The Case of the Nervous Accomplice

Chapter 15

Perry Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake gathered in a gloomy session in the lawyer’s private office.

“Gosh, Perry,” Paul Drake said, “shouldn’t you have tried to break down some of the identification there? Couldn’t you have cross-examined and—”

“Sure, I could have,” Mason said. “But that’s not the way to try this case. Jurors are pretty smart, Paul. You start trying to keep things out of evidence that everyone knows is the truth, and pretty quick the jurors get the idea that you’re afraid of the truth.

“Now you can see what happened in this case. Hamilton Burger has been laying for me. He’s smarting under the sting of prior defeats. He’s made up his mind that this is one case that’s going to be so thoroughly prepared, so thoroughly checked that there won’t be the faintest opportunity of anything going wrong. He was hoping, of course, that I’d keep batting my head against a brick wall with a lot of cross-examination and objections. I might have gained a technical point or two, but I’d have lost the sympathy of the jury.

“This is one case where all the facts are so carefully dovetailed that there can’t be any question. Of course, my client tells me that the gun she put back in the glove compartment hadn’t been fired, that it was the same gun she took out of the glove compartment, that she went home in the taxicab to change her shoes and stockings, since they had become so bedraggled and soiled from walking down from the hill that she was ashamed to be seen in them. That may be true. She’s lied to me before. She’d doubtless lie again. A desperate woman will nearly always try to color the facts so that they will be in her favor.”

“If I were a lawyer,” Drake said, “I wouldn’t represent a client who lied to me.”

“Then you wouldn’t have very many clients,” Mason told him, “particularly in criminal cases. I don’t know why it is, but it’s not once in fifty times that you’ll find a client who tells you the entire truth. Nearly all of them, no matter how innocent they may be and how honest they may be, will try to sugar-coat the facts so that they become more favorable.”

“What are you going to do?” Drake asked.

“I’m afraid I’m going to stake everything on Ezekiel Elkins’ black eye,” Mason said. “If I can cross-examine him and make that black eye look significant, I can, perhaps, brand him as the murderer of George Lutts. Otherwise, I’m going to have to put the defendant on the stand, and when I put her on the stand, Hamilton Burger is going to crucify her.”

“There’s no alternative?”

“Not that I can see at the present time,” Mason said.

“Well, I can tell you this, Perry. I haven’t been able to prove that Elkins was in any kind of an automobile accident and I haven’t been able to prove that he wasn’t.”

Mason said, “The advantage of trying a case the way I’m trying this one is that the jurors become quite sympathetic. They feel that you’re not going to waste their time and the Court’s time. They’ll feel that whenever I start in on a stern cross-examination now, I will have some mighty good reason for it, and they’ll follow every question I ask with rapt attention. This is my strategy. It has to be. By passing off all of these other witnesses as being merely preliminary, the mere fact that I start tearing into Elkins on cross-examination is going to impress that jury tremendously.”

“Then you’re planning to put the defendant on the stand?”

“That depends on whether I get anywhere with Elkins,” Mason said. “If I can build a good suspicion in the minds of the jury, I may be able to get by without putting the defendant on the stand. But the chances of that are only one out of a hundred.”

“I’d hate to be in your shoes,” Paul Drake said. “This is one case I don’t like.”

“I don’t like it myself,” Mason admitted. “But if you’re a card player you frequently pick up hands that you don’t like. Just because you get a poor hand is no reason you should throw down your cards in disgust and not even try. You have to make the best out of every case you handle. What did you find out about marksmanship, Paul?”

“What do you mean?”

“About the various parties concerned — how much experience they have had in handling guns.”

“Well,” Drake said, opening a notebook, “if you want a list of the persons who would probably have missed George Lutts at ten feet, I can give them to you on the fingers of one hand.”

“Who?”

“Elkins, for one. He’s never fired a gun in his life. Your client, for another. She says she closes her eyes whenever she pulls the trigger. That’s what she told one of her friends. And if you want to consider Roxy Claffin as a suspect, she’s a lousy shot — at least, she’s supposed to be. Among other things, Enright Harlan was supposed to be teaching her how to shoot. Apparently, she wasn’t doing too well.

“Now, on the other side you have Regerson B. Neffs who claims to be a good pistol shot, or at least he was in his younger days. You have Enright Harlan, who is a most expert pistol shot. You have Herbert Doxey, who won a bunch of medals for pistol shooting. And you have Cleve Rector, who describes himself as a fairly good shot.”

Mason started pacing the floor. “How the devil did Lutts know that I had been retained by Mrs. Harlan, Paul?”

Drake shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s one of the mysteries in the case. Apparently, he got it through his banking connections. When he went out to lunch with Doxey, he certainly didn’t have any idea. That is, he didn’t when he first sat down to lunch. But then he got some sudden inspiration and went to the telephone booth there in the restaurant and put through a call to someone, presumably some chap in the bank. Evidently, they traced the check you had placed in your account.”

“I don’t like that,” Mason said. “That would mean the violation of the banking code.”

“I know. But those things do happen.”

Again Mason started pacing the floor.

“Chief,” Della Street said solicitously, “I can see that you’re going to be up all night, pacing the floor, trying to get this thing straightened out.”

Mason, his face granite hard, said, “Well, we have some pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. Some of them fit and some of them don’t fit. I’m going to keep trying to shuffle them around until I find some combination which makes them fit.

“What results are you getting from your shadows, Paul? What is Roxy Claffin doing?”

“Gloating, mostly. She’s sitting on top of the world, with Enright Harlan like a sheep being led to the slaughter. She may be planning on subleasing her house. She’s started cleaning it out. She was out in her garage today, took all the old junk down to the dump and threw it away.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of junk?”

“Old empty paint cans, a broken trunk, a stool, some old inner tubes, some torn canvas sacks, and a box of battered up old scrap iron and stuff.”

“Where is all that?” Mason asked.

“Down on the dump, out there. It’s nothing. My man got a look at it when she loaded it, and then after she’d left he went out and inspected it.”

“Get that junk,” Mason said, “all of it. Where’s your man?”

“He’s off duty now. I can get him and—”

Mason said, “Dammit, Paul, in a case of this sort, don’t ever consider anything insignificant. Get that junk and get it in here just as fast as you can.”

Drake looked at his watch and sighed. “Okay,” he said.

“And those inner tubes. What’s wrong with them?”

“Evidently, Perry, she was just cleaning out the garage. She threw a bunch of stuff in—”

“I want that stuff, Paul. Get your men on the job. I want all of it.”

“You’ll have your office filled up with a whole garageful of junk,” Drake said wearily.

“That,” Mason told him, “is exactly what I want. You get that stuff and bring it here. Della and I will go grab a bite to eat. We’ll meet you here after... let’s see, nine o’clock.”

“Tonight?”

“Sure, tonight,” Mason said impatiently. “What the hell did you think? Tomorrow morning?”

“I didn’t know,” Drake said.

“Well, you know now,” Mason told him. “Come on, Della.”

Two hours later, Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake faced a crestfallen detective across Mason’s desk.

“What do you mean you can’t find ’em?” Mason asked.

Blanton, the detective, said, “That’s what I mean, Mr. Mason. They’re not there.”

“You must have got the wrong place,” Mason told him.

“No, I didn’t. I know right where she put them.”

“How do you know?”

“The same way I know anything. The same way I know where your office is.”

“What dump was this?”

“Well, it’s a dump out there about three miles beyond her place, out where there’s an old barranca they’re filling in. It isn’t used for a city dump, but the people who live around there throw stuff in it. It’s evidently been used for quite a while.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Oh, tin cans, boxes... all kinds of junk.”

“Exactly what did Mrs. Claffin do?”

“Well, it was about seven-thirty this morning, about well, about half an hour, I guess, after she got up. She opened up her garage, and I could see she was doing stuff on the inside, so I moved my car around to where I could look in with my binoculars.”

“And what did you see?”

“Saw her loading things into this car.”

“Where was she putting the things?”

“In the rear storage compartment.”

“How good a view did you have?”

“Not too good at the time... real good later on.”

“When did you get this good look?”

“At the dump, after she’d left. I followed along, taking care that she didn’t realize that she was being spotted. Then when she drove out to the dump, I just went on past.”

“And then what?”

“Well, I went down the road... well, nearly a mile, I guess. I parked the car and looked through my binoculars. I saw her throwing this stuff on the dump and then she turned around and drove back to the house. I was supposed to be following her, but I thought I’d better take a look at this stuff on the dump, so I detoured back to the dump where I could see the stuff.”

“You got a good look at it there?”

“Sure, I got a good look. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Mason. I went out to the exact spot on the dump and checked the stuff close.”

“Exactly what was it?”

“Well, there were some old inner tubes, there were some boards that had been on some sort of a packing case, there was a coil of old wire, and there was some scrap iron. There was a stool, a pretty good stool, some torn canvas sacks.”

“Tell me about the torn canvas sacks.”

“They had been pretty good sacks at one time, the money sacks that a bank uses for currency. They’d been sewn up and then ripped open along the sides. That is, they’d been cut open. And there was a box of old junk. There was scrap iron on the bottom.”

“What kind of scrap iron?”

“Bolts and nuts. All kinds of scrap. I remember there was a piece of iron rail in there and some sort of an iron wheel and... oh, maybe a couple of hundred pounds of junk.”

“She couldn’t have lifted a box of that kind into the trunk,” Mason said.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Mason. She just used the box to haul out all of this old scrap iron from the garage. She must have put the box in the back storage compartment of the car, and then chucked this scrap iron in it, and then after she got out to the dump, she just used one of the boards to pry this box out and dumped it and went away.

“She drove away as soon as she dumped it. I’m sorry, I guess I overlooked a bet, Mr. Mason. I made a note of it in my report, but I was supposed to follow her, so I didn’t dare take too much time prowling around on the dump. I went right back and picked her up at the house.”

“She drove directly back to her house?”

“That’s right. I spotted her car, and then kept an eye on her and stayed with her until she went to court. I come on at four o’clock in the morning and work until noon, and then my relief takes over. I made out a report and described this junk and the old inner tubes and things.”

“The significant part of the whole business is that they’re gone now,” Mason said.

“Well, that may not be so significant, Mr. Mason. The iron in that box was worth something. You know, she didn’t need to take that stuff down there. She could have called a junk peddler, and he’d at least have been willing to haul it away for the iron and stuff that was there. And it was a pretty good stool. Some of that stuff probably could have been used — the stool and some of those old bolts and nuts.”

“But,” Mason said, “the old inner tubes are missing, everything is missing.”

“Every blessed thing she took out there is missing,” Blanton admitted.

“Well,” Mason said, “there’s nothing we can do about it at the present time, except try to figure out why it’s missing.”

“I’m sorry,” Blanton said, “I don’t see how I could have played it any different. I was just shadowing her and—”

“It’s all right,” Mason said. “You should have telephoned Drake right away. When there’s anything unusual — Paul, put a couple more men on Mrs. Claffin. I want to find out everything she does. I want to know everyone she sees, and if anything she does is the least bit significant, I want to be notified immediately. No matter what’s happening, get word to me immediately. Have word relayed to Della, and she can bring it to me in the courtroom. No matter what I’m doing, I want to know.”

Drake nodded. “I’ll get busy on it right away.”

Mason turned to Della Street. “Okay,” he said wearily, “you may as well go home, Della. Tomorrow could be the most disastrous day in my legal career.”

Drake and Blanton left the office. Della Street went to the outer office, adjusted the switchboard, returned, and turned out the desk light. Then she walked up to the lawyer, looked up at his troubled eyes.

“It isn’t your fault, Chief,” she said. “If Mrs. Harlan hadn’t done all of that elaborate window dressing before she called you, she—”

“I know,” Mason said, “but... well, I have the responsibility.”

“And I suppose you’re going to stay here and pace the floor, wrestling with this thing?”

“I’m not going to waste time sleeping while this thing’s unsolved, Della.”

“You can’t do any good just beating your head against a brick wall.”

“Perhaps I can find a way to detour around the wall,” Mason said. “Why did that junk disappear?”

Della Street said, “I’m going to stay if you stay.”

“No, Della, you go get some sleep.”

She came close to him. “You may get some ideas you’ll want to have written up.”

Mason circled her with his arm. “Bless you, Della. You worry as much about this as I do.”

“If she’s guilty, you can’t help that,” Della Street said.

“I know,” Mason said, holding her closer to him. “What a comfort you are with your steadfast faith and loyalty, Della.”

“You know you have that, Chief,” she told him, “always.”

Mason bent and kissed her.

Her arm circled his neck. “Oh, Chief, I wish—”

She broke off as Mason’s form suddenly became rigid. “What is it, Chief? What’s the matter?”

“I’ve just thought of something,” Mason said. “That junk that disappeared. Hang it, Della! That’s significant.”

Della Street’s voice was wistful. “And I take it,” she said, “the client comes first.”

Mason patted her shoulder, then abruptly strode over to his desk. “Of course the client comes first, Della. That’s what a lawyer’s for. Della, sit in that chair. Let me ask you some questions.”

Mason’s voice was sharp with excitement.

“Here, Della, take a notebook. Make a list of questions. Let’s start analyzing this case. When a chemist starts analyzing an unknown substance, he tries to find out the basic ingredients that are in it by applying various tests. In other words, he asks the substance questions. Why don’t we start asking this case questions?”

Della Street said with some asperity, “I suppose if you were getting married, and just as the wedding march was starting you got an idea about a case, you’d be off for the courtroom. Go ahead, Chief, I’ve got my pencil all ready. What are the questions?”

“The disappearing junk,” Mason said. “Why did it disappear?”

Della Street’s pencil made swift shorthand notations in the notebook.

Mason started excitedly pacing the floor.

“That disappearance is the most significant clue in the whole case. That’s the break we’ve been waiting for. Why did that junk disappear?” Mason asked.

“Well,” Della said, “of course, it couldn’t have got up and walked away under its own power.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “And by that same token, Roxy Claffin didn’t go back and pick it up.”

“How do we know?”

“We know,” Mason said, “because Roxy Claffin was being shadowed. Don’t you see what that disappearance means, Della?”

She started to say something, checked herself, sat watching Mason as he excitedly paced the floor.

“Here are some more questions, Della. Make a note of these. Three shots were fired from the fatal revolver. Two bullets have been found. The third bullet has not been found. In what is the third bullet embedded? And why is the third empty cartridge, the one which contained the bullet that is missing, of a different brand from the other shells in the gun?

“Now here’s another question: Lutts got the information that connected my purchase of the stock in the Sylvan Glade Development Company with Sybil Harlan through a bank leak, but where did Enright Harlan get that information? He says Roxy got it from Mrs. Doxey. Mrs. Doxey denies that.”

Mason said excitedly, “Type out that list of questions, Della. Let me have it. We’ll start considering all the various answers which will fit in with the facts. Della, we’re on the track of something!”

His excitement reached Della Street. She jerked the cover off her typewriter, ratcheted in a sheet of paper and her fingers started flying over the keys.

Mason, his face showing intense concentration, continued pacing the floor.

Suddenly the lawyer reached for the telephone, dialed Paul Drake and said, “Paul, get a four-wheeled truck of the kind used by bellboys to transport baggage. Take the wheels off, remove all oil from the axles and put on some rosin or something so they’ll squeak to high heaven.

“Pile some boards, a stool and a couple of hundred pounds of scrap iron on it, cover the whole thing with a cloth and be prepared to wheel it into court tomorrow when I give you a signal. Never mind why. Just get the stuff together.”

And Mason was smiling as he hung up the telephone.