The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

Chapter 12

Della Street, softly closing the door behind her, said, “Better get your bullet-proof vest out of mothballs, Chief.”

“What’s the matter?” Mason asked.

“A Mr. and Mrs. Golding are in the outer office, and they’re mad.”

“Mr. William Golding, who runs the gambling joint known as The Golden Platter?” Mason asked.

“He didn’t say what his occupation was, but it seems you’ve served him with a subpoena to appear as a witness for the defense in the case of People vs. Sarah Breel, and he’s on the warpath.”

“And the woman?” Mason asked.

“She was served as Eva Tannis. And is she mad. She says her name is Eva Golding.”

“They didn’t show you a marriage certificate, did they?” Mason asked.

“No kidding, Chief,” she said. “They’re going to get tough.”

“Fine,” Mason said, pushing aside the pile of mail which he had been reading. “Bring them in, Della, and let them get tough.”

The woman came through the door first, head high, chin up, eyes flashing. Behind her, Bill Golding walked softly, his face an expressionless mask. Only his eyes, glinting with sullen fires, gave any indication of his feelings. “Sit down,” Mason invited. “Close the door, Della.”

Golding said, “What’s the idea of serving that damned subpoena on us?”

“I want you as witnesses,” Mason said.

“On behalf of the defendant?”

“That’s right.”

Golding laughed sarcastically and said, “And I thought you were a good lawyer!”

“Opinions differ on the subject,” Mason admitted easily.

“You’ve insulted my wife,” Golding went on, his lips tight with rage.

“I’m sorry,” Mason said.

“What the devil did you mean by subpoenaing her as Eva Tannis?”

“I understood that was her name.”

“Well, it isn’t. Her name’s Mrs. Golding.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Golding,” Mason said, “but I wanted the subpoena to be binding, so I wasn’t taking any chances.”

She regarded him with glittering eyes, the lids slightly narrowed. Her dilated nostrils gave evidence of her emotion. “You’re going to regret that, Mr. Perry Mason,” she said.

“Regret what?”

“Serving a subpoena on us.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Well, I do.”

Golding said, “Look here, Mason. You know as well as I do that we’re running a joint. You bring us into court, and I’m going to be asked about my name, residence, and occupation. Then they’re going to ask Eva a lot of things. Those things aren’t going to do any of us any good.”

“They may do my client some good,” Mason said.

“That’s what you think.”

Mason ignored the sarcasm and said, “How about a cigarette, Mrs. Golding.”

“No... thank you.”

“You, Golding?”

“No.”

Mason took a cigarette and said, “Well, I’ll have one. You’re driving a new car, aren’t you, Golding?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Mason said, lighting his cigarette. He shook out the match, exhaled the first deep drag of smoke, and said, “I Understand you bought it the day after Cullens was murdered.”

“So what?”

“I was interested in the car you traded in,” Mason said. “It was in pretty good shape. You’d had it less than six months.”

“My God!” the woman exploded. “Do we have to account to a lawyer every time we want to trade in a car?”

Without looking at her, Mason went on evenly, “I became interested in that trade-in, Golding. I had my detectives find out about that car. It was a blue sedan with a crumpled left rear fender. I don’t know whether you know it, but Diggers says that just before Mrs. Breel stepped out from the sidewalk, a car which had been parked at the curb pulled out right ahead of him and swung sharply to the left. It was a blue sedan with a crumpled left rear fender.”

Golding and the woman exchanged swift glances. Then Golding said, “That doesn’t prove anything. I’ll bet a detective agency could turn up a hundred blue sedans with crumpled left rear fenders on twenty-four hours’ notice.”

“That’s possible,” Mason admitted readily enough.

“Then why do you want us as witnesses?”

“Oh, I just thought the jury might be interested in hearing about where you went after Cullens left your place.”

“That’s another thing I don’t like,” Golding said. “You’ve been snooping around with my bankers, trying to put the finger on me there.”

Mason’s eyes became level-lidded as they stared at the gambler. “I don’t like that word snooping, Golding,” he said.

“Well, I said snooping.”

“I heard you.”

The woman said, “Wait a minute, Bill. That isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“I’ll say it isn’t,” Mason agreed.

She suddenly got to her feet. “I want to talk with Bill,” she said. “Have you an office where we can discuss something?”

“Why not discuss it here?” Mason asked.

She whirled to face him and said, “I’m tempted to.”

“Shut up, Eva,” Golding warned.

She stared down at Mason and said, “You’re asking for it.”

“Eva, shut up!”

“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” she said. “We have to tell him now. He’s brought it on himself.”

“Tell him nothing,” Golding said. “We talk with our lawyer first. Then he talks with Mason.”

“As bad as that, eh?” Mason asked.

The woman dropped back in the big overstuffed leather chair and said, “No, Bill, we don’t want to see a lawyer. A lawyer would talk, and you can’t tell who he’d talk to. We’re going to tell Mason, and that’s all.”

“You’re crazy!” Golding said.

She didn’t even look at him, but went on steadily, “All right, Mr. Mason. We were out there. We were the ones who were parked in that blue sedan at the curb. We went out about twenty minutes after Cullens left, and...”

“Eva! For God’s sake, shut up!” Golding said, getting up from his chair and starting toward her.

She turned to face him then. “Get back to your chair,” she said, as one might order a dog into a corner. “Sit down. Shut up! You’re a hell of a gambler. You don’t even know when you hold the losing hand.” She turned back to Mason. Her voice had remained low, steady and conversational, and she resumed her story without changing her tone or even glancing at Golding as he hesitated, then slowly stepped back to his chair and sat down. “We couldn’t figure what Cullens was making all the squawk about,” she said. “It looked like some sort of a frame-up. I didn’t like it. We talked it over and decided we weren’t going to be pushed around. We went up to Trent’s office building. Trent wasn’t there. We telephoned his sister. She wasn’t home. Then we decided we’d go out to Cullens’ place and put the cards on the table.

“We drove out and parked the car. The house was dark. Bill said, ‘There’s no one home.’ I said, ‘We’ll go up and ring the bell anyway.’ ”

“Who was driving?” Mason interrupted to ask.

“I was,” she said.

“Go ahead,” Mason told her.

“All of a sudden, Bill said, ‘Look! There’s someone in there with a flashlight.’ I took a look. Sure enough, you could see the beam of a flashlight. It wasn’t very powerful, or else it was shielded in some Way, but you could see the beam moving around across the Windows.”

“Lower floor or upper floor?” Mason asked.

“Lower floor.”

“Go ahead.”

“We decided we didn’t want any of that, whatever it was,” she said, “but we were curious. I kept the motor running, the gear in and the clutch out, so I could get away from there fast. And then we heard two shots.”

“Two?” Mason asked.

“Two.”

“Coming from the house?”

“Coming from the house,” she said.

“And this was after you’d seen the flashlight?”

“Yes.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“We saw some more flashlight,” she told him, “and then a woman ran out of the house. She came out of the front door and ran toward the street. She was carrying a bag in her hands, and was pushing something down into the bag. I was sitting on the left side of the car at the steering wheel. Bill was on the right, next to the curb. He said, ‘That’s George Trent’s sister,’ and that’s all I waited for. I shoved in the clutch, and we went away from there.”

“You didn’t see what happened to the sister?”

“No.”

“Where did you go?”

“We put the car in the garage and went back to our place.”

“And turned the radio on to police calls?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“And heard about Cullens being found dead?”

“Yes.”

“And notified the place of what you had seen?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We wanted to keep out of it.”

“You haven’t told anyone?”

“You’re the first living mortal that we’ve told.”

Mason said, “I’m going to think this over.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she told him. “There’s nothing to think over. You keep quiet, and we keep quiet.”

Mason said, “As a lawyer, it’s my duty to advise you that you should communicate what you know to the police.”

She got to her feet and said, “All right, you’ve done your duty.”

“You’re not going to say anything to them?” Mason asked.

“Not unless we’re put on the stand and have to.”

“It’s going to sound like hell if it comes out for the first time on the witness stand,” Mason warned her.

“It’ll sound like hell for Sarah Breel,” Bill Golding said.

“And for you too,” Mason pointed out.

“We can take it if we have to,” the woman said. “Sarah Breel can’t.”

“That,” Mason said, “remains to be seen.”

Golding laughed unpleasantly. “Quit bluffing,” he said, pulling his copy of the subpoena from his pocket. “What do you want me to do with this subpoena?”

Mason met his eyes. “What do you think?”

Slowly, deliberately, Golding tore the subpoena in two, nodded to the woman and said, “Come on, Eva.”

They walked wordlessly out through the exit door and into the corridor. Mason shoved his hands down deep in his trouser pockets and slumped down in his chair, staring thoughtfully at the top of the desk. Della Street said, “Chief, they’re lying. They thought up that whole story so you wouldn’t dare to bring their blue sedan into the case. It’s just a lie they’ve made up out of whole cloth to tie your hands.”

Mason said moodily, “If it’s a lie, Della, it’s a damned good one.”

“You mean it’s going to keep you from putting them on the stand?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “I’d hardly want to play into the hands of the prosecution by bringing out evidence like that.”

“But suppose it’s a lie, Chief?”

“Suppose it is,” Mason said. “Then what?”

“Then they’re just telling that story to protect themselves.”

“Protect themselves from what?” Mason inquired.

“Why, from — from — well, having to explain what they were doing out there. Perhaps, from being accused of murder.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “In other words they’re gambling for big stakes... Get Paul Drake on the line. Let’s check up on them and see if we can find out more about what motivation they might have for murder. You see what this means, Della. So far, all the evidence Which connects Sarah Breel with the murder is circumstantial evidence. She was near the scene of the murder; she had the gun in her possession with which the murder was committed; she had some diamonds in her possession which might have been taken from the body. That makes a black case of circumstantial evidence, but it’s only circumstantial evidence. Now then, along come Golding and Eva Tannis, and put Sarah Breel on the spot at the exact moment when the murder was being committed.”

“If they’re lying, they’re doing it to protect themselves from a murder charge. If they’re telling the truth... well, if they’re telling the truth...”

“Suppose they are,” Della asked, “what then?”

Mason frowningly regarded the polished toes of his shoes. “Get Paul Drake on the line,” he said.

Della Street called Paul Drake’s office, cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “Drake’s out, Chief. Do you want to talk with anyone else?”

“No,” Mason said moodily. “Leave word for him to call as soon as he comes in.” As Della Street hung up the telephone, Mason got to his feet, pushed his thumbs through the armholes of his vest in a characteristic gesture, and started pacing the floor of the office, his chin sunk in thought. Knuckles sounded on the exit door, and Mason said, “That’s Paul Drake now.” He strode to the door and jerked it open. Drake, somewhat out of breath, said, “What’s all the excitement, Perry?”

“Excitement?” Mason asked, pushing the door shut.

“Yes. About the witnesses.”

Mason stared at him for a moment, then exchanged glances with Della Street, “Just what,” he asked, “do you know about witnesses?”

Drake walked over to his favorite chair, pulled a somewhat crumpled package of cigarettes from his pocket, and said, “Now, listen, Perry. Get this straight, I don’t want to butt in on anything you don’t want to tell me about. On the other hand, if I’m working on this case, I should know all about it.”

“Go ahead,” Mason told him.

“Were you going to tell me about those two witnesses who were just here in your office?”

“I don’t know,” Mason asked. “Why?”

“I should know what I’m up against.”

“Just how did you know about the witnesses?” Mason inquired—

Drake said, “I have a radio on my car which I keep tuned in to police calls. I’m not supposed to do it, but you know, in this racket you have to cut a corner once in a while.”

“Well,” Mason said impatiently, “what about it?”

“Five or six minutes ago,” Drake said, “a hurry-up police call came in for Car 19 to beat it to this office building and pick up two witnesses who were in the office of Perry Mason, the lawyer. The witnesses were to be brought to headquarters for questioning. They weren’t to be picked up until after they’d left the office.

“So I figured you had a couple of witnesses who could dynamite the case, that you’d telephoned Holcomb, and...”

“You figured wrong,” Mason interrupted. “Did they pick up the witnesses?”

“I guess so. I was on my way to the office when the call came in. When I was a couple of blocks down the street, a police radio car passed me coming away from the office building, and there were two people in the back seat. I couldn’t get a good look at them — couldn’t see them clearly enough to get their faces, but I gathered one of them was a man and the other was a woman.”

Della Street said, “Good Lord, Chief. Do you suppose Golding and...”

Mason whirled. “Skip it, Della,” he said. She glanced apprehensively at Paul Drake and became silent.

“Was Golding one of those witnesses?” Drake asked. “Was it Golding and Eva Tannis, Perry — and why all the mystery?”

Mason didn’t answer the question. Instead he walked over to the baseboard and started walking slowly along the edge of the carpet, looking down at the edge of the baseboard. Paul Drake said, “Good Lord, Perry! You don’t suppose...” and was silent.

Mason, without paying any attention to his comment, continued his inspection. Abruptly, he stooped and pressed his finger against some white dust on the baseboard. Some particles of that dust adhered to the moist surface of his forefinger. He tested the consistency by rubbing thumb and forefinger together and then nodded to Paul Drake. The detective slid from the chair to cross the office and stand at Mason’s side. Mason pointed toward a framed Picture on the wall. Slowly, the two men raised the picture, and moved it from the curved brass hangers from which it was suspended. A neat hole had been drilled through the plaster. In that hole appeared the ugly, black circle of a microphone. Della Street stared at it with wide, apprehensive eyes, started to say something, and checked herself. Paul Drake gave a low, almost inaudible Whistle.

Mason strode across the office, put a sheet of paper in the typewriter, and tapped out a jerky message with two fingers. Paul Drake and Della Street came to stare over his shoulder as the type bars, pounding against the sheet of paper which had been fed over the roller of the typewriter, tapped out: “This is unethical as hell. We can make a squawk about it, and that’s all. The fat’s in the fire now. Holcomb probably doesn’t give a damn whether we find out now or whether we don’t. The thing has served its purpose. Our only chance now is to throw him off the track. Try and back my play. You’ll have to ad lib.” Mason pushed back his chair from the typewriter, started pacing the floor of the office, said, “Bill Golding and Eva Tannis were here, Paul. Holcomb must have had them shadowed. I had subpoenas served on them. There must have been a leak somewhere.”

“What were they going to testify to?” Drake asked.

Mason said, “Paul, I think they’re mixed up in that murder. They’re trying to push it over on Mrs. Breel’s shoulders.”

Drake looked at Mason’s face, apparently waiting for some sign or signal. Mason, in pantomime, indicated that Drake was to speak, but the detective seemed slightly uncertain as to what it was Mason wanted him to say.

Della Street, reading Mason’s signals, interposed to ask, “What are you going to do about it, Chief?”

Mason flashed her a grateful grin, and by his manner indicated she had interpreted his pantomime correctly. “There’s only one thing for me to do,” he said. “If they’re going to try and convict Sarah Breel on perjured evidence, I’ll have to resort to every technicality I can to free her... or else I’ll have to...”

Again Mason made signals. Drake asked tentatively, “Just where will that leave your client, Mason?”

“I don’t know,” Mason admitted. “It might be better for her to plead guilty, or put in a plea of self-defense. I don’t know. All in all, it’s a hell of a responsibility, representing a client who can’t tell you anything about what happened and whether she’s guilty or innocent. Good Lord, for all I know, she may be guilty. I think I’ll go talk with her and sound her out about how she feels about pleading guilty. I may be able to get the charge reduced to second-degree murder under the circumstances.”

Della Street interposed quickly, “I take it you don’t want the officers to have any idea of what you are planning.”

“Good Lord, no!” Mason said. “I’d let them think I was getting ready to fight the case, then I’d start trading with them at the last minute. I’d walk right up to trial just as though I intended to fight all the way through. I don’t dare to make any overtures now. They’d construe it as a sign of weakness and refuse to give me any sort of a break... The more I think of it, the more I think I’ll go down and see Mrs. Breel right now. You folks hold the fort, Della,” and Mason, clapping on his hat, shot out of the office, banging the door violently behind him.

When he had left, Della Street said to Paul Drake, “Well, I guess that’s all, Mr. Drake. I think if Mr. Mason had wanted you to do anything else, he’d have told you so.”

Drake said, “You take it then, Della, that we’re to do nothing?”

“Nothing except what the Chief has specifically instructed.”

“O.K.,” Drake said, “we’ll let it go at that.” And, with a last apprehensive glance at the dictaphone, he eased himself out into the corridor.