The Case of the Postponed Murder

Chapter 7

Paul Drake was waiting for Mason when the lawyer and Della Street returned from lunch. “Well, Perry,” the detective said, “the best I can do is to give you this information about an hour in advance of publication. The newspapers will have it on the street in the early afternoon editions.”

“Shoot,” Mason said.

“It doesn’t look so good for Mae Farr or her boyfriend. I don’t know just what lead the police followed, but they followed it right to Mae Farr. I understand the man who saw her leave her car has identified her absolutely.”

“Anything else?” Mason asked.

“Yes. They have a lead on the boyfriend.”

“Did they find him?”

“I think they had the devil of a time finding him,” Drake said. “They picked him up out of town somewhere. The story I get is that they found him up at North Mesa.”

“Then what?” Mason asked.

“I understand the girl’s sitting tight, but telegraphic advices from the north are that when representatives of the district attorney’s office flew up to San Francisco to meet local authorities who had brought Anders down that far, Anders made a fairly complete confession.”

“Confession?” Mason asked.

Drake nodded and then said, after a moment, “You’re not looking well, Perry.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You don’t look right around the eyes. You’ve been on pretty much of a strain lately. Why don’t you take a vacation?”

“Why,” Mason asked, “would I want a vacation?”

“I thought it might be a good idea,” Drake said. “If I were you, I’d start right away.”

“What,” Mason asked, “did Anders say?”

“I don’t know,” Drake admitted, “but it was something pretty hot, I think. The tip that came to the newspapers was that a prominent attorney was going to be implicated.”

Mason said, “Bunk. Anders can’t implicate anybody.”

“It might be well if you were out of the picture for a day or two until I can get all the dope,” Drake said. “I can turn the whole thing inside out if I have forty-eight hours.”

“To hell with that stuff,” Mason said. “Can’t you see the field day the police would have if I suddenly took a powder? They’d smear it all over the newspapers that I’d left hurriedly on being advised of Anders’ statement.”

“Do they,” Drake asked, “have anything on you?”

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, “How do I know what they have? How did they get Anders to talk?”

“Same old scheme,” Drake said. “They told him Mae Farr had confessed to the whole business and was going to take the blame, and he got chivalrous and said it wasn’t her fault, and spilled his guts.”

Mason said, “Well—” and broke off as the telephone buzzed. Della picked it up, said, “Hello,” hesitated a moment, then covered the mouthpiece. She looked up at Perry Mason and said, with no expression whatever in her voice, “Sergeant Holcomb of the Homicide Squad and Carl Runcifer, a deputy district attorney, want to see you at once.”

Drake said, “Oh oh, those birds get around fast.”

Mason jerked his head toward the exit door. “Slip through there, Paul,” he said. “Okay, Della, go out and bring them in.”

Drake covered the distance across the office with long, easy strides and opened the exit door. A man’s voice said, “Hold it. Stay where you are.”

Drake stood motionless.

Before Della Street had reached the door to the outer office, it was shoved open by Sergeant Holcomb, who came pushing his way into the office behind a cloud of cigar smoke, his hat tilted back on his head, his eyes hard with hostility.

The man in the corridor called out, “Here he is, Sergeant.”

Holcomb strode over to the corridor door, took a look at Drake, and said, “He’s just a stooge. Let him go. Come on in, Runcifer.”

He held the door open while Carl Runcifer, a tall man in his late thirties with heavy features and grey eyes, walked somewhat sheepishly into the office.

“I thought it was Mason from the description I had,” he said.

Mason, behind the desk, said affably, “No apology’s necessary, Runcifer. You’re one of the deputies I haven’t met. Come on in and sit down.”

Runcifer, seeming ill at ease, moved over to the client’s chair and sat down.

Mason glanced at Sergeant Holcomb and said, “And how are you, Sergeant? I haven’t seen you for a while.”

Sergeant Holcomb did not sit down. He stood with his legs spread apart, his hands shoved down into the side pockets of his coat. “Looks as though you’ve made quite a slip, Mason,” he said.

Mason said to Runcifer, “You haven’t been in the office long, have you?”

“About three months.”

Sergeant Holcomb took the cigar out of his mouth. “Don’t try to pull that casual line with me, Mason, because it won’t work.”

Mason countered, “Don’t try to pull that get you on the defensive line with me, Sergeant, because it won’t work. If you want to know anything, come out and say so.”

“Where’s the gun?” Sergeant Holcomb asked.

“What gun?”

“The gun that killed Wentworth.”

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, “You can search me.”

“You’re damn right I can,” Holcomb said grimly.

“Got a warrant?” Mason asked.

“I don’t need one.”

“It depends somewhat on the viewpoint,” Mason observed.

Holcomb came over and sat down on a corner of the desk. “It’s one thing,” he said, “to act as a lawyer and hide behind this professional confidence business and this privileged communication gag. It’s another thing to stick your neck out so far that you become an accessory after the fact.”

Mason said irritably, “Go ahead. Say it. Get it out of your system.”

Runcifer interrupted. “Perhaps, Sergeant, I might ask Mr. Mason a few courteous questions before we make any serious accusations. After all, you know, Mr. Mason is an attorney and...”

“Oh hell!” Sergeant Holcomb exclaimed disgustedly, and then, after a moment, said, “Go ahead,” and walked across the office to stand in front of the window, deliberately turning his back on Runcifer and Mason.

“I believe you’re aware that Penn Wentworth was found dead on his yacht at an early hour this morning?” Runcifer asked.

Mason nodded.

“He had been shot. Circumstances pointed the finger of suspicion at a girl named Mae Farr and a man by the name of Harold Anders. The girl was undoubtedly around last night at the scene of the shooting. Anders admits it, admits that he was in the vicinity of the yacht when the shooting took place. From his story, it probably isn’t first degree murder, but it’s undoubtedly a homicide which will have to be cleared up by a jury.

“According to Anders’ story, you sent him to his hotel and told him to stay there after Mae Farr had told you all about the shooting. Anders began to think things over and decided that he wanted to consult his own attorney, a friend of long standing who has an office in the county seat where Anders lives. He went down to the airport, chartered a plane, and flew north. He stated all of the facts to this attorney, who advised him to get in touch with the police without delay and make a clean breast of everything. The attorney seemed to—”

“Oh hell!” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted, spinning around from the window. “Why mince words? The attorney said that Mason had given Anders the worst possible advice that a lawyer could give a man.”

Mason said, “That’s nice.”

Sergeant Holcomb went on, “I always told you, Mason, that someday you were going to come a cropper. This is it.”

Mason said, “All right, let’s quit the schoolboy grandstand stuff and get down to brass tacks. I know you’re a smart detective. You should be promoted to a captaincy. You’ve predicted my downfall for a long time. Anders’ lawyer says I gave Anders bum advice. All right, what if he did? I don’t care. Anders goes ahead and has kittens. Just because this lawyer gave him the kind of advice you want, you think he’s right and I’m wrong. What do you want?”

Sergeant Holcomb said, “We want that gun.”

“What gun?”

“The gun that killed Penn Wentworth.”

“I haven’t got it.”

“That’s what you say.”

Mason’s face darkened. His eyes narrowed slightly. “That,” he announced with cold finality, “is what I say.”

“Okay,” Sergeant Holcomb said. “We wanted to give you an out. If we have to do it the hard way, we can do it the hard way.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said, “do it the hard way.”

Sergeant Holcomb said, “Just a minute. You stay here with him, Runcifer,” and strode across the floor, jerked open the door to the outer office, walked out to the reception room, picked up a small handbag, and returned.

Mason watched him calmly while he opened the handbag, reached inside, then stood for a moment as though setting the stage for a dramatic act.

“Go ahead,” Mason said, “pull out the rabbit.”

Sergeant Holcomb jerked out a pair of shoes. “Look at these,” he said. “Tell me if they’re yours, and remember that anything you say will be used against you.”

Mason looked at the muddy shoes, reached out, took one, examined it, and asked, “Where did you get these shoes?”

Holcomb said, “Don’t think you’re going to pull that kind of an act, Mason. I got them with a search warrant.”

“Who the hell gave you a warrant to search my apartment?”

“A judge,” Sergeant Holcomb said, “and that’s not answering the question, Mason. Are those your shoes?”

“Of course they’re my shoes. You got them in my apartment, didn’t you?”

“Were you wearing them last night?”

“I don’t remember.”

“The hell you don’t.”

Mason said, “You’re asking the questions. I’m answering them. Never mind the comments. You might get into trouble.”

Sergeant Holcomb said, “Don’t try bluffing me because it won’t work. If I drag you down to headquarters and book you on the charge of being an accessory after the fact, you’ll sing a different tune.”

“Not to any music you can play,” Mason said.

Runcifer said placatingly, “Now, let’s not lose our tempers, Mr. Mason. You must appreciate that the evidence is incriminating, to say the least. You must also realize that the minute we take any action, the newspapers will give you publicity which will be highly disadvantageous. Now we are here for the purpose of eliciting information in a courteous manner.”

“Why don’t you follow your charted course then?” Mason asked.

Runcifer said meaningly to Sergeant Holcomb, “I think we will. Sergeant, if you’ll pardon me, I’ll do the questioning.”

Sergeant Holcomb shrugged his shoulders and turned away contemptuously.

Runcifer said, “Mr. Mason, I am going to be frank with you. Anders has made a complete statement. He said that Miss Farr boarded the Pennwent, that he heard her scream and heard sounds of a struggle. He rushed to her rescue. In running across the float, he missed his footing and fell into the water. As nearly as he can judge, the shooting took place while he was in the water because he insists that he did not hear the sound of the revolver shot although he had heard Miss Farr’s cries for help quite plainly. Upon boarding the yacht, he ran to the open skylight and looked down into the main cabin. Miss Farr was arranging her clothes, which apparently had been badly disarrayed. She ran up on deck. Upon seeing him aboard the yacht, she became greatly confused and embarrassed, asked him what he was doing there, and when he told her that he came in response to her cries, asked him if he had a weapon with him. Upon being assured that he had, she rushed him off the yacht in the greatest haste.

“Later on, and as they were travelling toward the city in his car, she told him that Wentworth had been shot and that she wanted to rush him off the yacht because she was afraid that persons from neighbouring boats would be attracted by the shot and that Anders would be accused of the shooting. Anders thereupon, fearing that such might be the case, decided to get rid of his gun. He stopped the car near a hot dog stand which he describes perfectly and threw the gun off to the side of the road across the fence which borders the highway. Then they drove to town.

“Thereafter, Anders tells a story which I find it difficult to believe. He claims that—”

Sergeant Holcomb interrupted. “Are you going to tell him every single fact we have in our possession?”

“Absolutely,” Runcifer said, his tone reflecting the obstinacy of a man who lives in a world of books, who has acquired his knowledge from abstract study and looks upon the events taking place about him from an academic view-point.

“Show him all the trump cards you hold before he plays his,” Sergeant Holcomb said, “and he’ll know which ace to trump.”

“I think this is the only ethical way to handle the matter, Sergeant,” Runcifer said with cold finality. “Your methods resulted only in an argument which brought us no additional information and was personally distasteful to me.”

Sergeant Holcomb said, “Nuts.”

Mason said to Runcifer, “You were saying?”

“Let’s see,” Runcifer said, frowning. “Exactly what was I saying? Oh yes, about what Anders told us took place when he returned to the city. He said that he consulted the telephone directory to see if you had a resident telephone. He found there were two numbers for the office, one a day number, the other a night number. He called the night number, and your secretary, Miss Street, answered. He tried to tell her what had happened over the telephone, and she instructed him to come with Miss Farr to her apartment at once.”

Runcifer placed the tips of his fingers together and concentrated his gaze upon them, apparently more concerned lest his summing up of the case should miss some significant detail than in the reactions of Perry Mason.

Sergeant Holcomb stood glowering at the deputy district attorney, apparently of half a mind to step in and assume charge but hesitating because of orders to act under Runcifer’s direction.

“Now then,” Runcifer went on, in calm, academic tones, “comes the part of the story which seems utterly incredible to me. I cannot understand your actions in the matter, Mr. Mason. However, I will first outline what Anders said. He claimed that Miss Street called you, that you came to her apartment, that you advised both of them to refrain from notifying the authorities, and that you yourself accompanied Miss Farr to the yacht harbour for the purpose of finding some way of keeping her name from being brought into the case.

“Anders swears that the Pennwent was moored at the float when he left. As you know, the yacht was subsequently found cruising off San Diego, steering a course which would have taken it into the Mexican coast in the vicinity of Ensenada. The body of Penn Wentworth was found fully clothed. Nevertheless, Anders states that Miss Farr insisted that during the struggle with her, he was clad only in his underwear.

“Now then, Mr. Mason — oh yes, one thing more. The police officers naturally wished to check Anders’ story. They went to the place where he said he had thrown the gun. He was in the car and indicated the exact spot. You’ll remember that there was a thundershower last night, Mr. Mason, and the officers were surprised to discover that someone had made a very thorough search of the ground where Anders had thrown the gun. The footsteps were quite plainly evident in the soft mud which covered much of the field.

“The officers made plaster casts of those footprints, and your shoes make identical marks. Now then, Mr. Mason, there is no other conclusion which seems logical other than that you went to the Yacht Club, that you and Miss Farr, and perhaps your secretary, Miss Street, boarded the Pennwent, that you found Penn Wentworth dead, that you desired to keep Miss Farr’s name out of the case and to protect her good name in the event she should be dragged into it. Therefore, you placed clothes on Wentworth’s body, started the yacht, took it out to the headland, set the automatic steering mechanism on a course to Ensenada, and then left the yacht.”

“That’s interesting,” Mason said. “How did we leave?”

“Probably by having some other boat come alongside.”

“Then what?” Mason asked.

“Then you returned to search for the gun, found it, and removed it.”

“All this,” Mason asked, “is predicated on Anders’ story?”

“His confession.”

“What did he confess to?”

“Being aboard the yacht, armed and, as he admitted, looking for trouble.”

“That’s not much of a crime,” Mason said. “What did he do?”

“According to his story, he didn’t do anything.”

“And all that you have against me,” Mason said, “is that he told you I left for the Yacht Club with Miss Farr, and he surmised that I had done this and that. Is that right?”

“His surmises are quite reasonable.”

Mason said, “Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I didn’t go aboard the Pennwent. I didn’t dress the corpse. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I don’t know who did.”

“You knew that the dead body of Penn Wentworth was aboard that yacht, Mr. Mason?”

“No.”

“You didn’t? Why, Anders insists that Miss Farr told you.”

“As far as the conversation which occurred between my client and myself is concerned,” Mason said, “it’s confidential. I have no right to repeat any statements which she made to me or any advice which I gave to her. Therefore, it’s out. You can’t inquire into it here. You can’t inquire into it before a grand jury, and you can’t inquire into it in court.”

“Subject to certain specific qualifications, that,” Runcifer admitted, “would seem to be correct. However, the law of privileged communications is subject to certain well defined exceptions.”

“All right,” Mason said. “I’ll advance the law. You advance the exceptions. I’m telling you you can’t question me concerning the advice I gave a client.

“Now then, we come to the rest of it — a claim by Anders that I went to the Yacht Club and he thinks I must have done certain things while there.”

“His deductions are most logical,” Runcifer insisted.

Mason said, “You’ll pardon me if I fail to agree with you.”

“What is your explanation?” Runcifer asked.

“I have none.”

“Well, I’ll put it this way, Mr. Mason. Wherein do you find any departure from logic in Anders’ statement?”

Mason said, “That’s something I’ll argue in front of a jury.”

“But look here, Mr. Mason, you were in that field walking around looking for a gun.”

“What if I was?”

“You had no right to do that. You should have reported the crime to the officers.”

“How did I know there was a crime?”

“You had been advised of the shooting.”

Mason said, “Let me ask you a question. Why did you go and look for the gun?”

“We wanted to check up on Anders’ story.”

“In other words, you thought that it was open to some doubt?”

“Well, it was rather unusual. We thought perhaps he was keeping something back.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Suppose I say I also felt his story was open to some doubt and decided to confirm it?”

“The gun constituted a complete confirmation.”

“What gun?” Mason asked.

“The gun that was there.”

“What,” Mason asked, “makes you feel that a gun was there?”

Runcifer said somewhat irritably, “Mr. Mason, I didn’t come here to bandy words with you. You know perfectly well that the gun was there.”

“You looked for a gun this morning?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We wanted to check on Anders’ story, I tell you.”

“In other words,” Mason said, “you went out to look because you weren’t certain that a gun was there. I should certainly have the same privilege.”

Runcifer said, “I don’t think that’s a fair answer, Mr. Mason. It was the duty of the officers to search for that gun in order to find it and preserve it as a part of the evidence.”

Mason said, “So far you’ve talked about Anders. Why don’t you give me the benefit of the story that Miss Farr told?”

“Unfortunately,” Runcifer said, “Miss Farr refuses to make any statement whatever. That, I consider, is very much opposed to her best interests.”

“You told her about Anders’ statement?”

“Naturally,” Runcifer said. “We—”

“For God’s sake,” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted, “we came up here to get information, not to hand this bird everything we know on a silver platter.”

Runcifer said, “That will do, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Holcomb took two indignant strides toward the exit door of the office, then checked himself and stood with flushed countenance and angry eyes.

Runcifer said, “I don’t think your attitude shows a desire to co-operate, Mr. Mason. I have been perfectly fair and frank with you. Because you are an attorney, I don’t want to have you placed under arrest without giving you an opportunity to explain.”

Mason said, “I appreciate your sincerity and your motives, Runcifer. However, you have nothing to say about it. You’re acting under orders. You don’t determine the policy of your office. You came here with certain specific instructions. Those instructions were given to you for a purpose. Your office isn’t as considerate as you are. If there’d been any grounds on which they could have arrested me, they’d have done so. However, they can’t do it. All Anders knows is that I suggested to Miss Farr that we should go to the yacht harbour. I had a right to do that in order to verify her story. That much you will certainly grant.

“As for all this cock and bull yarn about dressing the corpse and putting the yacht out to sea, your office has one thing and one thing alone on which to act — the cockeyed guess of a man who tells a rather remarkable story, namely, that he had been watching Wentworth’s yacht, lying in wait with a gun in his pocket; that the girl he loved boarded Wentworth’s yacht; that he claims he heard sounds of a struggle taking place, started to run aboard the yacht, and fell into the drink; that at the exact moment when his ears were submerged under water, and his sight of the yacht had been blotted out by a cross section of the Pacific Ocean, some obliging individual stepped aboard the yacht, shot Wentworth, and then withdrew; that Anders, climbing from the water to the float, completed his journey to Wentworth’s yacht only to find that the woman he loved was straightening her disarrayed clothing.

“That story, gentlemen, is worse than lousy. It stinks. If you think any jury is going to believe that story, you’re crazy as hell. And because that story is so cockeyed, the district attorney’s office and the police aren’t quite ready to crack down on me as an accessory after the fact, but they did have enough information to send you and Holcomb up here to ask me for a statement, the idea being that I might be unwise enough to say something which would furnish something by way of corroboration.”

“We have those shoes for corroboration,” Holcomb said. “That’s all the evidence we need.”

“The most you can claim for the shoes,” Mason said, “is that they prove I was walking around in a field.”

“You found the gun,” Runcifer charged, “and concealed it.”

“Where did I conceal it?”

“We don’t know.”

“In that event,” Mason said, “you’d better get some more evidence before you make any statement of accusation.”

Runcifer stared thoughtfully at Mason for several seconds, then he once more regarded his spread out fingertips. At length he looked up at Sergeant Holcomb. “Any questions, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Questions?” Sergeant Holcomb said in disgust. “You’ve told him everything you know now, and he’s told you nothing he knows. Questions, hell!”

Runcifer said, “I find your attitude insubordinate rather than helpful, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Holcomb made some half strangled, half articulate reply. “Let’s go,” he said.

Runcifer got to his feet.

Sergeant Holcomb angrily threw the shoes into the bag, locked it, and strode toward the exit door.

Runcifer followed him, turned at the door, bowed, and said, very precisely, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mason.”

Mason, his eyes twinkling, said, “So long, Runcifer.”