public yet—”

“Yes, yes, go on, never mind that.”

“Well, a taxi driver came forward, a fellow by the name of Jerome C. Keddie. He’s a Red Line cab driver. The cab number is seven-sixty-one.”

“All right,” Mason said, “go ahead. What are you looking at me like that for, Paul?”

Drake said, “I was just wondering why you had me locate cab number seven-sixty-one yesterday evening.”

“Go on,” Mason said, his face expressionless. “Tell me what Keddie told the cops.”

“He said that he had picked up a very mysterious passenger, a young, attractive woman, dressed almost entirely in white, that is, a white skirt, white shoes and a sort of cream-colored jacket with red trim. He picked her up just a short distance from where the body was found. He was returning empty from the country club. There was something about his fare that impressed him. He noticed her particularly.”

“What did he say impressed him?”

“He thought she’d been through some very harassing experience. He knew she’d been running. She seemed very upset. Her face was pale underneath her make-up. He thought that perhaps she had been out with a man who had tried to assault her and that she’d either been forced to get out and walk, or had hit him over the head in self-defence or something. He tried to sound her out in conversation, but couldn’t get her to open up at all. He took her to the Union Station. He felt certain that she intended to catch another cab at the station and go to some other destination. She didn’t have any baggage. She said her husband was going to meet her at the train. The cabbie said he thought she was lying.

“Keddie admitted he’d been listening to the radio broadcasts and that he’d read the morning newspaper, wondering if he wouldn’t find something had happened out on that road — either that there’d been a hit-and-run accident or that some crime had been committed.”

“He can identify this woman?” Mason asked.

“He can identify her,” Drake said.

“That’s nice,” Mason observed quietly.

“So,” Drake said, “I wonder where that leaves me, Perry.”

“Why should it leave you anywhere?”

“I was scouting this cab for you.”

“You don’t need to tell the police that.”

“Well, it depends on why I was doing it.”

“You don’t know why you were doing it.”

“I suppose,” Drake said, “you wanted to put one of your client’s friends in this cab who could sort of pump the guy and see what happened. That bothers me a lot. But suppose it should turn out that this person he picked up was your client. That might leave us both in a predicament.”

“Why?”

“Tampering with the evidence.”

“Tampering with what evidence?”

“With the testimony of a witness.”

“How?”

“Well, trying to influence him.”

“Influence him to do what?”

“I don’t know what was said by the people who were in that taxicab.”

“Then,” Mason said, “there’s no need for you to worry. What else do you know?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Not if there’s anything else.”

“Well, of course, the police felt that Keddie had the right idea. They’re covering taxi drivers who were at the Union Station, seeing if they can find a taxi driver who remembers picking up a fare dressed as this woman was dressed.”

“I see,” Mason said.

“You’re awfully damned noncommittal about this thing,” Drake blurted out.

“Who did you want me to commit?” Mason asked. “Myself?”

“Well,” Drake told him, “I thought you should know that—”

The telephone rang. Drake said, “That may be for me, Perry. I left word that if anything important came up in this case, they were to call me here.”

Della Street picked up the telephone and nodded, said, “It’s for you, Paul.”

Drake picked up the receiver, said, “Yes, this is Paul... Give me that again, will you?”

Drake said, “Okay, I’ll pass the word on to Mason. Nothing else, is there?... Okay. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Drake said wearily to Mason. “Here we go again.”

“Where?” Mason asked.

“On one of those wild run-arounds of yours. The police have found the murder weapon.”

“Where?”

“Someone had thrown it down on the bank to the north of the house.”

“How nice,” Mason said. “What did they find out from the weapon?”

“They found that it was a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight calibre revolver, with a five-inch barrel, that it had been fired three times, that the number on the gun had not been tampered with, that, tracing the number, the police found the sale had been made to Enright A. Harlan of 609 Lamison Avenue.

“At about the same time, the police got a lead from a taxi driver who had picked up a fare at the Union Station whose description matched the girl’s they were looking for. This cabbie remembered that he had gone to someplace on Lamison Avenue, but he couldn’t remember the exact number. It was someplace between Fifth and Ninth.

“So police got the taxi driver to see if he could locate the house, and it was 609 Lamison Avenue. Police went in and invited Mr. and Mrs. Enright A. Harlan to headquarters for a little chat with the district attorney. They’re there now.”

“Well,” Mason said, “that’s going to make an interesting case.”

“You make such masterpieces of understatement,” Paul Drake groaned. “That’s going to make an exciting case, and if they should find out what you did with that taxi driver—”

“What did I do with him?” Mason asked.

“You did... Hell, I don’t know what you did with him. Probably, you’ve arranged to confuse the issues in some way. You’ve—”

The telephone rang again. Della Street picked it up and again nodded. “For you once more, Paul.”

Drake picked up the telephone, said, “Okay, shoot. This is Paul... Who is it, Jim?... Oh, I see. They are?... Well, let me have it.”

Drake was silent for almost a minute, then he said thoughtfully, “Well, I guess that’s all there is to it, Jim. Just keep me posted. Thanks for letting me know.”

Drake hung up the telephone and said, “Well, you were being so damned smart, Perry, you should have advised your client to use a little more care.”

“In what way?” Mason asked.

“Police opened her purse and found the receipt issued by the taxi driver for the run down to the Union Station. The amount was two dollars and ninety-five cents, which is exactly the way the cab driver remembers it because he remembers she gave him three and a half, which left him a fifty-five-cent tip. The number of the taxi cab, number seven-sixty-one, is on that receipt. It seems to me, you might at least have had foresight enough to have your client drop that receipt in a wastepaper receptacle someplace. Now, we’re hooked.”

“Who’s hooked?”

“You and I.”

“You haven’t anything to do with it.”

“I wish I didn’t — you had me locating that cab.”

“Now look here,” Mason said. “You do a lot of work for me, Paul. The things that you do for me are confidential.”

“What if the police ask me? I can’t lie to them.”

Mason said, “Paul, your stomach is bothering you. You’re living on greasy hamburgers and half-fried onions. You’re eating entirely too much fried food. You’re eating at irregular hours. You need a good rest — start taking it.”

Drake looked at him in surprise.

“I have a job in La Jolla that I want you to work on,” Mason told him.

“What is it?”

“I’ll phone you details after you get down there.”

“I’m to leave now?”

“Immediately,” Mason said. “Get a nice unit in a motel, enjoy the ocean breezes and relax.”

“I think I’m going to like this,” Drake said.

“I knew you would,” Mason told him. “Who’s going to handle your office while you’re gone?”

“Harry Blanton. I’ll have to go to the bank to get some money.”

“Give Paul some money out of the safe, Della,” Mason said.

She nodded.

“So,” Mason said, looking at his watch, “there’s nothing holding you back, Paul.”