The Case of the Baited Hook (22 page)

"And," Mason went on calmly, "Bolus has consulted an attorney. Bolus learned that under the law of agency the sale would have been invalid in the event it appeared Tidings had died-unless it should appear that I had consented to the sale as attorney for Byrl Gailord, which would have made Mattern an agent for the beneficiary instead of the trustee. Under those circumstances. Bolus could insist that the sale was valid. This story has been concocted in order to bolster up that sale. The stock is probably valueless. Bolus has agreed to give Mattern another five or ten thousand to tell this story. It gives Mattern an out, accounts for his actions, and will leave Bolus still holding the money."

"That," Burger said coldly, "is an ingenious attempt to distort the facts, but unfortunately for you, the evidence doesn't corroborate it."

Mason said, "All right. I'll go at it from another angle. How about you, Mrs. Tump? You are the one who employed me to represent the interests of Byrl Gailord. You know when you came to me. When was it?"

"I called on you," she said, "on Tuesday morning. I guess it was around ten o'clock. But you knew that I was going to call on you and that you were going to represent Byrl."

"How in Heaven's name did I know that?" Mason asked. "I'm not a mind reader."

"You knew it through Robert Peltham," she said. "You've been in touch with Robert Peltham ever since this case started. Do you deny that Robert Peltham called on you and employed you to represent his interests Monday night?"

"What makes you think that happened?" Mason asked.

"He told me…"

"Don't answer that question," Burger interrupted. "We're not here to give Mr. Mason an unlimited opportunity to fish for information and then work out a story which will hold water."

"What is the purpose of this interview?" Mason asked.

"Simply to give you an outline of the circumstances which make me feel that it's my duty to have a warrant issued for your arrest on a charge of criminal conspiracy and on a charge of being an accessory after the fact."

"Accessory to what?" Mason asked.

'To the murder of Albert Tidings."

"I see," Mason commented calmly, "and whom am I supposed to be aiding and abetting?"

"Robert Peltham."

"Oh," Mason said, "so he's the murderer now, is he?"

"You know he is."

"And how do I know it?"

"He told you so shortly after midnight on Monday night-or to be exact, the time was Tuesday morning. You met him at your office, and he retained you. You arranged for an alibi for Peltham and his mistress. In order to make that alibi good, you wanted it to appear that Tidings was still alive on Tuesday morning, that he met his death sometime after noon on Tuesday. Everything that you have done, Mason, supports that conclusion. The circumstantial evidence is strongly against you, and in view of the statement of Mattern, who is a direct witness, I feel it my duty to institute criminal proceedings against you unless you can convince me that you are innocent."

"And how can I convince you?" Mason asked. "I can't ask questions of the witnesses. I can't even find out what evidence you hold. My hands are tied."

"Not if you're innocent," Burger said. "You don't need to cross – examine witnesses in order to find out what cards I hold in my hand. You can make a simple, direct statement of your connection with the case."

"I can't do that," Mason said.

"Why not?"

"Because it would betray the confidences of a client."

"Do you deny that Robert Peltham called on you sometime between midnight and one o'clock on Tuesday morning?"

Mason said, "I'm not going to give you any information whatever concerning the activities of any client."

"Under the circumstances," Burger said, "I consider the interview closed. I have evidence which proves conclusively that Peltham was in love with Tidings' wife, that Tidings refused to grant a divorce, and that while the affair had been kept successfully from his knowledge for some little time, he had finally learned about it and sought to trap the participants. It was while he was so engaged that he met his death."

"When?"

"At eleven – fifteen Monday night."

Mason spent several seconds staring at the smoke which eddied upward from the tip of his half – smoked cigarette. "At eleven – fifteen," he said musingly.

"That's right."

"Someone hear the shot?" Mason asked.

For a moment it seemed as though Burger was about to reply to the question, then he picked up the telephone on his desk and inquired, "Is Miss Adelle Hastings in the office?… Very well. I want to see her next… And Paul Drake… Very well, have him wait. I'll see Miss Hastings next."

Mason said musingly, "Eleven – fifteen… That isn't the way I understand it. That time of death doesn't coincide with the facts as I've worked them out."

"What time," Burger asked, "do you consider that death took place?"

"About nine – thirty," Mason said without hesitation.

"On Monday night?"

"That's right."

Burger said, "I am not committing myself finally on that point as yet, Mr. Mason. There's one more witness whom I must interview personally before I make a definite commitment."

"That witness heard the shot?" Mason asked.

'That witness," Burger said with cold finality, "saw the deed committed. He recognized Robert Peltham as the murderer. He actually saw the murder. I've talked with him over the telephone. I haven't his signed statement as yet."

Mason stretched forth his long legs, crossed the ankles, and stared down at the toes of his shoes. "Well," he said, "there's nothing I can add."

"You might tell me how you fix the time of death as being around nine – thirty."

Mason shook his head.

"Very well," Burger announced in the voice of one terminating an interview, "I shall instruct my men to issue a complaint on which a warrant for arrest will be issued, Mason. I'm sorry, but I've repeatedly warned you that your methods were going to get you into trouble."

"I'll be eligible for bail?" Mason asked.

"I shall charge you with being an accessory after the fact on first – degree murder."

Mason said, "You haven't that complaint ready now?"

"It will be ready within the next hour."

"Until that time I'm not under arrest?"

Burger said, "I don't intend to arrest you without a warrant."

Mason arose from the chair, tossed his cigarette into the ash tray, and said, "Thank you very much for your consideration in giving me an opportunity to present my side of the case."

"I'm sorry that you couldn't make a more satisfactory explanation."

"So am I," Mason said.

Mrs. Tump said bitterly, "Well, I don't know where that leaves us. You certainly can't hold Byrl to any such bargain as that. She doesn't want that stock."

"I'm afraid that will have to be thrashed out in a civil court, Mrs. Tump," Burger said.

Mrs. Tump glared at Mason. "To think that I accepted you as an honest lawyer," she said scornfully.

Mason bowed. "My regrets, Mrs. Tump."

Byrl Gailord said sobbingly, "It seems as though everyone were conspiring against me. Now my money is put into a worthless stock-as much of it as hasn't been embezzled."

"Are you certain the stock is worthless?" Mason asked.

"Of course it is," she said.

Mason said, "Well, I have matters to wind up."

Without so much as a backward glance, he walked to the door and out into the corridor.

Carl Mattern watched him go, his eyes steady, his face expressionless.

14

FROM A DRUGSTORE ON THE CORNER, MASON TELEPHONED his office.

"Hello, Gertie," he said. "Guess who this is?"

"Uh huh," she said.

"The office being covered?"

"Uh huh."

"No one listening on the line?"

"No."

"Okay," Mason said. "Pretend I'm your boy friend, and you're making a date."

"I can't tonight," she said. "I think I'm going to have to work. There's been a bunch of stuff at the office I can't understand. The boss is in some sort of a jam, and the place is lousy with detectives. They get in my hair… What's that?… Well, I'm just talking to a boy friend. Haven't I got a right to tell him why I can't make a date?… Baloney, Mister. You mind your business, and I'll mind mine… Hello, Stew, I guess I'm not supposed to talk. Anyhow, I can't make it tonight."

Mason said, "Della Street had a body to bury. Heard anything from her?"

"Uh huh."

"An address?"

"Uh huh."

Mason said, "Go down the hall to the rest – room, and then duck out to a telephone where you won't be heard. Ring her and tell her to grab a portable typewriter and meet me at the St. Germaine Hotel just as soon as a taxi – cab can get her there. Got that straight?"

Gertie said, "Well, I'll do it just this once, but don't think you can pull that line on me all the time. You're always having cousins come in from the country that need to be entertained. What did you try to date me up for if you knew she was coming?… It's getting so that every time I check back on you, you're chasing around to night spots with some dizzy blonde, and she always turns out to be a cousin or a sister – in – law. If you ask me, you've got too much of a family-all blondes."

Mason chuckled and said into the telephone, "Well, you have to admit, Gertie, that it's always a new one. You shouldn't get peeved as long as I'm playing the field."

Mason heard a man's voice at the other end of the line saying something to Gertie and then her voice in the transmitter saying, "Now you listen to me, Stew. Maybe this is on the level, and maybe it ain't. I'm broad – minded, but I'm getting fed up with this. Now you just give me a ring about five minutes to five, and if I don't have to work tonight, I'm going to go right along and crab your party. If that gal ain't your cousin, I'm going to get a nice double handful of blonde hair… And don't think you can kid me."

"All right, sweetheart," Mason said, "good – by," and distinctly heard a masculine voice say at the other end of the line, "You just let me talk with that boy friend of yours, sister. I want to get his address."

Mason slipped the receiver back onto the hook, stepped out to the curb, waited for a taxi, and gave the address of the St. Germaine Hotel.

He had to wait ten minutes before Della Street put in an appearance.

"Made it as fast as I could, Chief," she said. "How serious is it?"

"Plenty," he said. "They've framed me."

"Who?"

"Mattern."

"That shrimp!"

"He's worked up a good story," Mason said.

"By himself?"

"No. Some lawyer concocted it, and Bolus is back of it. They've lost ten grand, but they still have forty thousand to fight for, and Bolus doesn't intend to let that go without a struggle."

"Where do you come in on that?"

"I'm the sheep," he said, "that's being led to the slaughter."

"What do we do here?"

Mason said, "We pay our respects to a man by the name of Herkimer Smith, who's registered as being from Shreveport, Louisiana, and we don't let him know we're coming."

"Okay. You want to find out his room?"

"Yes."

Della Street extended her hand. "Gimme."

Mason gave her a dime, and she walked over to the telephone booth. Mason stood by the open door while she dialed the number of the hotel switchboard and said to the operator, 'This is the Credit Department of the Ville de Paris. We have a C.O.D to send to your hotel to a Mr. Herkimer Smith of Shreveport, Louisiana. It's a C.O.D so all we're interested in is checking on the registration… If you will, please."

After a moment, she said, "Thank you," hung up the receiver, and said, "Okay, Chief. He's in 409."

Mason touched Della Street's arm, signaling for her to leave the telephone booth. He pulled another coin from his pocket and dialed the number of the Drake Detective Agency. "Mason talking," he said. "I want an operative who looks tough and is tough. I want him in a hurry. Send him to the St. Germaine Hotel. Have him go up to Room 409 and walk in without knocking. I'll be there. Have him hold up two fingers so I'll know he's your man. He isn't to say anything until I give him the lead. Got that?"

He received an okay from Drake's secretary, hung up the telephone, and said to Della Street, "Let's go."

They walked silently to the elevator, went to the fourth floor, and Mason stood for a moment getting the run of the numbers on the doors before piloting Della Street down the corridor to the right. They paused in front of Room 409, and Mason knocked.

The thin, reedy voice of Arthmont A. Freel, from the other side of the door, asked in high – pitched nervousness, "Who is it?"

Della Street said sweetly, "Chambermaid with towels."

The door was unlocked from the inside. Mason placed his shoulder against it. As Freel turned the knob, Mason pushed the door back. He and Della Street entered the room, to confront the frightened eyes of Freel.

Mason said, "Hello, sucker. How does it feel to be elected to the gas chamber? See if there's anyone in the bathroom, Della. Go over by that table and sit down when you've looked."

Mason walked over to the closet, jerked the door open and looked inside. He carefully closed the door of the hotel bedroom, walked over to a comfortable chair, and sat down. Della Street completed her inspection of the bathroom, and drew up a chair to the wicker table near the window. She calmly set up her portable typewriter and fed two sheets of plain paper, sandwiched with a sheet of carbon paper, into the machine. Having done that, she sat back with her hands folded in her lap.

Freel stared at her uneasily for a moment, then shifted his eyes to the lawyer.

"Well," Mason said, "I'm sorry they made you the goat. Personally, I don't think you're guilty, but you always were a sucker. You were half – smart, and you stuck your neck out just far enough so they could hang the murder rap on it."

"What are you talking about?" Freel demanded.

Mason selected a cigarette, tapped it gently on the edge of the cigarette case, snapped a match into flame, lit up, and sucked in a deep, appreciative drag on the cigarette.

"It really is too bad, Freel. You never were one to understand the fine points of the game." Mason paused to inhale another deep drag of smoke, shook his head mournfully, and added, "Too bad."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Freel said.

"I'll say you don't," Mason said with a chuckle. "You don't know what anyone's talking about. That's the trouble with you, Freel. You sit in on a game you don't understand, and when someone tells you to stick your chips in the center of the table, you shove in the whole stack… Now it's just too bad."

"You can't rattle me," Freel said. "You did it once, but you can't do it again."

Mason said, "You'll pardon me if I take a rather detached interest in the thing from the standpoint of legal technique. Personally, I think some shrewd lawyer figured the play."

"You're crazy," Freel said.

Mason smiled. "Don't say it so scornfully, Freel. Within thirty days, your only defense will be insanity. You'll have a bunch of doctors calling on you, and you'll be sweating blood, trying to make them think you're crazy. So don't mention insanity so lightly.

"You see, Freel, there are a flock of alibis in this case. Some of them are nice alibis. The alibis stay put, but the time of the murder doesn't: it keeps jumping around.

"Now you're a nice little guy, but you have too much of an appetite-for money. You're money hungry, money crazy. You're getting along in years and you can't get jobs now-not the clerical jobs you're fitted to handle. That bothered you. You wanted money so you could have security. That's a laugh, Freel. Security-for you!"

Freel started twisting his fingers, worried eyes regarding Mason apprehensively, but he said nothing.

Mason smoked leisurely, regarding Freel as one might look at an interesting specimen in an aquarium. Over at the table, Della Street sat motionless, keeping herself in the background, effacing her presence from Freel's consciousness.

"So," Mason said, "you were offered money to swear that you'd seen the murder committed. You were told that Peltham was dead, that he could never deny your accusation. And so you agreed to take the money and swear that you'd seen Peltham, and seen him fire the shot.

What you overlooked was the fact that the murderer never had any intention of really pinning that crime on Peltham. You haven't got it yet, Freel. You probably won't get it for about a week. But you've been elected to a reserved seat in the state's lethal gas chamber, and it's been done so nicely that the operation will be virtually painless.

"For about a week you'll be the state's star witness, then Peltham will show up with his alibi, and there you'll be-right out in the open with your neck stuck way, way out. The district attorney will come down on you like a ton of brick."

"Peltham's dead," Freel said sullenly.

Mason laughed and said, "You think he's dead. That overcoat business was a gag. He was playing that in order to cover his escape. A woman he was sweet on was due to be put on the spot in connection with that murder, and he didn't want to be examined. He took a powder so he wouldn't have to testify concerning his relations with her. That's all."

Freel squirmed uneasily. "I haven't said anything to anyone."

Mason said, "Oh, yes, you have. You've made your crack to the D.A., and he's given the newspapermen an interview on the strength of it. The D.A isn't going to back up on a thing like that."

"You're stringing me again," Freel said.

"Think so?" Mason asked. "Well, think again. Get this, your poor dumb dope, and let it sink into that thick skull of yours. Albert Tidings was killed while he was sitting in his automobile sometime after it started to rain Monday night. He didn't die instantly. He was found unconscious in his machine shortly after eleven o'clock. He was taken to Mrs. Tidings' house, put into bed, and died almost instantly. There was a thirty – two caliber revolver in his hip pocket. He hadn't fired that gun. Apparently, he'd made no effort to pull it. There was fresh lipstick on the handkerchief in his overcoat pocket.

"Tidings had learned about Peltham and his wife. If Peltham had approached the automobile in which Tidings was seated. Tidings would have pulled his gun. There wouldn't have been any lipstick on his handkerchief. If you'll just get the cobwebs out of your brain and try to concentrate for a minute on that lipstick, you'll find out a lot. Who kissed him, his wife? She hated him. No, Freel, there was only one woman whom he would have kissed who would have kissed him. He kissed that woman and then got shot. Figure it out for yourself."

Freel twisted his fingers in an agony of apprehension. His bony knuckles cracked and in the silence of the room the sound seemed distorted, magnified.

Mason stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "Oh, well," he said, "it's all in the game. We live our little lives and they seem important to us. Ho – hum… Guess I must be getting sleepy. The state will take your name away and give you a number. Then they'll present you with a nice suit of clothes, slide you into the lethal gas chamber, and leave you for fifteen minutes. When you come out, you'll have a tag pinned on the lapel of your coat and be delivered to the undertaker as part of the day's routine. I suppose it seems important to us, Freel, but it really doesn't make much difference. We're just cogs in a machine."

Freel licked his lips, tried twice to swallow. He said nothing.

"Well," Mason said, "God knows you're responsible for what happened, Freel. You know why Tidings didn't shoot his gun along at the last. He shot the ammunition you'd given him instead. You're really responsible for what happened and it is only fair you should pay the price."

Mason looked at his watch, then brought his eyes to hard focus on Freel. "Three minutes from now," he said, "I'm going to walk out of this room. When I close the door, it'll be too late for you to do anything to save that neck of yours. I'm your only hope, Freel."