Low-flung clouds, borne along in solemn procession by a brisk south wind, slid smoothly over the city streets, sending down an occasional patter of raindrops. The morning was depressing, gloomy, a fore-runner of disaster.
The transfer man who stood awkwardly ill at ease in front of the apartment house desk, said, “Well, all I know about it is she said she was moving in. She had a sublease or something. She said all the baggage initialed ‘D.M.’ was to go in. Here, she said to give you this letter if I had any trouble.”
The clerk said, “Well, you’re having trouble,” and slit open the envelope. He read the document, scratched his head and said, “Well, it seems to be in order. Rita Swaine has her rent paid and she’s in jail. She says to let a Miss Della Street move her things into the apartment, and these are Della Street’s things. I guess she has the right to do it if she wants. I’ll send the boy up to unlock the door.”
The transfer man nodded, walked back to the light transfer wagon at the curb, and started unpiling bags, suitcases and steamer trunks.
“How you going to get all that stuff into the one apartment?” the clerk asked.
“I d’know,” the transfer man admitted. “I’ll do it some way. Pile ’em in the center of the floor if I can’t do nothing else. She said to get ’em in, and I’ll get ’em in.”
The colored elevator boy approached the desk. “Boss, yo’-all remembah that the police officer man said you was to telephone him if anybody tried to get in that apartment.”
“No one’s trying to get in,” the clerk said. “The man’s simply delivering some baggage. However, I’ll notify Sergeant Holcomb.”
He plugged in a line, called police headquarters and asked for Sergeant Holcomb of the homicide squad. While he waited, the transfer man and the elevator boy moved baggage up to Rita Swaine’s apartment.
After a few moments Sergeant Holcomb’s voice said, “Hello. What is it?”
“This is the desk clerk at 1388 Chestnut Street. You’ll remember Miss Rita Swaine has an apartment here under lease, and you asked me to let you know if anyone tried to move anything out. Well, no one’s trying to take anything out, but some baggage is being delivered — that is, Miss Swaine has given orders to place Miss Street’s baggage in her apartment. The transfer man’s brought quite a few suitcases, trunks and— Just a minute, I’ll look— Yes, that’s right, it’s Della Street— What? — Well, I’ll be damned!”
The clerk pulled out the plug and set his face in stem lines of officious determination.
Della Street, tailored to the minute, as serenely confident as a poker player pushing a stack of blue chips into the center of the pile, came breezing in from the street door walked up to the desk and said, “I’m Miss Street. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“You’re the one who sent the baggage for Miss Swaine’s apartment?” the clerk asked.
“That’s right. But this baggage shouldn’t have gone up there at all. This is the ‘D.M.’ baggage. It should have been delivered to the Trader’s Transfer Company for storage. Where’s the transfer man, please?”
“He’s upstairs now.”
“Yes. I saw the truck out in front,” Della Street said, as she dazzled the clerk with a smile, walked over to the elevator and jabbed the elevator button.
The elevator took her to the fourth floor. The desk clerk, hesitating for a moment, once more plugged in the line and said, “Police Headquarters.” Again he asked to talk with Sergeant Holcomb, and, after a two minute delay, was advised that Holcomb had just left.
The clerk was pulling out the plug when the elevator door once more opened, an a perspiring transfer man started pitching out suitcases, hat boxes, trunks, and hand bags. The elevator made two trips of it. Della Street came down with the second load, trim, alert, and smiling. She said to the desk clerk, “Thank you very much indeed,” and walked to the door of the apartment house. The eyes of the desk clerk followed her with ardent masculine appreciation.
Less than five minutes later, Sergeant Holcomb came striding into the lobby. “Where is she?” he asked.
The clerk waved a deprecating hand. “It’s all right, Sergeant. I’m sorry I bothered you. I tried to get you again. It was all a mistake, but it’s all right now.”
“What the hell do you mean, it’s all right now?”
“She’s left.”
“Who’s left?”
“Della Street.”
“She was here?”
“Yes.”
“How about the baggage? Did you put that in the room?”
“No. She changed her mind, said that there’d been a mistake. So there’s nothing to bother about. She took it with her.”
“She what!”
“Took it with her.”
“You opened up the room with a passkey?”
“I didn’t personally. The elevator operator did.”
“And put that baggage in?”
“No,” the clerk said, “that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Sergeant. The baggage didn’t go in. It was a mistake. As soon as I saw Miss Street, I realized it must have been—”
“Never mind that,” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted, pushing his face across the counter. “Did that baggage go in that room — even for a second?”
“Oh, well, if you want to put it that way, I don’t know. I suppose some of it may have actually entered the room for a second or two. I wasn’t there.
“Was Della Street alone in the room with any of that baggage?”
“Why, I wouldn’t know — wait a minute, let me see— Yes, she must have been, because the first load of baggage came down with the operator and the transfer man in the cage. They unloaded that bunch of baggage and went back for another bunch. Miss Street must have been in the room with—”
“You fool!” Holcomb yelled. “She’s Perry Mason’s secretary. Perry Mason’s defending Rita Swaine. They wanted something out of that room and didn’t know how else to get it, so she took that baggage in, manipulated things so she was left alone in the room, opened one of the empty suitcases, pitched whatever it was she wanted in there, and took it out.”
The clerk stared at Sergeant Holcomb with shocked, incredulous eyes. At length he said, “Why, Sergeant, she’s a perfect little lady, trim, well-tailored, refined—”
“Bah!” Sergeant Holcomb said. “You make me sick. Why the hell didn’t you hold her?”
“Hold her? How could I?”
“Tell her she was under arrest. Hold her until I got there.”
“But you told me particularly, Sergeant, not to tell anyone you were coming.”
Sergeant Holcomb’s face darkened, as he groped for words. Suddenly the clerk had a bright idea.
“But wait a minute, Sergeant. I can tell you where she’s taking the baggage. If you hurry, you can catch it there.”
“Where?”
“The Traders’s Transfer Company. They’re going to store it.”
“What does it look like?”
“Well, it’s a very good grade of baggage, looks rather new. Very fine leather and—”
“What does it consist of?”
“Oh, everything. Hat boxes, hand bags, Gladstones, suitcases, steamer trunks—”
“Any identifying marks?”
“Yes. They’re all lettered ‘D.M.’ ”
“ ‘D.M.’? ”
“Yes.”
“Her name’s Della Street. Why should she have D.M. on her baggage?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m just describing the baggage to you. She said something about the D.M. baggage being the wrong baggage. If you want to examine it, you can probably intercept it if—”
Sergeant Holcomb whirled and crossed the lobby at a run. A moment later the clerk heard the scream of a siren.
Emil Scanlon looked across the coroner’s jury and said, “You gentlemen have seen the remains.”
They nodded.
“The object of this inquest is to determine how that man met his death,” Scanlon said. “It may have been an accidental death, or it may have been something else. There’s even a possibility of suicide. I want you gentlemen to pay close attention to the evidence. This isn’t like a court of law. I conduct my inquests more or less informally. What I’m trying to do is to get at the facts. Some coroners don’t care to have attorneys asking questions. Sometimes I don’t. But, in a case of this sort, where I feel attorneys aren’t getting technical and taking up time, but are actually assisting us in getting somewhere, I’m always glad to allow questions. I think you gentlemen understand your duties. We’ll call the first witness.”
There was a commotion in the courtroom. A man, whose face was so completely bandaged that only a bit of his nose and one eye were visible, said in muffled tones, “I want to be excused.”
“Who are you?” Scanlon asked.
“I’m Jackson Weyman. I was a witness in that other inquest, and now somebody’s subpoenaed me for this inquest. I’m a sick man.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Cuts in my face got infected,” Weyman explained. “I have no business to be out. I should be home in bed right now and—”
He was interrupted by a thin, austere woman who stood up at the other end of the courtroom and said, “The same is true in my case, your Honor. I’m Mrs. Stella Anderson. I also was a witness in that other case. I’ve been ordered to appear in this case and testify. I know absolutely nothing about this young man—”
“Perhaps you two know more than you think you do,” Scanlon said. “Since you’re here under subpoena, I’ll ask you to sit down and listen to at least a few of the witnesses. And, as far as you’re concerned, Mr. Weyman, on account of your physical condition, I’ll call you just as soon as I can. The first witness, however, will be Dr. James Wallace.”
Dr. Wallace arose and walked toward the witness chair. “But I demand that something be done about letting me go,” Weyman said, his words somewhat muffled by his bandages. “I have an infection which may be dangerous unless I keep absolutely quiet and—”
“You should have produced a physician’s certificate,” Scanlon said. “Since you’re here, simply sit down and compose yourself. I’ll finish with you in a very few minutes. I have only a few routine questions to ask of Dr. Wallace.
“Dr. Wallace, you’re a duly qualified and practicing physician and surgeon in this state and a resident physician and head of the interns at the Good Samaritan Hospital in this city. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have been for more than a year?”
“That’s right.”
“Now, you’ve seen the remains in the undertaking parlors?”
“I have.”
“Do you know that man?”
“Yes,” Dr. Wallace said slowly. “I do. That man is an individual whom I treated for shock, for minor abrasions, bruises, and for traumatic amnesia on the thirteenth of this month.”
“Where, Doctor?”
“At the Good Samaritan Hospital. He had, I understand, been the victim of an automobile accident. He regained consciousness as he was being brought into the hospital. I found that his physical injuries were relatively superficial, treated them, and, in the course of my conversation, discovered that the man was suffering from traumatic amnesia. He—”
“Just what do you mean by traumatic amnesia, Doctor?”
“A loss of memory superinduced by external violence. He didn’t know who he was, nor where he lived.”
“So what did you do, Doctor?”
“Very adroitly,” Dr. Wallace said, “I maneuvered the conversation around so that it included the city of Alta-ville. I had previously ascertained from a driving license found in his pocket that the man was a resident of Alta-ville, and that his name was Carl Packard. By leading the conversation to Altaville and its environments in such a way that I did not add to his mental shock, I soon cleared up the patient’s mental condition.”
“What did you do with the driving license?”
“I returned it to him.”
“And he knew who he was at that time?”
“Oh, yes, he remembered his identity and was able to discuss matters intelligently.”
“Now, Doctor, after leaving the hospital, this man disappeared.”
“So I am given to understand.”
“He was next found pinned under a wrecked automobile at the bottom of a precipitous canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains. The very severe injuries he had sustained had evidently killed him almost instantly, as will be shown by the testimony of the autopsy surgeon.”
“Yes,” Dr. Wallace said, “I noticed in making even a superficial examination that the skull had been completely crushed.”
“There were also numerous other internal injuries and broken bones. Now, Doctor, I want to know if it’s possible that the patient wasn’t cured of this amnesia that you mentioned, but was wandering around in sort of a daze.”
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Wallace said positively, and somewhat belligerently. “When I discharge a patient as cured, he’s cured. If there had been any possibility of an immediate recurrence of this condition, I would not have discharged him. Of course, you’ll understand, however, if there’d been some independent shock, some other injury, perhaps, it is possible that another and separate traumatic amnesia might have developed, but it would have been entirely separate and distinct. Of course, there’s nothing except the law of averages which prevents a man who has been run over by an automobile and treated by me going out and immediately becoming involved in another automobile accident. Yet they are separate and distinct accidents.”
“We understand that,” Scanlon said. “Now, what can you tell us about the identification you have made?”
“Well, in view of the condition of the cadaver,” Dr. Wallace observed, “my identification must, of course, be predicated upon certain matters of circumstantial evidence. For instance, it has been definitely established that the man who gave me the name of Carl Packard at the hospital, and who apparently lived in Altaville, was, in reality, an investigator for the Board of Fire Underwriters, named Jason Braun. He had apparently taken the alias of Carl Packard for the purpose of facilitating some of his investigations, and, having recovered his memory as to his alias, he naturally remembered his reason for concealing his true identity. Which is why he never once mentioned the name of Jason Braun to me, but agreed with me in the assumption he was Carl Packard of Altaville.
“Now, the Board of Fire Underwriters has its investigators all fingerprinted and, despite the partial decomposition of the cadaver, the ridges and whorls of the fingers can be readily ascertained. While I am not a fingerprint expert, I am an anatomist and I have carefully compared the fingerprints of the cadaver with those of Jason Braun. Having first assured myself that the man whom I treated was in reality Jason Braun, I have no hesitancy in identifying that man as being one and the same person with the cadaver lying at present in the undertaking parlors adjoining this room.”
“I think that’s all, Dr. Wallace,” Scanlon said.
“Just a moment,” Perry Mason observed. “Might I have the indulgence of the coroner in asking one or two questions?”
The coroner nodded.
“At the time this man, Packard, or Braun, whichever you wish to call him, recovered consciousness at the hospital — that is, when he recovered his knowledge of his identity — did he discuss the accident with you, Doctor?”
“He did.”
“What did he say about it?”
“He said that he had seen something in the window of a house on his right which had caused him to focus all of his attention on that window and he neglected to look where he was going; that suddenly he realized some huge bulk was towering on his left. He swung his eyes back to the road in time to see this big moving van just about to make a turn into Fourteenth Street. He tried to apply his brakes, but by that time it was too late. The moving van hit him and the two cars swung into the curb where Packard lost consciousness at the moment of impact.”
Rodney Cuff, on his feet, said suavely, “If the coroner please, I object to this form of inquiry. This man, Braun, or Packard, as the case may be, is now dead. He can never testify in any trial as to what he saw. Any attempt to perpetuate his testimony in the records by this indirect method is highly irregular, and calls for hearsay and a conclusion of the witness.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Scanlon said. “We’re trying to determine how this man met his death, whether he was murdered, whether he committed suicide, or whether he was driving a car in a sort of daze and went off the side of the mountain.”
“May it be understood, then, that this is the only purpose for which this evidence is admitted?” Cuff said. “That it’s not binding upon anyone in any other matter, and—”
“I think that’s the law anyway,” Scanlon pointed out. “However, we’re only trying to determine what caused this man to meet his death. And, so far as I know, at the present time, Mr. Cuff, there’s no charge against your client implicating him in any way with this death.”
“I resent that remark,” Cuff said quickly. “You are intimating that before the inquest is concluded evidence will indicate that my client, Mr. Driscoll, had something to do with the death.”
“I made no such implication,” the coroner said, “and as far as I’m concerned, you’re out of order and aren’t helping the rights of your client any. Sit down.”
Cuff started to say something, then changed his mind, and slowly sat down.
“Any further questions of the doctor?” Scanlon asked Perry Mason.
“I think that’s all,” Perry Mason said.
“Does the district attorney’s office wish to interrogate Dr. Wallace?” Scanlon inquired.
Overmeyer shook his head and said, “Not at present, anyway. We wish to interrogate the autopsy surgeon and the traffic officers who discovered the body— Just a moment, there is one question. Dr. Wallace, this man didn’t tell you anything at all which would indicate what he had seen in that window, did he?”
“He did not, beyond saying that it was something very startling or compelling, or something of that sort. I can’t recall his exact words. I remember that he seemed rather sheepish about it.”
“That’s all.”
Dr. Wallace walked down the aisle of the room which was being used for the inquest. Perry Mason said suddenly, “Just a moment, Doctor, I’d like to have you remain here for a few minutes. I don’t think it will be over five or ten minutes at the most. Would you mind taking that seat?”
Mason indicated a seat on the aisle which had been occupied but a moment before by Jackson, his law clerk. That seat was now vacant, and Dr. Wallace, frowning, looked at his wrist watch, said, “Very well, but I have some important cases at the hospital and would like to be released as soon as possible.”
“You will be, Doctor,” Scanlon said. “Just be seated for a moment.”
Dr. Wallace dropped into the chair. Jackson Weyman, who occupied the adjoining seat, turned the one eye visible through his bandages to stare curiously at the doctor.
“The next witness,” Coroner Scanlon announced, “will be Edward Bird, one of the traffic officers who came on the body at the scene of the accident.”
Edward Bird, advancing to be sworn, apparently enjoying the interest he aroused, stood very erect as he faced the jury, and made certain that the coat of his uniform was snugly fitting and unwrinkled. He adjusted the gun which hung at his hip from the wide brown belt, sat down, turned to the coroner and said, “Yes, sir.”
“You are one of the officers who discovered the body of this man who is at present lying in the undertaking parlors?”
“Yes, sir, I and my partner, Jack Moore, were cruising up this road, making a cut-off from the ocean boulevard to get over to the Conejo route, when I happened to notice that some branches had been freshly broken from one of the scrub oaks just down the hill from the edge of the road. We stopped the car, investigated, and found where some heavy object had crashed down through the trees. We worked our way down the ledge, and then came to an abrupt drop of about sixty or seventy feet. We could see a car lying upside-down in the bottom of this canyon. It took us almost half an hour to work our way down to it. This man was pinned underneath the car. The top had caved in, and the back of the front seat had crushed his head like an egg shell. He had been dead for some time. The body already showed evidences of decomposition. It had been lying for two days in the hot sun.”
“What did you do?”
“We notified the coroner, obtained a wrecking outfit, first raised the body to the road, and then brought up the machine.”
“Were you present when representatives of the district attorney’s office tested the steering wheel of the automobile for fingerprints?”
“I was.”
“What did they find?”
“There were no fingerprints on the steering wheel.”
“Were you present when the pockets of the dead man’s clothes were emptied?”
“I was.”
“I show you an assortment of articles and ask you if you can identify them,” the coroner said. He took from his safe a black leather hand bag, took from this hand bag a towel and spread out a miscellaneous assortment. The officer checked them over carefully, nodded his head, and said, “Yes, these were the things which were in the pockets of the dead man’s clothes. There was nothing else in the clothes.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yes.”
“Now, what can you tell us of the automobile which was lying there, wrecked, in the bottom of the canyon?”
“It was a stolen automobile. It had been stolen at six-thirty on the afternoon of the thirteenth; was reported about an hour later, and wasn’t seen again until it was found in the bottom of this canyon.”
“I think that’s all,” the coroner said. “Are there any questions?”
Mason slowly got to his feet.
“You have some questions, Mr. Mason?”
Mason said, “I have some questions to ask of this witness. But, in the meantime, I am wondering if the coroner has forgotten his promise to Mr. Weyman. Mr. Weyman is evidently a very sick man and I think that he should be put on the stand at the present time, if he is to be called at all. In fact, I think the evidence in this case is very plain, and it seems to me there is no reason to call Mr. Weyman. I suggest that Mr. Weyman be excused.”
“No,” the coroner said, “Mr. Weyman is here, and there’s no reason why he can’t testify.”
“But he’s a sick man,” Mason insisted.
“He hasn’t a physician’s certificate to prove it,” the coroner pointed out. “If he was too sick to attend, he could have had his physician certify to that fact.”
“Well, it’s very evident he’s ill,” Mason said. “Look at the man’s bandaged countenance. He certainly wouldn’t go around with his face swathed like that unless he was ill — here, I have a suggestion. There’s a doctor sitting right next to him. Let Dr. Wallace make an examination of the infected area and give a certificate. I don’t think a man in that condition should be a witness.”
Dr. Wallace looked questioningly at the coroner. The coroner stared steadily at Perry Mason. Then Scanlon said, “Very well, Doctor, you make an examination.”
Dr. Wallace reached over, deftly tore off a strip of adhesive tape, took one end of the bandage in his fingers, and started to untwist it.
Weyman swung his left fist. The blow caught Dr. Wallace full on the jaw, snapping his head back. But the doctor’s fingers still held the end of the bandage.
Weyman started climbing over the back of the seat. The coroner yelled, “Stop that man!” and someone grabbed his legs. Weyman kicked out desperately. Dr. Wallace, recovering himself somewhat, grabbed at the collar of the man’s coat with his left hand. His right pulled at the bandage. Suddenly, the entire bandage slid from Weyman’s face, to lump around his neck, and Dr. Wallace, staring at the man’s features, jumped back to stare with wide, startled eyes. “Good God!” he exclaimed.
“ That’s the dead man!”
Pandemonium broke loose in the crowded room.
Perry Mason turned to Rodney Cuff, made a little deprecatory gesture and said, “And there, Counselor, is your murder case!”
The entire end of the room where Weyman was struggling to escape became a seething mass of spectators. The coroner abandoned any attempt to secure order. The jurors themselves surged from their seats and joined in the melee. Perry Mason looked at his wrist watch, grinned at Coroner Scanlon, and said, “Thanks, Coroner, for the co-operation. I have fifty-seven minutes within which to go to my office, pick up my passport, and catch my boat for Honolulu, the Orient, Bali, Singapore, and wayplaces.”