The Case of the Counterfeit Eye (13 page)

Mason nodded moodily, then grinned and said, "I can do a lot in forty-eight hours, Della."

"Whenever a detective gets to digging around in people's lives," he said, "he finds skeletons."

Mason nodded moodily and said, "Who is it this time, Paul?"

"Hazel Fenwick," the detective said.

The lawyer motioned to Della Street to make notes.

"What about her?" he asked. "Did you get anything out of those finger-prints?"

"I'll say I did," the detective said. "I got ten perfect finger-prints, pulled a few wires to get the dope I wanted, and found out all about her."

"Her prints are registered then?"

"I'll say they are. She's suspected of being a female Bluebeard."

"A what?"

"A female Bluebeard."

"All right, go ahead and spill it."

"The police haven't anything very definite," the detective said, "but this woman marries men, the men then die, and she inherits the property."

"How many men?" Mason asked.

"I can't find out. The police aren't sure, but they've got some pretty strong suspicions. One of her husbands had arsenic in his stomach. They started an investigation. They exhumed another husband and found more arsenic. They arrested her, took her finger-prints, questioned her, and didn't find out anything. While they were collecting more data, some kind-hearted friend slipped her a couple of saws. She sawed through the bars of the county jail, where she was being held, and disappeared."

Mason gave a low whistle, and said, "Any living husbands?"

"Yes. There's Stephen Chalmers. She married him and he walked out on her two days after the marriage. She didn't get a chance to feed him arsenic."

"Does he know about her past record?" Mason asked.

"No. I think he lied about his property when she married him. She found out the truth and there was quite a scene. Chalmers called her a gold digger and walked out. He hasn't seen her since."

"Are you sure of the identification?" the lawyer asked.

"Yes," Drake said. "I managed to copy the photograph from the back of Dick Basset's watch."

"I didn't know there was any photograph," Mason said.

"Neither do the police. Basset has the only photograph. He hasn't said a word about it."

"How did you get it?"

"Oh, I just figured he probably had one somewhere, so I picked his pocket, pried open the back of the watch, took a photograph of the photograph that was in it, and checked it with the police photographs on file in the Rogues, Gallery."

"And Chalmers identified the photograph?"

"Yeah, the one I'd stolen from Basset's watch. I didn't show him the police photographs because I didn't want him to know she had a record."

Mason said slowly, "Look here, Paul; do you suppose you could get Chalmers to let me get him a divorce if it didn't cost him anything?"

"Sure," Drake said. "But that might make him suspicious. He wants to get married again, anyway. Let him give you his note for a hundred bucks. He's a slicker and he'll beat you out of the note."

Mason nodded slowly and said, "All right, send him in. Tell him you can fix it up."

"But," the detective said, "what's the idea in getting the divorce?"

"I'm going to make a build-up," Mason told him.

"Build up to what?"

Mason said slowly, "The hardest thing on earth to describe is a woman. Notice the description of Hazel Fenwick which the police have given to the newspapers – height five feet two, weight one hundred and thirteen, age twenty-seven, complexion and eyes dark, last seen wearing a tailored brown suit with brown shoes and stockings."

"Well?" Drake asked.

"Darn few people ever saw this woman. She entered the picture mysteriously. Evidently Dick Basset courted her strictly on the quiet. The description is all anyone has to go by and that description would fit almost any dark-haired woman in the middle twenties."

Drake, watching him narrowly, said, "So what?"

Mason took Della Street's arm, piloted her to a corner, away from the detective, and said, in a whisper, "Go to an employment agency and find a young woman in the middle twenties, about five feet two, with dark hair and eyes, weight about one hundred thirteen, and who is hungry. If she's got a brown tailored suit, brown shoes and stockings, so much the better. If she hasn't, get her that kind of an outfit, and be damn sure she's hungry."

"How hungry?" Della Street asked.

"Hungry enough so she won't argue with cash."

"Will she go to jail?" Della Street, inquired.

"She may, but she won't stay there, and she'll be paid for it if she does. Wait a few minutes before you go, Della I've got a couple of other things."

He walked back to the detective and said, "Paul, you stand pretty well with the newspaper boys, don't you?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Slip one of your newspaper friends fifty bucks," the lawyer said. "Get him to take photographs of everyone in Basset's house. Tell him to say that he wants the pictures for his newspaper. Do you think you can do that?"

"Sure, it would be simple."

"All right, now here's the catch in it. I want those pictures taken at a particular place."

"What place?"

"I want the subjects sitting in the chair that Basset was sitting in when he was killed. I want close-ups that will show their facial expressions."

"Why that particular place?" the detective asked.

"That's a secret," Mason told him, grinning.

"It's pretty dark there."

"Not in the early morning," Mason said. "Have those pictures taken between nine and ten o'clock in the morning. Have the subjects facing that east window. Sunlight will be streaming in through that window."

The detective pulled out a notebook. "Okay," he said. "There's Overton, the chauffeur, Colemar, the Brite woman, Dick Basset, and who else?"

"Anyone else who had access to the house on the night of the murder."

"Seated at the desk?"

"Seated at the desk, facing the window."

"You want close-ups?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Drake said. "It sounds goofy, but I'll do it." The telephone rang, Della Street picked up the receiver and said, "Hello," and passed it quickly across to Perry Mason, saying in an undertone, "It's Harry McLane on the wire. He wants to talk with you personally."

Mason waved Paul Drake through the door and said into the transmitter, "Yes, this is Mason talking."

Harry McLane's voice was high-pitched with excitement.

"Listen," he said. "I've been a damned fool. I was used as a cat's-paw and didn't realize it until just now. Now I know what a fool I've been. I'm going to tell you the whole business and make a clean breast of the entire affair."

"All right," Mason said, "come on in. I'll be waiting for you."

"I can't come," McLane said. "I don't dare to."

"Why not?"

"I'm being watched."

"Who's watching you?"

"That's part of the story I'll have to tell you when I see you."

"Well, when am I going to see you?" Mason asked.

"You'll have to come to me. I don't dare to try and come to your office. I tell you, I'm being watched, and it would be as much as my life was worth to see you. Now, listen. I'm registered at the Maryland Hotel under the name of George Purdey. I'm in Room 904. Don't ask for me at the desk. Come in the hotel, go up the elevator and walk down the corridor. If there's anyone in the corridor, don't hesitate as you walk by my room. Just keep right on going as though you were looking for some other room. If there's no one in the corridor, twist the knob of the door and step in. I'll leave it open for you. Don't knock."

"Listen," Mason said. "Tell me just one thing. Who was the accomplice? Who…?"

"No," McLane said, "I won't tell you a damn thing over the telephone. I've told you too much now. If you want to come, come. If you don't, go to hell."

The receiver made noise at the other end of the line as it was slammed on the hook.

Perry Mason gently slipped the receiver back into position, glanced at Della Street and at Paul Drake.

"I've got to go out," he said.

"Can I reach you," his secretary asked, "if anything important should develop?"

Mason hesitated a moment, then scribbled on a sheet of paper the words, "Maryland Hotel, Room 904, care George Purdey." He folded the paper, put it in an envelope, sealed the envelope and handed it to her.

"If I don't call you within fifteen minutes," he said, "tear open that envelope. You, Paul, will then come for me at that address. And be certain to take a gun with you."

He reached for his hat and started for the door of the office.

He did not walk directly to the hotel, but swung around the block, and approached the hotel from a side entrance.

A clerk was on duty at the desk. Mason sauntered past him to the cigar counter, picked out a package of cigarettes, contemplated the cover of a magazine, drifted toward the elevators, and stepped into one of the cages just as the operator was on the point of closing the door.

"Eleventh floor," he said.

He got off at the eleventh, walked down two flights of steps to the ninth, and waited to make certain that the corridor was empty before he stepped from the stairway into the corridor. He strode purposefully to the door of 904, turned the knob without knocking, opened the door, stepped into the room, and pushed the door closed behind him.

The shades were down in the room. Drawers had been pulled from the dresser. A suitcase had been opened, and the contents were strewn over the floor. The body of a man lay face down on the bed, the left arm dangling down to the floor, the head lolling at an angle, the right arm doubled up under the chest.

Mason, taking care to touch nothing, tiptoed around the bed, dropped to his knees and leaned forward so that he could look up under the portion of the body which lay over the edge of the bed.

He saw that the man's right hand clutched the hilt of a knife; that the knife had been buried in the heart. The twisted features were those of Harry McLane.

Mason was warily watchful. He stepped back a couple of paces and cocked his head to one side, listening. He fished in his left waistcoat pocket with thumb and fore-finger, pulled out one of the counterfeit eyes which Drake had had made. He polished the eye with his handkerchief so there would be no finger-prints on it, stepped to the side of the bed, bent forward and inserted the counterfeit eye between the loosely clutched fingers of McLane's left hand. He tiptoed to the door, polished the inner knob with his handkerchief, jerked open the door, stepped into the corridor, rubbed the outer knob hastily with his handkerchief, and let the door close behind him.

Mason walked swiftly to the stairs, climbed the two flights to the eleventh floor, rang for the elevator, and was whisked down to the lobby. He entered a telephone booth, called his office and said, "Okay, Della, burn that envelope."

He left the hotel, walked through an alley to the street where he had left his car, and stood concealed in the alleyway, looking up and down the street.

He spotted a police car, which was parked at the curb some fifty feet behind his own car. Two men sat in the police car, slouched down in the seat, as though they were prepared for a long wait.

They were watching Mason's car.

The lawyer narrowed his eyes in thoughtful scrutiny and stepped back into the alley. As he stood there, another car swung around the corner and slid to a stop directly opposite the police car. Sergeant Holcomb, of the Homicide Squad, leaped out from the driver's seat and conversed in low tones with the two men in the car.

Perry Mason abruptly turned and retraced his steps down the alley to the next street. He walked with quick steps to the hotel, entered the hotel, crossed to the clerk's desk, and said, "I'm not anxious to have the information broadcast, but I'm looking for a chap by the name of Harry McLane. I've got a tip that he's here in the hotel some place. Have you a McLane registered?"

The clerk looked through the register, and shook his head.

"Funny," Mason said slowly. "I was told he'd be here. My name's Perry Mason. I m going into the dining-room and get something to eat. If he should register, please have me paged. But don't tell him that I'm looking for him."

He stepped into the dining-room and ordered a sandwich and a bottle of beer. When the sandwich was brought to him, he accepted the check, and insisted on tipping the waitress a half-dollar. He ate the sandwich leisurely, drank the bottle of beer, sauntered to the door of the dining-room and stood there looking into the lobby.

Sergeant Holcomb was standing in a corner of the lobby behind a potted palm.

Mason stepped back into the dining-room and walked directly to the public telephone near the cashier's desk. He dropped a nickel and asked for police headquarters.

"I want to speak to Sergeant Holcomb," he said.

"Sergeant Holcomb isn't in."

"Is there anyone who can take a message for him?"

"What about?"

"About some developments in connection with a case I'm working on."

"Who is this talking?"

"Perry Mason, the lawyer."

"What's the message?"

"Ask him to come to the Maryland Hotel as soon as he gets in. Tell him I'm waiting for him there."

He hung up the receiver.

He dropped another nickel and called the district attorney's office.

"Perry Mason, the lawyer," he said. "I want to talk to Hamilton Burger on a matter of considerable importance… No, I won't talk with anyone else. I want to talk with Mr. Burger personally. Tell him Mr. Mason is on the line."

After a few seconds he heard Burger's voice, calm, suave, yet wary.

"What is it, Mason?"

"I'm down at the Maryland Hotel, Burger. I was told to come here by someone who gave me a tip over the telephone and wouldn't leave his name. I was told that Harry McLane was here, and was ready to talk. I've inquired at the desk, and McLane isn't registered here. I have an idea he may be coming in almost any minute. The voice of my informant sounded as though he knew what he was talking about.

"Now, McLane worked for Basset. It, incidentally, happens that he's a client of mine on another matter…"

"Yes," Burger said, "I know all about that matter, Mason. You don't need to explain it."

"That simplifies things," Mason said. "You can appreciate the fact that McLane might give some important information if he wanted to."

"'If he wanted to' is good," the district attorney said. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm in rather a peculiar position in this thing," Mason explained. "In a way, I'm acting as attorney for McLane. Therefore, if he's going to talk, I'd like to have some representative of your office here when he talks. I've called Sergeant Holcomb at the Homicide Squad, but can't get him."

There was a moment of silence. Then Burger said, "You're at the Maryland Hotel now?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been there?"

"Oh, quite a little while. I waited around for McLane, and he didn't show up. I had a meal in the dining-room and put in a call for Sergeant Holcomb."

"Well," Burger said slowly. "I'll send a man down, if you think it isn't a wild-goose chase. But understand one thing – from the minute my man arrives, my office is going to be in charge."

"Okay by me," Mason said.

"Thank you for calling," Burger said, and hung up.

Mason slipped the receiver back into place, lit a cigarette, opened the door from the dining-room and walked into the lobby, taking care not to look in the direction of the corner where Sergeant Holcomb was standing, one foot on the rim of the tub which held the potted palm, his elbow resting on his bent knee, a cigarette between his fingers.

Mason walked to the desk and said, "McLane hasn't registered yet?"

"No."

Mason took a chair, sprawled out his legs, made himself comfortable and puffed placidly on his cigarette.

When the cigarette was three-quarters finished, he went to the desk again and said, "Say, I hate to keep bothering you, but this man McLane may have registered under another name. He's a young fellow about twenty-four or twenty-five, with celluloid-rimmed glasses. He has a few pimples on his face, dresses well, has light reddish hair, and freckles on the backs of his hands. I'm wondering if…"

The clerk said, "Just a minute. I'll get the house detective."

He pressed a button, and, a moment later, a paunchy man with hard, intolerant eyes stepped from an office and looked Mason over in uncordial appraisal.

"This is Mr. Muldoon, our house officer," the clerk said.

"I'm looking for a man whose real name is Harry McLane," Mason said, "but who may have registered under another name. He's about twenty-four or twenty-five, with a mottled complexion. He has light reddish hair and freckles on the backs of his hands. He's slender, well-dressed. The last time I saw him, he had on a dark blue suit; with a white stripe, and he wore a very light gray hat. I'm wondering if you'd remember him."

"What do you want him for?"

"I want to talk with him."

"But you don't know what name he's registered under?"

"No."

"How do you know he's here?"

"I was advised that he's here."

"Who advised you?"

"Really," Mason said, "I don't know as that's any of your business."

"You've got a crust," Muldoon told him, "coming in here and insinuating to me that one of our guests is a crook."

"I didn't insinuate any such thing."

"You insinuated he was registered under another name."

"A man might do that for lots of reasons."

"Well, suppose you come clean," the house detective said. "You're holding something back. Who are you? Why do you want…?"

There was the sound of steps behind them. Muldoon looked up, stared for a moment with surprise, then let his lips break away from his teeth in a grin.

"Sergeant Holcomb!" he said. "I ain't seen you for a month of Sundays."

Perry Mason whirled with a quick start of feigned surprise.

"I've been trying to call you," he said.

"From where?" asked Sergeant Holcomb.

"From here – from the hotel."

"What did you want with me?"

"I wanted to tell you about a tip that was given me, a tip that I think is hot."

"What was it?"

"That Harry McLane was at this hotel, and he wanted to talk."

"Well, have you seen him?"

"They say he isn't registered here."

"What's the excitement about with the house dick?"

"He described a guy," Muldoon said, "and wanted to find out if he was here in the hotel, registered under another name."

Sergeant Holcomb's eyes stared steadily at Muldoon.

"Is he?"

"Yes, I think so."

"What's the name?"

"George Purdey. He's in 904. He came in about an hour and a half ago. He looked phoney, which is why I spotted him."

Sergeant Holcomb turned to Perry Mason.

"How long have you been here, Mason?"

"Quite a little while," Mason said.

"What have you been doing?"

"Been waiting for McLane to show up. I thought I'd got here ahead of him. I was told he was going to register at this hotel, and that he'd be willing to talk."

"You said you were calling me?"

"Yes, I wanted to have some officer present when he talked – that is, if he was going to talk."

"What was he going to talk about?"

"Something about that Basset case. I don't know just what it was."

"Listen," Sergeant Holcomb said. "You can't fool me a damn bit. You didn't call me and you never intended to call me. You've been here over half an hour. What have you been doing?"

"I was in the dining-room."

"Getting something to eat, I suppose, because it just happened you were too hungry to wait."

Mason looked appealingly at the clerk.

"That's right, sir," the clerk said. "He said he was going into the dining-room."

"Where this bird says he's going, and where he goes, aren't always the same things," Sergeant Holcomb remarked. He took Mason's arm, and pushed him toward the dining-room.

"Come on, buddy," he said. "If you can pick out the girl that waited on you, I'm going to give you a written apology."

Mason stood in the doorway, looking uncertainly.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't do it, Sergeant. You know I seldom pay attention to waitresses. I know it was a young woman in a blue uniform."

Sergeant Holcomb laughed sneeringly.

"They all have on blue uniforms," he said. "It's just like I thought, Mason. You can't get away with it."

"Wait a minute," the lawyer said. "That girl over there looks familiar."

Sergeant Holcomb beckoned to her with his linger.

"You wait on this man a few minutes ago?" he asked.

She shook her head.

Sergeant Holcomb sneered.

The waitress who had brought Mason his sandwich and beer came forward.

"I'm the one that waited on him," she said.

Mason's face suddenly lit with recognition.

"That's right," he said. "You are. I'm sorry but I didn't remember you very clearly. You see, I was rather preoccupied at the time."