The Case of the Counterfeit Eye (14 page)

"Well, I remember you all right," she said. "You gave me a fifty-cent tip for a sandwich and beer order. I don't get fifty-cent tips with sandwich and beer orders often enough to forget the people who gave them to me."

Sergeant Holcomb's face was a study in surprised consternation.

The cashier, who had overheard the conversation said, "Why, I remember this gentleman. He paid his check and then stood at the telephone by the desk making a couple of calls."

"Who'd he call?" Holcomb asked.

"A Sergeant Holcomb at police headquarters, and then the district attorney's office. I thought he was a detective and I listened to the conversation."

"The district attorney's office!" Holcomb said.

"Why, yes," the cashier told him. "He called the district attorney when he couldn't get Sergeant Holcomb. He asked the district attorney to send a man over to be with him when he interviewed a chap by the name of McLane, who was a witness to something or other."

Sergeant Holcomb said slowly, "Well – I'll – be – damned!"

"What do we do now?" Mason inquired. "Do we talk with Harry McLane?"

"I talk with Harry McLane," Sergeant Holcomb said. "You wait in the corridor."

Holcomb pushed Mason toward the elevator.

"Ninth floor," he said.

They reached the ninth floor and Mason, hastily stepping from the elevator, started to walk in the wrong direction, then, glancing at the numbers on the rooms, caught himself, turned and walked down the corridor toward 904. Sergeant Holcomb caught Mason's sleeve and pulled him back.

"I'll be the one who makes the contact," he said. "You keep back of me."

He stood in front of the door of 904 and knocked gently. When there was no answer, he knocked again, then turned the knob of the door and opened it. He stepped inside the room and said over his shoulder to Perry Mason, "You wait there."

The door closed.

Mason stood motionless.

Abruptly the door opened. Sergeant Holcomb's white, excited face stared at Perry Mason.

"Is he going to talk?" the lawyer inquired.

"No," Sergeant Holcomb said grimly, "he's not going to talk. Now you're a busy man, Mason. Suppose you go right back to your law office. I'll attend to things here."

"But," Mason said, "I want to see McLane."

A spasm of impatience registered on Sergeant Holcomb's face.

"You," he said, "get the hell out of here before I get rough about it. This is one investigation I'm going to make before your masterly touch manipulates the evidence and spirits away the witness."

"Has something happened?" Mason asked, standing his ground.

"It will happen if you don't beat it," Sergeant Holcomb said.

Mason turned with dignity and said, "The next time I try to give you a tip you'll not know it."

Sergeant Holcomb said nothing but stepped back into the room and closed and locked the door.

Mason went directly to his car, drove to his office, pushed his way into Della Street's office and said, "Listen, Della, we've got to work fast…"

He broke off as a figure stirred in the shadows. Pete Brunold, grinning, got up from his chair and extended a hand to Perry Mason.

"Congratulations," he said.

Sheer surprise held Mason motionless.

"You!" he remarked. "What the devil are you doing out of jail?"

"They turned me loose."

"Who did?"

"The cops – Sergeant Holcomb."

"When?"

"About an hour and a half ago. I thought you knew about it. You got a writ of habeas corpus. They didn't want to make a charge against me just yet, so they turned me loose."

"Where's Sylvia Basset?"

"I don't know. I think she's in the district attorney's office. They're questioning her."

Mason said slowly, "Probably the worst break you ever got in your life was when they turned you loose. You get out of here. Go to a hotel, register under your name, telephone the district attorney, and tell him that you're there."

"But why," Brunold asked, "should I telephone the district attorney? He doesn't…"

"Because I told you to," Mason interrupted savagely. "Damn it. Do what I tell you to. Seconds are precious – minutes might be fatal. Get started! I thought you were safely in jail, and any minute now…"

The door pushed open. Two men entered without knocking. One of them looked at Brunold and jerked his head significantly toward the door.

"Okay, buddy," he said. "Get started."

"Where?" Brunold asked.

"We're from the D.A.'s office," the man said. "The Chief wants to see you right now and it'll take more than a writ of habeas corpus to spring you this time. Your friend, Mrs. Basset, spilled some information to the D.A. We've got a warrant for you and she's already been arrested."

"What's the charge?" Mason asked.

"Murder," the man said grimly.

Mason said, "Brunold, don't answer any questions. Don't tell them…"

"Hooey!" one of the men said, grabbing Brunold's arm and pushing him toward the door. "He'll answer questions about where he spent his time during the last hour and a half or he'll have two murder charges against him."

"Two?" Brunold asked.

"Yeah," the man said. "Every time you get out of jail there's an epidemic of dead guys holding glass eyes in their hands. Come on, let's get started."

The door slammed shut behind them.

Della Street glanced inquiringly at Perry Mason.

Mason crossed the office in swift strides, jerked open the door of the safe, and took out the pasteboard box containing the bloodshot glass eyes. He crossed to the coat closet and took out an iron mortar and pestle. One by one, he dropped the glass eyes into the mortar and pounded them to fine dust.

"Della," he said, "see that I'm not disturbed."

Standing to one side and slightly behind her, Della Street regarded Perry Mason anxiously. There was a superficial resemblance between the two women.

"Will she do?" asked Della Street.

Perry Mason's eyes surveyed the girl in silent appraisal.

"Your name?" he asked at length.

"Thelma Bevins."

"Age?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Training?"

"Secretarial."

"Been out of a job long?"

"Yes."

"Ready to do anything that's offered?"

"That depends on what it is."

Perry Mason remained silent.

She squared her shoulders, tilted her chin and said, "Yes, I don't give a damn what it is."

"That's better," Mason told her.

"Do I get the job?"

"I think you do, if you'll do exactly what I say. Can you follow instructions?"

"That depends on the instructions, but I can try."

"Can you keep quiet if you have to?"

"You mean not say anything?"

"Yes."

"I think I can."

"I want you," Perry Mason said, "to take an airplane to Reno. I want you to get an apartment in the name of Thelma Bevins."

"You mean, I'm to rent an apartment under my own name?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then what do I do?"

"You stay there until a man comes to serve some papers on you."

"What sort of papers?"

"They'll be papers in a divorce action."

"Then what?"

"This man will ask you if your name is Hazel Basset, also known as Hazel Fenwick, formerly Hazel Chalmers."

"What do I do?"

"You say that your name is Thelma Bevins, but that you are expecting the papers and that you'll take them and accept service."

"Is there anything illegal in that?"

"Certainly not. They are papers which I will prepare and which you can expect. You know that they're going to be served on you because I'm telling you so now."

She nodded her head and said, "Is that all there is to it?"

"No," he told her, "that's the beginning."

"What's the ending?"

"You'll be taken into custody."

"You mean arrested?"

"Not exactly arrested, but you'll be taken into custody for questioning."

"Then what do I do?"

"Then is when the difficult part of it comes in. You keep your mouth shut."

"Don't tell them anything?"

"Don't tell them one single word."

"Shall I make any demands?"

"No, simply sit absolutely tight. You'll be questioned and cross-questioned. You'll be photographed by newspaper reporters. You'll be cajoled and wheedled. You'll be threatened, but you'll keep quiet. There's only one thing you will say, and you'll keep saying that."

"What is that?"

"That you refuse to leave the State of Nevada until some court of competent jurisdiction has given an order forcing you to cross the state line. Do you understand that?"

"I want to stay in Nevada, is that it?"

"Yes."

"What do I do to keep there?"

"Simply refuse to leave."

"Suppose they take me?"

"I don't think they'll take you. There's going to be a lot of publicity and a lot of newspaper reporters. If you insist on being allowed to remain in Nevada until some court has ordered your removal, they'll wait until they have a court order before they take you out."

"And that's all?"

"That's all there is to it."

"What do I get for it?"

"Five hundred bucks."

"When do I get it?"

"Two hundred now – three hundred when you've finished the job."

"How about expenses?"

"I furnish you an airplane ticket to Reno. You pay for your apartment out of the two hundred dollars."

"When do I start?"

"Right now."

She shook her head and said, "Not right now. When I get that two hundred dollars I go out and eat, then I start."

Mason nodded to Della Street.

"Give her two hundred dollars, Della," he said, "and have her sign a written statement that she is to go to Reno under my instructions; that she is to register under her own name; that when someone seeks to serve papers on her, she will say her name is not Hazel Fenwick nor Hazel Basset nor Hazel Chalmers, but that she will accept the papers."

"What's the object of that?" Thelma Bevins asked.

"That protects you and it protects me," Perry Mason said. "It shows exactly what you're instructed to do. Above all, be sure that you don't lie. Don't say that your name is Hazel Fenwick. Don't say that your name is Hazel Basset. Never admit that you're anyone except Thelma Bevins. Simply say that you're expecting the papers and will accept service of them. Do you understand that?"

"I think I do," she said. "And I get three hundred dollars when it's over with?"

"That's right."

She leaned across the desk and gave Perry Mason her hand.

"Thanks," she said. "I'll make a good job of it."

The telephone rang and Della Street, lifting the receiver and listening, glanced at Perry Mason.

"Paul Drake, Chief," she said.

Mason said, "Run Miss Bevins out through that side door, Della. I don't want Paul Drake to see her. She can go around and come in the office from the other entrance. Tell Drake to come in. I'll hold him here until you get finished with Miss Bevins. Then take her down to the plane and see her aboard. Just as soon as you hit Reno, Miss Bevins, get that apartment. You'll be there for less than a week, so rent it by the week. Wire me the address of the apartment. Don't sign the telegram. Do you understand?"

She nodded, and Della Street piloted her through the side door. A few moments later she appeared and ushered Paul Drake into the office.

"Thought I'd look in to see if things were coming all right," Drake said.

Mason nodded, and said, "They're okay, Paul."

"You contacted Stephen Chalmers all right?"

"Yes. I'm going to file his divorce action today."

"I got those pictures you wanted," Drake said. "I'll have the prints for you sometime tomorrow."

"Have any trouble?" Mason asked.

"Not a bit. We got everyone in the house, with one exception."

"Why the exception?"

"Colemar," the detective said. "He was last on the list and he smelled a rat. You see, Perry, I wanted to save you that fifty bucks. I didn't see any reason for having a newspaper photographer do the job. I got one of my men to pose as a reporter from the Journal. It got by okay until we came to Colemar. Seems that Colemar is going to be a witness. He'd just come from the D.A.'s office. He called them on the phone and asked if they wanted him to pose. Seems like they've warned him not to do or say anything unless he asks them…"

"What did the D.A.'s office say?" Mason asked. "Did they smell a rat?"

"Evidently they did because Colemar hung up the telephone and then called the Journal and asked for the city editor's desk. That checkmated my man. He grabbed his camera and beat it. Can you get along without Colemar, Perry?"

"I think I can," Mason said, "if you're sure he's going to be a witness for the prosecution."

"Sure he is," the detective asserted. "He's been spilling something to them. They'd evidently told him not to do anything until he'd called them."

Mason nodded slowly and asked, "How about those other pictures, Paul? Do they show anything peculiar about the facial expressions?"

"Nothing I can find," the detective said. "Look them over for yourself. Overton apparently tried to keep any expression whatever from showing on his face. Edith Brite had her lips compressed in a grim line. Dick Basset looks as though he were posing for a portrait, but the photographer told me he had a lot of trouble getting Dick to keep his eyes on the camera. Dick kept letting his gaze wander down to a spot on the floor. Does that mean anything?"

"It may," Mason said, "but probably it doesn't. I'll have to study the picture. How about this Brite woman…?"

Drake interrupted him in a low voice, saying, "Listen, Perry, this may be serious as hell. You heard about young McLane?"

Mason nodded and said, "Yes, I heard some rumors. How do the police figure it, Paul? Was it murder or suicide?"

"I don't know. They're keeping it pretty close. But I'm wondering about that eye he was holding, Perry. You remember I got you a bunch of eyes. I'd feel a lot better if I saw that bunch of eyes again."

"Why?"

"I'd just like to make certain they're all there."

Mason shrugged his shoulders. "Those eyes, Paul, are all gone."

"Where?"

"Never mind where."

"Suppose they trace me through the wholesaler…"

"I told you," Mason interrupted, "not to leave a back trail."

"Sometimes a man can't help it."

"Then," the lawyer said, "it's just too bad."

"Look here, Perry. You said you'd keep me out of jail."

"You're not in yet, are you?"

The detective shivered and said, "I have a hunch I'm going to be."

Mason said slowly, "Paul, I think we'd better rush this case to trial. The district attorney wants to hold the preliminary examination day after tomorrow. I'm going to consent to it."

The detective puckered his forehead in a worried frown. "Look here, Perry, we're in this thing together."

"Get your suitcase packed, Paul," the lawyer interrupted; "you're taking the next plane to Reno."

"To get away from this eye business?" Drake asked.

"No, to serve papers on Hazel Fenwick, sometimes known as Hazel Chalmers, also known as Hazel Basset."

Drake gave a low whistle and said, "So, you did know where she was!"

Mason lit a cigarette. "You make too damn many comments, Paul," he said.

Drake started for the door.

"I'm packing my suitcase, Perry, but just remember one thing – you promised to keep me out of jail."

Mason waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal and rang for Della Street. She entered the room just as the detective was leaving. Mason waited until the door closed, and then said, "Take a divorce complaint, Della. The ground will be desertion. The defendant will be described as Hazel Chalmers, also known as Hazel Fenwick, and sometimes known as Mrs. Richard Basset."

The secretary stared at him in open-mouthed surprise.

"Why," she said, "if you file the action that way, every newspaper in town will pounce on it. They follow the divorce actions as routine news."

Mason nodded. "I'm sending Paul Drake on to Reno by the evening plane," he said. "Get that girl started at once. When she wires us the address of her apartment, we'll wire Drake to serve papers on her there."

Della Street, watching him curiously, said, "A lot of the newspaper boys know that Paul Drake serves most of our papers."

Mason nodded his head slowly. "If," he said, "I can make the proper build-up on this thing, I can get away with it, but everything depends on the build-up. Go ahead and knock out that divorce complaint, then see that it gets filed."