The Case of the Postponed Murder

Chapter 12

Daylight found Mason sitting in the narrow confines of Paul Drake’s private office, studying huge, glossy paper enlargements with a magnifying glass.

Drake, seated across the desk, chewed gum nervously. His eyes surveyed the lawyer speculatively. “That,” he said, “was the biggest enlargement we could make and still keep any detail in the print. As it is, you’ll notice it shows considerable grain. The negative was wire sharp and fine grained, but we’ve blown it up to a point where it commences to get fuzzy. Each one of those prints represents only a quarter of the negative.”

“I understand,” Mason said, not looking up, but continuing his patient search with the magnifying glass.

“And this other one, the one my pals slipped me,” Drake said, “is an eleven by fourteen enlargement, from the negative taken after the Pennwent was brought into port. I was lucky to get that print. I can get bigger enlargements, but it will take time and a little manipulation.”

“Time,” Mason said, “is the one thing we haven’t got. That preliminary hearing is called for ten o’clock this morning.”

“Exactly what,” Drake asked, “are you looking for, Perry?”

Mason said, “I’m looking for a lucky break.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m hoping to find something in one photograph which isn’t in the other.”

“You mean the figures, a person...”

“No,” Mason said, “some significant difference in the furniture. For instance, look at this cigarette tray. In the picture Eversel took, it has half a dozen cigarette stubs on it. In this picture taken after the body was discovered, there are only two.”

“Well?” Drake asked. “What’s wrong with that?”

Mason shook his head. “A person committing a murder,” he said, “doesn’t bother to tidy up the place and empty the ashtrays. If he should do that for any reason, he doesn’t stick around to smoke two cigarettes.”

Drake frowned. “Exactly what are you getting at, Perry?” he asked.

Mason said, “I’m darned if I know exactly, Paul, but I’m working on the theory of elimination. I’d like to find something to substantiate my idea. If I could— Hello, what’s this?” His magnifying glass remained stationary over a section of one of the enlargements.

Outside, the first rays of sunlight tinted the tops of the office buildings, made the electric light in Drake’s office seem artificial and unreal. The morning light, pouring through the window, showed Mason’s skin oily with fatigue, brought into prominence the tips of stubble which had grown out on his chin during the last twenty-four hours.

“What is it?” Drake asked.

Mason passed the photograph across to him, indicated a section with his finger, and said, “Take a look, Paul.”

Drake studied it through the magnifying glass and said, “Gosh, Perry, it doesn’t look like anything to me. It’s something round in a case, some kind of a rare coin, I suppose. Wentworth, you know, was quite a collector.”

“Uh huh,” Mason said. “Let’s assume that it is a coin. It isn’t so much what the object is as where it went. You’ll notice that it doesn’t appear in this other photograph, yet it was up on the shelf, and there’s something else across the top of that case.”

“It looks like a cartridge,” Drake said, studying it carefully.

“It does,” Mason said, “but I don’t think it is a cartridge. Remember, Paul, this picture was taken by a flashlight which makes the lighting rather harsh, and we’ve enlarged it from rather a small negative. Even so, that could hardly be a revolver cartridge. It would have to be a rifle cartridge, judging from its length.”

“Well, why not?” Drake asked.

“The modern rifle,” Mason said, “uses a bottleneck cartridge. This is straight across like a revolver shell.”

“Couldn’t a revolver cartridge be that long?” Drake asked.

“Yes,” Mason said, “I guess it could, but — that’s rather a big coin, Paul. I wish we could make out some of the details on it.”

“You can only get a line here and there,” Drake said, “not enough to tell what kind of a coin it is.”

Mason narrowed his eyes. “That coin,” he said, “must mean something. One thing’s certain, Paul. Wentworth wasn’t killed at the time it’s been generally assumed the shot was fired. He had an opportunity to dress, empty the ashtray, cast loose the lines, start the motor, and put out to sea.”

Drake shook his head. “Someone else did that for him, Perry. You can’t figure a man being killed on the high seas on a yacht without anyone else being around — not without some evidences of a struggle. A man certainly isn’t going to let someone else board his yacht, and...”

“Not strangers,” Mason said. “A friend might be different.”

“Well,” Drake said, “even supposing you’re right, I don’t see what this coin has to do with it particularly.”

Mason said, “I’d like to have the Pennwent searched from stem to stern to see if we can find that coin.”

“It’s been gone over with a fine tooth comb for fingerprints and everything else,” Drake said. “The Homicide Bureau of the Police Department has inventories of everything that was found. I can find out if that coin was located.”

“It should be a cinch,” Mason said, “because it’s evidently in a case with a hinged cover. That would mean it’s a valuable coin. You can get just a hint of the design, Paul. There’s something running across it, a band of crisscross lines.”

“Uh huh,” Drake said, “probably some sort of a coat of arms.”

“It might give us a clue,” Mason said thoughtfully, “if we could—”

There was a knock at the door of the office. Drake called, “Come in.”

One of his operatives opened the door. “Want to see the papers?” he asked. “There’s a lot in there about... about Mr. Mason.”

Mason straightened from a contemplation of the photograph. “It’ll be a change for my eyes,” he said. “What do they say about me?”

“Darn near everything,” the operative said with a grin. “It seems you’re guilty of just about everything except murder, including bribing a witness to leave the country.”

“Bribing a witness?” Mason asked.

“Yes, a girl named Hazel Tooms. It’s the theory of the police that someone who wanted her out of the way gave her five hundred dollars to make a trip out of the country. She admitted that much to officers when they served her with a subpoena.”

“Mention my name?” Mason asked.

“Not in so many words,” the operative said.

Mason spread the paper out on the desk and read in headlines:

Mason turned to Paul Drake with a grin. “Well, Paul,” he said, “looks like we’re in the news.”

Drake placed his extended forefinger on a paragraph midway down the article. “Notice this,” he said. “ ‘Grand jury subpoenas have been issued and will be served sometime today. Police have insisted that the grand jury make a sweeping investigation into the activities of a lawyer whose methods have been noted for dramatic originality rather than a strict adherence to conventional routine. It is rumored that a detective agency which subsists largely on work furnished by the attorney in question will be the subject of a sweeping investigation. If criminal charges are not brought, police intimate that they will at least take steps to prevent a renewal of the agency’s licence.’”

Mason grinned again at Paul Drake. “How about a little breakfast, Paul?”

Drake said, “Five minutes ago, it would have sounded swell. Right now, I’d have to choke the food down. Gosh, Perry, I hope you know the answer to this one.”

Mason said, “I think we have enough facts to go on, Paul. What we need right now is a chance to do a little thinking. I’m going to a Turkish bath, get a shave, some breakfast, and I’ll meet you at the preliminary hearing.”

“What’ll happen there?” Drake asked.

Mason said, “One thing about the justice of the peace, Paul. Emil Scanlon is fair. He doesn’t like to have cases tried in the newspapers. In view of these accusations, he’ll give me every chance to examine witnesses.”

“What’ll he do with the district attorney?” Drake asked.

“Give him the same chance,” Mason said.

Drake ran his fingers through his hair. “And I,” he announced mournfully, “am a witness. I’ll have you both on my neck.”

Emil Scanlon was a unique justice of the peace with an appreciation of the dramatic, a keen sense of humor, and a desire to see justice done at all costs. His basic philosophy of life made him as bigheartedly sympathetic with the living as he was scientifically detached with the dead. Taking his role of office conscientiously, he felt himself the representative of both the living and the dead.

Scanlon’s first career was that of a professional baseball player of no mean ability who retired to Southern California after an injury shortened his playing days in the early twenties. Elected justice of the peace the first time he ran, he was “grandfathered” into office when California substituted municipal judges for justices of the peace in the larger cities; and even though he had no former legal background or even a high school education, the new law permitted him to be re-elected to the office of justice of the peace year after year to the consternation of a succession of district attorneys and impatient young law school graduates whetting their teeth as defence attorneys.

Scanlon watched Mae Farr as she sat in whispered consultation with Perry Mason and decided that she was far from the cold blooded killer the district attorney’s office claimed. His knowledge of Perry Mason was founded upon various personal contacts, dramatic preliminary hearings when Mason, using a quick wit, keen logic, and unconventional methods, had sprinted first across the tape as a spectacular winner from a position hopelessly behind the field.

There was nothing in Emil Scanlon’s voice or face to reflect the determination which crystallized in his mind that, even if the hearing took all night, he was going to see that the various parties had a square shake.

Mae Farr whispered her confession to Perry Mason. “I gave you a raw deal,” she said. “I lied to you when I first came to your office and I’ve been lying to you ever since. When you didn’t find Hal’s gun there where he’d thrown it over the fence, I became convinced that he’d doubled back, picked up the gun, and gone down to take the Pennwent out to sea and sink it, taking the chance of rowing back in the little skiff Wentworth kept aboard.

“I doubled back and took Marley’s cruiser and went out to pick him up.”

“Find him?” Mason asked.

“No,” she said, “I didn’t search very long because I became convinced the Coast Guard had been notified of the killing and was looking for me.”

“What made you think that?”

“A Coast Guard airplane flew over me, circled three or four times, and then went on out to sea.”

“How do you know it was a Coast Guard plane?”

She thought for a moment, and said, “I don’t know. I presumed it was. What other flyer would have taken such an unusual interest in a yacht? And that Tooms woman saw me when I came back with Marley’s boat, and I understand Marley had a fingerprint expert go over the steering wheel and throttle and develop my fingerprints. I suppose I’m in for it now.”

Hal Anders, tall, sunburned, and ill at ease, came over to Mae Farr. “I’m sorry, Mae,” he said simply.

She looked at him with troubled eyes.

“The D.A. has dismissed the case against me,” Anders went on. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means they’re going to concentrate on me,” she said.

“It was my gun they found there in the pipe,” Anders said. “They thought Mason had planted it, but by checking up on the numbers, they found where the sale had been made directly to me, and they uncovered some other evidence. I don’t know exactly what it is, but they’ve dropped the charge against me.”

“That,” she said, “is very nice. Congratulations. You seem to have saved yourself a disagreeable experience. Thanks to the advice of your very competent and very ethical family lawyer.”

“Please, Mae, don’t be like that.”

She turned her face away from him.

Anders, conscious that the eyes of spectators were on him, knowing that reporters with high speed lenses were surreptitiously clicking candid camera shots, leaned forward until his lips were close to the ears of Mae Farr and, Perry Mason. “Please don’t, Mae,” he said, “and listen, Mae. I did one thing for you. I did this on my own without anyone’s advice. I managed to get in touch with Hazel Tooms this morning. She won’t be here. She’s on a plane to Mexico where a friend has a yacht. They’re going to leave at once on a cruise for — and I quote — destination unknown.”

Mae Fair’s expression showed utter incredulity. “You did that?” she asked.

Mason’s eyes hardened. They surveyed Anders with cold hostility. “I presume you realize,” he said, “that I’ll get the blame for that.”

“No, you won’t,” Anders said quietly. “If it comes to a showdown, I’ll take the blame.”

Scanlon said, “I’ve already viewed the body of the deceased. The autopsy surgeon has pointed out the course of the bullet and the cause of death. It was a gunshot wound in the head. That much of the case is so clear that we don’t have to waste the doctor’s time in having him come down here.”

He cleared his throat, glanced from Perry Mason to Oscar Overmeyer, a deputy district attorney, and Carl Runcifer, who represented the district attorney’s office. He said, “Proceedings are going to be short and informal. We’re going to get at the facts. I don’t want any delaying, technical objections from anyone to any of the testimony. I don’t want any fancy legal arguments raised. If I think it will speed things along and help us get at the truth, I’ll ask some of the questions myself.

There isn’t going to be any rambling cross-examination of witnesses just so the lawyers can make a showing of doing something; but if the attorneys for any of the interested parties want to ask questions purely for the purpose of clearing matters up, explaining or bringing out facts which the witnesses have neglected to state, I’m going to permit those questions.”

Carl Runcifer started to make some objection to Scanlon’s unorthodox procedures, but Overmeyer, who was familiar with Scanlon’s temperament, pulled him back into his seat.

Judge Scanlon’s clerk walked up to his informal podium and handed him a note. This gave Sidney Eversel time to march militantly over to Perry Mason. “I suppose,” he said ominously, “you think you’ve been very, very clever.”

“Now what?” Mason asked.

“I discovered the real object of your trip to my house early this morning,” Eversel said. “I suppose you thought I’d keep my mouth shut and that you could blackmail me into doing almost anything you wanted in order to keep my connection with it a secret. For your information, I went at once to the police and notified the district attorney’s office. I am advised that you were guilty of burglary in taking that negative. The only thing we lack is absolute proof. Produce that negative, Mr. Perry Mason, and you’ll go to jail. That is where I stand.” He turned on his heel and walked off.

Mason said to Mae Farr, “Well, you always claimed that Anders was too conservative and wouldn’t do anything without taking advice. He seems to have cut the apron strings with a very sharp pair of scissors. I’ll leave you two for a few moments to fight it out.”

He arose from his chair and walked back along the aisle of curious, staring spectators to engage in a whispered conference with Paul Drake and Della Street. “Called your office, Paul?”

“Yes, just a minute ago,” Drake said. “I have a last minute report, but it doesn’t mean anything. I simply can’t get anything on Hazel Tooms. She’s apparently a playgirl who goes in for outdoor sports.”

Mason said, “She told me all that herself. Where is she now, Paul?”

“She’s under subpoena,” Drake said, “and should be here. Good Lord, Perry, you haven’t spirited her away, have you?”

Mason said, “No. Personally, I wish she were here.”

“How are things looking?” Della asked in an anxious whisper.

Mason’s eyes glinted with a frosty twinkle. “They look like hell, Della,” he admitted. “Eversel got a burst of courage and went to the police, claimed the negative had been stolen, evidently told them all about taking the picture. That put Mae Farr right in the middle of a very hot spot. The police will now claim that she had a gun of her own, that she went back to the Yacht Club, took out Frank Marley’s boat, overtook the Pennwent, killed Wentworth, returned to the Yacht Club, drove to the place where she’d seen Anders ditch the gun, and dropped the murder gun where it would be found as soon as the drainage waters evaporated.”

“Isn’t that going to make a strong case against her, Perry?” the detective asked.

“Very strong indeed,” Mason said dryly. “I hadn’t counted on Eversel overcoming his fear of publicity. Apparently, he’s determined to get me. He reported the theft of the negative to the district attorney’s office. Of course, the evidence about the taking of the picture gives them an entirely new slant on the case. They have left Anders out of it. They’re concentrating on Mae Farr — and on me.”

“Go to it, Chief,” Della Street said. “Tear into them.”

Mason grinned and said, “I don’t know just how much tearing I can do. However, I have one ace up my sleeve. If I can play it at just the right time and in just the right manner, I can probably take the trick I want. If I can’t, I’m hooked.”

“What’s the ace?” Drake asked.

“Just a hunch,” Mason said. “I’m going to put a witness on the stand without knowing in advance what he’s going to say. If he says the right thing, his very evident surprise will register with the JP. Otherwise, it will look like a desperate attempt to drag a red herring across the trail.”

Drake said, “Gosh, Perry, you did lay yourself wide open, going after that negative. Why the devil do you violate laws in order to get justice for your clients?”

Mason grinned and said, “I’ll be damned if I know, Paul. I guess I’m just made that way. When I start unravelling a mystery, I can’t seem to find a brake. Every time I put my foot down, it hits the throttle.”

“I’ll say it does,” Drake agreed.

Della Street said calmly, “As a matter of fact, Chief, I was the one who took that negative out of the house. They can’t get you for that.”

Mason grinned and said, “You did it under my instructions, Della. You keep out of this.”

“I will not,” she retorted. “I’ll take my share of the responsibility.”

Emil Scanlon finished reading his note, whispered instructions to his secretary, and said, “Very well, we’ll proceed with the preliminary hearing on the case of People against Mae Farr.”

Oscar Overmeyer got to his feet. “May it please the Court,” he said. “We understand your desire for an informal, expeditious hearing. However, within the last few hours, I may say within the last few minutes, the district attorney’s office has come into possession of evidence which materially changes the entire complexion of the case.

“We are now prepared to show by witnesses that the murder did not take place as was originally supposed. In fact, we might refer to it as the case of the postponed murder. What Harold Anders really believed to have been a shot and what Mae Farr said she believed was a shot was in reality not a shot, but the explosion of a flash bulb.

“We understand, of course, that the Justice wishes to move this hearing along as fast as possible. For that reason, we call our first witness, Sidney Eversel, and call the Justice’s attention to the fact that the testimony of this witness will be so pertinent, in fact I may say so spectacular, as to cause a complete change in our order of calling other witnesses.”

Scanlon frowned a moment in thought, glanced surreptitiously at Perry Mason, saw no evidence of an objection, and said, “Very well, for the purpose of getting to the bottom of this case in the shortest possible time, I’ll let you call Sidney Eversel.”

Sidney Eversel marched forward and was sworn.

“Do you,” Scanlon asked, “know anything about this murder?”

“I know this much about it,” Eversel said. “I know when it was not committed.”

“Exactly what do you know?” the Justice asked.

Sidney Eversel said, “I’m going to make a clean breast of things. I have long been in love with Juanita Wentworth. I met her and fell in love with her while she was still married to Penn Wentworth, while she was living with him as his wife. The intensity of my emotion made me indiscreet.”

Eversel paused and swallowed. Evidently he had memorized this much of his testimony but found the recital of it more difficult than he had anticipated. After a moment, he went on.

“Wentworth was diabolically clever. He found out all about our affair. I believe he was insanely jealous of me. He wanted Juanita — Mrs. Wentworth — to return to him. She had left him shortly after meeting me. He threatened that unless she did return, he would sue me for alienation of affections. He refused to give her a divorce. His entire actions were those of a man who is utterly selfish and acting without consideration.”

“Never mind that,” Scanlon interrupted. “Just what do you know?”

Eversel said, “I rankled at the injustice of it because I knew that Wentworth was entertaining numerous women aboard his yacht. I determined to get evidence which would put Wentworth on the defensive — in a position where he would be forced to listen to reason and give his wife a divorce without dragging my name into it.”

“What did you do?” Scanlon asked.

“On the night of the twelfth,” Eversel said, “I lay in wait at the Yacht Club watching his boat. I knew that Miss Farr had been a frequent visitor aboard that yacht. The night was hot and stuffy. Wentworth had the skylight in his cabin open. I crept closer and closer to the yacht, listening. When I thought the time was ripe, I boarded the yacht and looked down through the skylight. I saw Wentworth in a very compromising position. His face was away from the camera. I put my finger on the shutter release and called his name softly. He didn’t hear me the first time. I called a second time, and he looked up in alarm. At that moment, I pressed the trigger and a flash bulb, synchronized with the shutter of the camera, exploded, giving me a sharp, clear picture.”

“What did you do?”

Carl Runcifer whispered to Oscar Overmeyer, “This is the most incredible substitute for a legal proceeding imaginable. Are you going to let Scanlon get by with this type of hearing? Aren’t you going to object to his examining the witnesses?”

“Won’t do a bit of good,” Overmeyer whispered back. “This is the way Emil Scanlon always runs his show; and surprisingly enough, it always comes out okay.”

“I turned and ran from the yacht,” Eversel continued. “I drove home and developed the picture. It was a perfect negative. I could hardly wait. I knew that Mrs. Wentworth was in San Diego. I jumped in my plane and flew to San Diego, explained the circumstances to her, and brought her back with me. By the time we returned, the negative was dry. I put it in the enlarging camera and made a print. Naturally I felt very jubilant. Then I flew Mrs. Wentworth back to San Diego.

“Subsequently, that negative was stolen from my house. At the time of its disappearance, Perry Mason, the attorney representing Miss Farr, was prowling around the grounds. I demand that that negative be produced. When it is produced, I intend to prosecute him for burglary.”

Emil Scanlon pursed his lips thoughtfully and assiduously avoided glancing at Perry Mason. “Well,” he said after a moment, “if anything like that happened, it’s something that’s entirely apart from this case. As I see it, your testimony may show that the murder wasn’t committed at the time we had supposed. That’s all that relates to the present investigation.”

Oscar Overmeyer said, “May I ask a question if the Justice please?”

“Yes.”

“When you were flying to San Diego the first time,” Overmeyer asked, “did you take a direct course a part of the way over the water?”

“Yes,” Eversel answered. “My plane is an amphibian. The night was calm. The rainstorm hadn’t begun then, and the safety factor in night flying induced me to keep over the ocean.”

“While you were near the outer entrance of the harbour, did you notice by any chance a yacht?”

“I did.”

“What yacht was it?”

“It was the express cruiser Atina belonging to Frank Marley.”

“And who is Frank Marley?”

“A partner of Wentworth’s.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him, and I know him personally. I am quite familiar with his boat.”

“You were flying low?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do, if anything?”

“I circled the cruiser several times, thinking that it was rather significant that it was heading out to sea.”

“Did you have any means of illumination by which you could...”

“Yes, I have a pair of searchlights in the wings. I turned them on the cruiser.”

“What did you see?”

“I identified the Atina absolutely. I saw that someone was at the wheel. I could see that someone was a woman, and that she was wearing clothes of the identical color that had been worn by Mae Farr when she went aboard the Pennwent earlier in the evening.”

Overmeyer bowed and smiled. “If the Justice please,” he said, “that is all.”

Mason raised his eyebrows at the JP, and Emil Scanlon nodded.

“Did you fly over any other yachts while you were en route to San Diego?” Mason asked casually.

Overmeyer said, “If the Justice please, that has nothing to do with this case. It is an attempt to confuse the issues and—”

“I would have asked the question myself if Mr. Mason hadn’t,” the JP interrupted. “I said I didn’t want any purely technical objections. Let’s hear the answer to that question.”

Eversel squirmed uneasily in the witness chair. He glanced appealingly at Overmeyer, then averted his eyes.

“Answer the question,” Emil Scanlon said, his voice taking on the edge of authority, like a ballplayer telling the umpire that he missed the last call.

“Well,” Eversel said, “naturally in taking a course for San Diego, I was flying on just about the course a ship would have taken in going to Ensenada.”

“Never mind the explanations,” Scanlon said. “You can make those later. The question was whether you flew over any other yachts.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you,” Scanlon asked, “recognize any of those yachts?”

“I recognized one of them.”

“Was it the Pennwent?” Scanlon asked sternly.

Eversel kept his eyes straight ahead. “Yes, it was,” he said in a strained voice.

“And did you circle over her?”

“Just once.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw her plugging along with the skylight in the cabin open.”

“Was there anyone at the wheel?” Scanlon asked.

“I don’t think this witness could see that distinctly,” Overmeyer objected. “It’s asking rather much...”

“No, it isn’t,” Scanlon said. “A witness who could look at one yacht and testify to the colour of the clothes worn by the person at the wheel could certainly see if anyone was at the steering wheel of another yacht. Answer that question, Mr. Eversel.”

Eversel said, “No one was at the wheel.”

“You only circled the yacht once?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain no one was at the wheel?”

“Yes.”

“Where was the yacht then?”

“About a mile off shore and about ten miles below the breakwater.”

“And how far from Frank Marley’s boat?” Mason asked.

“About three miles, I should judge.”

Mason said, in a very conversational tone of voice. “You knew that Wentworth had a violent temper, didn’t you, Mr. Eversel?”

“I did.”

“And you knew that if he caught you aboard the Pennwent, he might resort to violence?”

“Yes.”

“You knew he was a powerful man?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose,” Mason said, “that’s why you went armed.”

“Well, I carried a weapon. I didn’t propose—” The witness suddenly broke off as the full significance of Mason’s question dawned upon him.

“And saw no reason for removing that weapon before you stepped into your airplane?”

“To tell you the truth, I forgot all about it.”

“So that at the time you were circling over Wentworth’s yacht, you were armed. Is that right?”

“I don’t like the way you put that question.”

“Never mind whether you like it or not,” Scanlon said. “Answer it.”

“Yes, I was,” Eversel snapped.

“What kind of a revolver?”

“A thirty-eight — a Colt.”

Mason smiled affably. “That,” he said, “is all.”

Scanlon frowned. “I am not certain that I care to have the examination concluded at just this point,” he said. “Well, perhaps we’ll let the matter rest temporarily. You’ll remain in attendance, Mr. Eversel.”

“Just one more question,” Mason asked. “You stated that you made an enlargement of that negative, Mr. Eversel?”

“I did.”

“Where is it?”

“I gave it to the deputy district attorney.”

“Mr. Overmeyer?”

“No, Mr. Runcifer.”

Mason smiled. “Would you mind producing that print, Mr. Runcifer?”

Runcifer said, “I certainly would. That’s a part of the confidential files of the district attorney’s office. I object to any such a demand. If you want that photograph in evidence, produce it yourself, and when you do so, account for the fact that you have that negative in your possession.”

Emil Scanlon, in a voice that was suavely courteous, said, “If there are no more questions of Mr. Eversel, he will be excused. But remain in attendance.”

Eversel left the witness stand.

Runcifer exchanged a triumphant glance with his associate.

“And now,” Overmeyer said, “we will call Hazel Tooms as our next witness.”

“Thank you very much,” Scanlon said, “but the Justice has his own ideas about who should be the next witness. Mr. Runcifer, will you please come forward and be sworn?”

“Me?” Runcifer exclaimed. “I most strenuously object on the ground—”

Scanlon nodded affably and cut Runcifer in mid sentence. “... Just step right up to the witness stand, Mr. Runcifer.”

Oscar Overmeyer said in a loud half whisper: “You’d better go if you don’t want a contempt citation. This guy means business.”

Runcifer moved slowly forward, held up his hand, and was sworn.

Emil Scanlon said, “Do you have in your possession a photograph which purports to be a print of the flashlight photograph taken by the witness who last testified?”

“Your Honour, I object to that,” Oscar Overmeyer said. “That is a part of the—”

“I don’t want any objections,” Scanlon said. “I want that photograph if you have it.”

There was a moment of tense, dramatic silence. Then Runcifer said, “Very much against my wishes and over my protests, I produce the photograph the justice of the peace has requested.” Runcifer could not keep a condescending tone out of his voice when he said “justice of the peace.”

He opened his briefcase and took out an enlargement on glossy paper which he handed to the Justice. At the same time he favoured Perry Mason with a glance of savage hostility.

“While we’re about it,” Scanlon said casually, “you seem to have a lot of other photographs there. What are they, pictures showing the interior of the Pennwent?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s have them,” Scanlon said.

Runcifer took out a series of pictures, explaining that they showed the posture of the body when it was discovered, the interior of the cabin when the yacht had been brought in, the exterior of the yacht, the yacht in its berth at the Yacht Club, and an airplane view of the club showing the floats to which boats were moored.

Scanlon marked them all in numerical order and announced them as exhibits. “That’s all, Mr. Runcifer,” he said. “Thank you.”

Runcifer stalked stiffly back to his seat.

“Well,” Scanlon said, “let’s hear from Hazel Tooms. Will you come forward and be sworn, please?”

There was a craning of necks, but no rustle of motion usual when a witness moves toward the witness box.

Scanlon frowned and said, “Wasn’t she under subpoena?”

Runcifer said acidly, “She was under subpoena. She stated that at least one attempt had been made to get her to leave the country. When she was subpoenaed, we believe she was about to put herself beyond the jurisdiction of the court.”

“I’m not concerned with that,” Emil Scanlon said. “We’re holding only one postmortem, and that’s on the death of Wentworth and the probable involvement of the accused, Mae Farr. The question is, where is this witness now?”

“I don’t know,” Runcifer said.

Scanlon’s eyes turned to Perry Mason and became suddenly stern. “Mr. Mason,” he said, “I think I’ll now ask you to take the stand.”

Mason obediently took the witness stand, realizing that any protest would be quickly overruled.

“Do you know this witness, Hazel Tooms?” Emil Scanlon asked.

“I do.”

“Did you talk with her about the case?”

“I did.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“I do not.”

“Do you know how she happened to leave?”

“Not of my own knowledge, no.”

“Were you directly or indirectly responsible for her departure?”

“No.”

“That’s all,” the Justice said.

Runcifer said eagerly, “I’d like to ask this witness one or two questions.”

Scanlon hesitated a moment, then said, “I didn’t give him an opportunity to ask you any questions.”

“This is different,” Runcifer said.

“I’ll hear the question and see if I permit it,” Scanlon said.

“When you talked with Miss Tooms, wasn’t the subject discussed that she might leave the country for a financial consideration, and didn’t you discuss with her the amount of money necessary?”

“You might put it that way,” Mason said calmly. “She made the proposition. I turned it down.”

“Oh,” Runcifer said, his voice filled with sarcasm. “You went to her apartment. She told you that she had testimony which would be very damaging to your client, and offered to leave the country, and you were too ethical to even entertain such a proposition. Is that the idea you wish to convey?”

Scanlon said, “You don’t have to answer that question, Mr. Mason. Now then, Mr. Runcifer, we’re not going to have any more such bursts of sarcasm from Counsel. We’re here to try and find out whether there’s enough evidence to hold this accused for trial in Superior Court for the murder of Penn Wentworth. That’s all. You can air your grievances some other place than in my courtroom.”

Mason said, “Begging Your Honour’s pardon, I’d like to answer the question.”

“Go ahead,” the Justice said.

Mason crossed his long legs in front of him, smiled down at Runcifer, and said, “Your question assumes an erroneous fact, Mr. Runcifer. The testimony which Hazel Tooms was to have given, in place of being detrimental to my client, was really most advantageous. I regret that she isn’t here.”

“All right,” Runcifer said triumphantly. “Since you’ve opened the door as to the nature of her testimony, I’ll ask you this question. I assume the Justice will admit it. He’s let in everything else. Isn’t it a fact that she said she had gone to the Yacht Club to call on Wentworth, that Wentworth had advised her he was going to Ensenada that night and asked her to go along, that she went back to get some groceries and some clothes, and when she returned, the yacht was gone, that she waited for some time, and while she was waiting, she saw Frank Marley’s boat come into its landing, that she watched to see who had been piloting that boat, and that the only person who left it was Mae Farr, your client.”

“That,” Mason said calmly, “is substantially what she said.”

“And you consider that that is to the advantage of your client?” Runcifer asked.

Mason nodded gravely. “I do.”

There was a moments astonished silence, followed by a whispered conference on the part of the deputy district attorneys.

Scanlon said, “I guess that’s all, Mr. Mason. I think that’s all the examination I’ll permit anyway. You may leave the stand.”

Mason returned to his chair.

Runcifer got to his feet and said, almost pleadingly.

“Won’t the Justice permit me to ask Mr. Mason one more question?”

“I don’t think so,” Scanlon said. “You seem to have covered the situation pretty well. What was the question you wanted to ask?”

“I wanted to ask Mr. Mason just how he could possibly claim that that testimony was of any advantage to his client.”

Scanlon shook his head. “That would mean just a lot of argument,” he said.

Mason, from his chair, said, “I think perhaps if Your Honour permitted that question and I answered it, it might clear up a lot of misunderstandings right now.”

“Go ahead and answer it,” Scanlon said. “To be perfectly frank, I’m interested in the answer although I consider the question somewhat improper and an attempt to take advantage of a witness who apparently has been very fair and frank. Go ahead and answer it, Mr. Mason.”

Mason walked up to Scanlon’s bench where the photographs were spread out and said, “In answering that question, it’s going to be necessary to correlate certain facts at some length.”

“Go ahead and correlate them,” Scanlon invited. “That’s what we’re here for. Just make it terse and logical and keep within the facts, and we’ll listen. We don’t want to hear any impassioned arguments.”

“I’m not going to make any,” Mason said with a smile.

“Go ahead,” Scanlon invited, “and answer the question.”

Mason said, “I think the tag which was given to this case by learned counsel for the prosecution is perhaps the best description of the case. Your Honour will remember that he referred to it as ‘The Case of the Postponed Murder.’

“Quite obviously, Penn Wentworth was shot from a distance. There are no powder marks on his clothing or on his body. He was evidently shot from above, as Your Honour knows from talking to the autopsy surgeon. It is quite natural to suppose that he was shot through the skylight of his yacht by someone who was well above him, a distance, let us say, that was no less than six or eight feet and which stretches indefinitely into space as far as anyone could have accurately aimed a gun and fired a bullet. For instance, I believe that Mr. Eversel is an expert revolver shot and has acquired some reputation as an authority on firearms. I believe that’s correct, Mr. Eversel?”

Eversel hesitated and nodded curtly.

“Your Honour, if we’re still taking testimony, I suggest that witness Eversel be asked to return to the witness box,” Runcifer exploded.

“You let me worry about that, won’t you?” Scanlon said evenly.

Mason continued: “And you would back the statement I have just made from your knowledge of the case and your experience with firearms?”

Eversel made no move to answer.

Mason went on affably, “Well it’s of no moment. I merely mentioned it so that we can keep in mind the position of the person who fired the shot and the position of the man who was the target.

“Now let’s examine the possibilities. Let’s first consider Anders. He could hardly have committed the murder. The evidence shows that Wentworth’s yacht was only a couple of miles ahead of Marley’s cruiser when Eversel saw them. Wentworth had much the slower boat. However, making all due allowances for speed, it would seem quite apparent that Wentworth must have pulled out with his yacht very shortly after Mae Farr and Anders drove away, perhaps within half an hour. Anders says that he threw his gun away. Mae Farr also testifies to that. The evidence shows that the murder gun was found. It certainly wasn’t the gun Anders had or was carrying. Moreover, Anders went to the city and almost immediately started for North Mesa, and I understand that the police have been able to trace his movements so that they are convinced he didn’t return to the Yacht Club after his conversation with me.

“Miss Farr and I drove to the Yacht Club. We found the Pennwent gone. We returned and Miss Farr stayed with me until after I had passed the place where Anders threw the gun. She then doubled back and took Marley’s cruiser.”

“You’re admitting that?” Runcifer asked incredulously.

“Of course I’m admitting it,” Mason said. “Now let’s look at it from her view point. Suppose she had gone out and overtaken Wentworth’s yacht, as could well have happened. She couldn’t have put the Atina alongside the Pennwent without Wentworth’s knowing it was there. It’s a physical impossibility to do that without bumping and jarring. Moreover, she couldn’t have kept her boat at cruising speed, laid her alongside the Pennwent, left the wheel, and made fast to Wentworth’s yacht without help. She would have required that Wentworth either slow down or that someone help her, or both.

“However, suppose that Wentworth did slow down, suppose that Mae Farr boarded the Pennwent. Wentworth would have had to help her. They could have gone down to the cabin together. Wentworth had an automatic pilot on his yacht. There was no necessity for him to be at the wheel. But there is no likely combination of circumstances by which he could have been in the cabin and Miss Farr could have stood on the deck and shot him through the open skylight.

“Let’s take the case of Eversel. He is an aviator. He flew low over the yacht. He was armed. He’s an expert shot. But before I go into that, I want to call your attention to a significant item in these photographs. Notice the photograph which was taken by Eversel. I want to call Your Honour’s attention to this little shelf. You will notice a circular object in a case with a cylindrical object near it.”

Runcifer got to his feet and walked quickly to the Justice’s bench to examine what Mason was pointing out.

“That,” Runcifer said, “is a rare coin. Wentworth was a prominent collector of rare coins.”

“Quite possibly,” Mason said. “And with a magnifying glass you can notice certain distinctive marks on this coin. There are two parallel lines with interlacing, diagonal lines in between them.”

The Justice studied it through the magnifying glass. “Just how is that significant, Mr. Mason?” he asked.

“One moment, Your Honour,” Mason said. “Examine this picture of the cabin taken through the skylight by the police after the Pennwent was returned. There is the same shelf. But the objects are missing.”

Scanlon nodded.

“Now then,” Mason said, “we are confronted with this situation. Whatever those objects were, they were on the Pennwent when Eversel took that flashlight photograph. As soon as that photograph was taken, Eversel left the yacht. Wentworth ran back to the after cabin. Miss Farr ran out on deck and joined Anders. The two of them left the yacht together. There’s no evidence showing that Eversel, Anders or Mae Farr ever returned to that yacht.

“But here are two objects clearly shown in one photograph and clearly absent from a subsequent photograph. Why? Where did they go? Who took them?”

Scanlon said, “You have some theory about that, Mr. Mason?”

“I have,” Mason said. “I’d like to call one witness.”

“Well, I don’t know that the State has rested,” Overmeyer said hesitantly in hopeless confusion.

“Oh, what does that matter when we’re trying to clear up this case?” Scanlon said. “Go ahead, Mason. Call whoever you want.”

“Mr. Robert Grastin,” Mason announced.

A tall skinny man with sunken eyes, thin lips and high cheekbones came forward. He was in his early fifties, a man with long arms and legs, quiet and unhurried in his manner. He said, “I hate to disappoint people, but I don’t know one single thing about this case. I don’t know any of the parties.”

Mason said, “That’s quite alright. Just take the stand, and we’ll see what you know, Mr. Grastin.”

Grastin slipped into the witness chair.

Mason said, “I believe the subpoena that was served on you called for you to bring certain records with you.”

“Yes.”

“Now just so the Justice can get the picture,” Mason said, “kindly explain to him who you are and what your occupation is.”

Grastin said, “I am the secretary and treasurer of the Interurban Amateur Athletic League. That is an association of amateur athletes sponsored by an interurban busline for the purpose of promoting civic relations and—”

“And traffic?” Mason interrupted with a smile.

“And traffic,” Grastin admitted. “The theory being that interurban matches are arranged at places which are most advantageously reached by the interurban service. Prizes are awarded. Competition is encouraged, and the line receives a certain amount of advertising.”

“Now then, on the twelfth,” Mason said, “you sponsored certain athletic activities?”

“Yes, sir. On the twelfth, the open tennis tournament reached the stage of finals.”

“And on that day,” Mason asked, “do your records show who won second place in the women’s division?”

“Second place?” Grastin asked.

Mason nodded.

“Just a moment,” Grastin said, and took from his pocket a leather backed notebook filled with typewritten sheets of paper. He ran down the page to which he had opened the book, and said, “Our records show that second place was won by Miss Hazel Tooms who resides in the Balkan Apartments.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “Now, I am interested in going back over the records of other athletic activities. Do you have an alphabetical index showing the names of winners?”

“We do.”

“That is with you?”

“It’s in my briefcase.”

“Get it, please.”

Grastin walked to his seat in the front of the room, picked up a briefcase, returned with it to the witness stand, and took out a large looseleaf notebook.

“Look under the name of Tooms,” Mason said, “and see what else you find.”

Grastin ran through the pages. Suddenly he said, “Wait a minute. I remember that name now. She’s won quite a few championships; she’s quite an all round athlete.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Just look through your records. Now, what do you find in connection with swimming?”

“In each of the past two years,” Grastin said, “she has won the women’s long distance swimming championship. Last year, she also won the four hundred metre freestyle swimming event for women. In—”

“I think that’s enough,” Mason said. “It’s enough to prove my point in any event. Now, I’m going to show you this photograph, Mr. Grastin, and call your attention to a coin-like object contained in a case and shown on this shelf.” Mason handed him the photograph and pointed. “Please look at it with this magnifying glass. Can you tell what it is?”

Grastin held the magnifying glass in position, then said slowly, “Why, yes. That’s the medal we had struck off for second place in the women’s tennis tournament. That series of lines across it represents a tennis net.”

Mason smiled affably at Justice of the Peace Scanlon and said, “I think, Your Honour, by the time the district attorney’s office puts two and two together, it will have an answer to its question of who killed Penn Wentworth; and it wasn’t Mae Farr.”