Mason had had dinner served in his room. As waiters cleared away the tables, the lawyer grinned across at Della Street. “Don’t ever do anything like that again, Della,” he said. “I was frantic with worry.”
“I’ll say he was,” Paul Drake chimed in. “He snapped my head off every time I spoke to him.”
“I’m sorry, Chief, but I was afraid the newspaper reporters would exaggerate it and I knew everyone would think that I was holding something back.”
She motioned to the late edition of an evening newspaper and said, “You can see what they’ve done. Notice this headline:
‘LAWYER’S SECRETARY CLAIMS SHE CANNOT IDENTIFY MURDERESS.’
Mason said, “I know. But anything is better than that suspense. Why didn’t you tell me before, Della?”
“I tried to, Chief. I dashed all over the ship, trying to hunt you up. Then, when I found you, you’d already agreed to see Mrs. Newberry through. Honestly, Chief, I don’t know whether she was the one who pushed him overboard or not. I couldn’t tell at the time and I can’t tell now. But I did realize how easy it would be for people to say I was suppressing evidence, so I just made up my mind I’d say nothing about it to anyone.
“Then, when I heard Paul tell you that the district attorney was on the trail of the witness who had telephoned the bridge and that the telephone operator claimed she could recognize the voice... well, I felt certain that sooner or later they’d suspect me, and then the newspapers would make a great fuss over it. So I thought it would be best to lie low for a few days until the preliminary was over.”
Drake said solicitously, “Where does that leave the case, Perry? Aren’t you in a spot?”
Mason said, “I guess so, but I’ve been in spots before. When will you get a report on that postmortem, Paul?”
“Just about as soon as the statement is released to the press. They—”
He broke off as the telephone rang, and said, “That must be it now.”
He held the receiver to his ear, said, “Drake speaking,” then looked across at Mason, nodded, and said, “This is it.” After a few moments he said, “All right. Thanks, and thanks particularly for that tip on the bullet.”
He hung up the telephone and said to Mason, “Well Perry, there it is. The body’s that of Moar all right. A bullet was fired into his back, just below the right shoulder blade. It ranged downward and lodged near the left hip. Death apparently wasn’t instantaneous. He’d managed to keep afloat for some few minutes. He’d stripped himself down to his underwear and managed to swim to one of the life rings which had been thrown out. He’d wedged himself inside that life ring, and died within a few minutes. Death was caused by the gunshot wound, and not by drowning.
“Apparently, he was a strong swimmer, and had removed his coat, shirt, collar, tie and pants. He couldn’t get off his shoes because they were high-laced shoes. The knot on one was jammed as though he’d tried to get it off. He evidently died within fifteen or twenty minutes of the time he reached the life ring. It’s funny they didn’t see him from the ship.”
Mason said, “There was such a sea running and such a driving rain it was impossible to make any thorough search. The ship was bobbing around like a cork, and the rain was coming down in torrents. It seemed to bolt up the light from the searchlights.”
“Well, Drake said, “here’s something else: He was shot with a thirty-eight caliber bullet, but that bullet wasn’t fired from the revolver they found on deck.”
Mason snapped to startled attention. “It wasn’t?”
“The ballistics expert says it wasn’t.”
“And he was only shot once?”
“That’s right. Just the one wound which entered in the back on an angle. That probably was the shot which was fired into him as he was balanced on the rail.”
“Wait a minute,” Mason said, “there were two shots fired. Aileen Fell says she heard two shots, and there were two exploded chambers in the gun.”
“That’s right,” Drake said. “But the bullets from that gun didn’t kill Carl Moar. He must have been killed by a bullet fired from another gun.”
“Then there should have been three explosions,” Mason said.
Drake nodded.
Mason abruptly got to his feet, pushed his thumbs through the armholes of his vest and started pacing the floor. After several minutes, he turned to stare thoughtfully at them.
“I know what may be a solution,” he said. “It makes sense, and it’s the only thing which does make sense. But I can’t unscramble it until I can get Eves and Evelyn Whiting into court.”
“Well, you can’t get them into court,” Drake said. “I’ve had men running down every clue, Perry. It’s hopeless. Eves is no amateur. He knows the ropes, and he’s gone into hiding. It would take the concerted efforts of an organized police force to land him.”
Della Street said, “Chief, couldn’t you go to the district attorney and tell him what you have in mind and have him put the police on the job?”
“Not so you could notice it,” Mason said. “If Scudder thought he could help me dig up witnesses to prove Mrs. Moar innocent, his lack of enthusiasm would be utterly astounding.”
“Well,” Della Street said, “he showed plenty of enthusiasm when it came to finding me.”
Mason nodded. Suddenly a twinkle appeared in his eye. “Now, Della,” he said, “you’ve given me a real idea.”
“What?” she asked.
“We’ll make Scudder think that I’m concealing Eves and Evelyn Whiting. Once he gets that idea, he’ll move heaven and earth to uncover them.”
“And just how are you going to make him think you’re concealing them?” Drake asked.
Mason looked at his watch. “Got a set of skeleton keys, Paul?” he asked.
Drake said, “Oh, my Lord! I should have known better than to have brought this up in the first place.”
Mason grinned, “Get your burglar’s outfit, Paul. We’re going to do a little high-class house breaking.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Mason asked, “that we’ve overlooked the most significant clue in this entire business?”
“What?” Drake inquired.
“The fact that the woman in the picture shop mentioned that Evelyn Whiting had purchased a picture frame, an oval desk frame which would take a picture which had been trimmed down from an eight-by-ten print?”
Della Street grabbed his arm. “Chief, do you mean that she was the one...”
Mason grinned at Paul Drake. “I’m commencing to feel natural again, Paul,” he said. “Scudder has been so smug and complacent throughout this entire business that it’s time we exploded a dynamite bomb under him.”
“And I take it,” Drake said, “we’re going to violate a law?”
“Well,” Mason told him, “the legality of our position is going to be rather technical, Paul. We’re going to break and enter, but not for the purpose of committing a felony.”
“For what purpose, then?” Drake asked.
“For the purpose of leaving a choice assortment of fingerprints,” Mason told him.
Drake said, “Good Lord, Perry. If you only knew how nice and peaceful it was when you were in Bali!”
Mason climbed the wooden stairs which led up the back of the flat on Stockton Boulevard. Behind him, Paul Drake was a silent shadow. Della Street, seated in a rented car, with the motor running, was parked in the alley.
Drake muttered, “I don’t like this a damn bit, Perry. If we get caught it’s a felony, and if he comes in he’ll spray us full of lead.”
Mason whispered, “You have a cheerful mind, Paul.”
They climbed to the service porch on the rear of the third-story flat. Fog which drifted in from the ocean blanketed the city, lowering visibility, distorting sounds. The mournful drone of fog signals could be heard at intervals. Fog-bred moisture dripped from the eaves.
Mason inserted a skeleton key. The lock clicked back. Mason gently opened the door.
Drake said, “If he should be in there, Perry—”
His voice trailed into silence. The men stood waiting.
Mason took a flashlight from his pocket. “Come on, Paul.”
The beam of the flashlight sent a long, white pencil of illumination stabbing through the darkness. It showed a kitchen, with its windows tightly closed. An odor of stale cooking and rancid frying fat clung to the room.
Mason led the way through the kitchen to a dining room and living room, then into a bedroom. His flashlight showed a wheel chair. “That’s Cartman’s wheel chair, Paul,” Mason said. “And you’ll notice that someone did some hurried packing here. Notice the way things have been pulled from the drawers. Look at the empty coat hangers in the closet. See the imprint on the bed where a suitcase has been placed.”
“Well,” Drake said, “Eves had a lot of baggage and his wife had been over in Honolulu—”
“His wife,” Mason said, “wasn’t living here with him. She’d been living with her sister. Her clothes weren’t the ones which were taken from those hangers... Hello, what’s this?”
The beam of his flashlight reflected from a rounded strip of wood enameled and polished to a high brilliance. The bit of wood was perhaps an inch and a half in length, splintered at both ends and partially curved.
Drake inspected the piece of wood and said, “A piece of wood from a molding somewhere. He probably—”
Mason abruptly dropped to his knees, sent the beam from the flashlight sliding along the floor. “Look for splintered pieces of glass, Paul,” he said. “See if you can find—”
“Here’s one,” Drake said, picking up a small fragment of glass.
“And here’s another,” Mason told him.
“What’s the idea?” Drake said. “Do you think there’s been a fight here, or—”
Mason said, “Let’s take a look at the garbage can on the service porch, Paul.”
Drake said, “Listen, Perry, I don’t like this. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but we’re going at this thing all wrong. We’re—”
Mason walked toward the service porch, taking the flashlight with him. Drake, perforce, followed, Mason lifted the lid from the garbage can, took out several opened tin cans, some halves of orange peel, then a long sliver of glass. “We’re on the right track, Paul,” he said, and a moment later handed-up a long, curved segment of enameled, rounded wood.
“This must have been a picture frame,” Drake said.
Mason nodded, fished from the garbage can a crumpled, cracked, oval photograph. He smoothed it out. The likeness of Belle Newberry laughed up into the flashlight. The beam of light showed the words inscribed on the photograph in ink, “To Daddy, With Love, from Belle.”
Mason pushed the photograph back into the can, took Drake’s arm, led him back into the flat and said, “That’s all we need, Paul. We’ll leave a few fingerprints and get out.”
“Why fingerprints?”
“So the district attorney can know you’ve been guilty of breaking and entering,” Mason said. “He’ll probably stick you on a kidnaping charge, as well. Here’s a good place on the dresser mirror, Paul. And you can put some fingerprints on that table.”
“Now wait a minute. Perry. If you—”
“Go ahead,” Mason said, pressing his hand against the mirror on the dressing table.
Drake gingerly touched the top of the table as though it were hot.
Mason laughed, lowered his shoulder, pushed his weight against Drake and snapped off his flashlight. The detective, stumbling about in the darkness, grabbed at the table to keep himself from falling, then clung to a chair.
Mason switched on the flashlight and said, “Come on, Paul, you old criminal. Let’s get out of here.”
Drake said, “Perry, will you please tell me what’s the idea of all this horse-play?”
“Wait until you hear the D.A. describe it in court tomorrow,” Mason said. “Come on, Paul. Do you want to leave, or do you want to stay here and argue?”
“I want to leave,” Drake said, “and you can’t make it too snappy for me.”
Mason led the way out the back door, locking it behind them.
“Okay?” Della Street asked, as Mason reached the alley.
“Okay so far,” Mason told her. “You’ve memorized the story you’re to give Scudder?”
“And how!” she told him.
“Let’s go,” Mason said, settling back against the cushions.
Drake closed the door. Della Street lurched the car into motion. They left the alley for the boulevard, drove half a dozen blocks and slowed in front of a drug store.
“Come on, Paul,” Mason said, “You might as well get an earful of this.”
Drake said, “I always get suspicious when you throw it in high and don’t tell me what you’re doing, Perry. You and Della take more chances than any airplane stunters in the world.”
Mason took Drake’s arm, led him into the rear of the drug store where there was a telephone booth. Della dropped a nickel, dialed a number with swiftly competent fingers and said, “Hello... Hello... Let me talk with Mr. Scudder, please, at once... This is very important... Tell him I have some information for him... It’s about a case he’s trying tomorrow.”
She glanced up from the transmitter and nodded to Perry Mason. A moment later she said into the telephone, “Hello, Mr. Scudder. This is Mrs. Morgan Eves talking. I’m the real Mrs. Eves; but I don’t want you to ever tell anyone that I called you. My husband’s a crook. You’ll find his record under the name of James Whitly or James Clerke... Now, wait a minute, don’t interrupt me, please. This is something about the case you’re trying... My husband’s now going under the name of Morgan Eves. He’s divorcing me, but he only has an interlocutory decree. The final decree hasn’t been entered yet. But that hasn’t stopped him any. He’s gone through a marriage ceremony with a nurse. Her name’s Evelyn Whiting. They have a flat at 3618 Stockton Boulevard. Evelyn Whiting is the nurse who came over on the ship on which Carl Moar was murdered. She was nursing a man named Roger Cartman who had a broken neck, and he saw the whole murder... Yes, I say he saw it. The nurse had to give him some treatment. She took him up to the hospital quarters and he was sitting there in the wheel chair when Carl Moar was killed. He saw the whole thing.
“Roger Cartman paid Evelyn Whiting to take care of him. He didn’t know she was married. She took him to the flat on Stockton Boulevard and told him she was renting it for him. She and Morgan Eves were just planning to knock down a little money on the side. Then they found out he was a witness, and they got in touch with Perry Mason, and Perry Mason paid them five thousand dollars to get the witness out of the country.... Cartman wanted to testify, but he’s helpless. Yes, I know what I’m talking about. Mr. Mason and Mr. Drake, the detective, were up there and they moved Cartman out. He has a broken neck and can’t do anything by himself... In case you want an eyewitness who can testify to exactly what happened, all you have to do is to get Mr. Cartman and if it’s against the law for Mr. Mason to pay money to have a witness put into hiding, you can get Mr. Mason, too... But don’t you ever mention my name or they’d kill me.”
She slammed the receiver back on the hook and said, “How did I do, Chief?”
“You did swell,” Mason said. Drake shook his head mournfully. “My God!” he said. “I always lead with my chin.”
“What’s next on the program?” Della Street asked.
Mason said, “We have a couple of hours to kill. How about a picture show?”
“Suits me,” Della Street said.
“How would you like a good mystery play, Paul?” Mason asked.
Drake said, “That’s the first really smart thought you’ve had all evening, Perry. I suppose you have some sort of a plan in mind, but it’s more than I can figure. I think you’ve gone plumb crazy.”
“Not quite that bad, Paul,” Mason told him. “There’s a method in my madness.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Drake said. “To me it seems like one of those goofy dreams, where everybody does cuckoo things. Honest to God, Perry, when Della was telephoning to Scudder, I expected any minute to have you chime in with a station announcement and ask the D.A. how he liked the amateur hour.”
Della Street drove to a neighborhood picture show, and parked the car. The three of them entered the lighted foyer. Mason bought tickets. Drake said, “Well, at least I can have a few minutes’ relaxation... Oh, Lord, Perry, I’ve seen this picture before and didn’t like it.”
Della Street parked her rented car near the hotel. Mason took Della Street’s arm, started across the pavement with her, heard Drake say, “Oh-oh!” and felt a hand grip his shoulder. He whirled around, to confront a tall man who loomed to enormous proportions in a heavy black overcoat. Thick-lensed spectacles distorted the man’s pale green eyes.
“Where you been?” he asked.
Mason turned back toward the entrance of the hotel, the hand of the big man still on his shoulder.
“Who wants to know?” he asked.
“The D.A. does.”
Mason said, “Tell him I’ve been to a picture show.”
A chunky figure materialized from the doorway, to stand at Paul Drake’s arm.
“Inspector Bodfish,” the big man introduced.
Mason unexpectedly reached across in front of Della Street, grabbed Bodfish’s right hand, pumped it up and down, and turned to the big man. “What’s your name?”
“Borge.”
“Nice name,” Mason said, shaking hands.
“We could get along without your wise cracks,” Borge told him.
“So many people can,” Mason complained. “The trouble is that I can’t. Where do we talk?”
“The D.A.’s waiting for you.”
Mason said, “Do you know, I think it would be a swell idea to let him wait.”
Borge said, “I don’t.”
“Is this a pinch?” Drake demanded.
“You’re damn right it’s a pinch,” Bodfish told him.
“On what grounds, may I ask?” Mason inquired.
“On suspicion of murder.”
Mason raised his eyebrows.
“Accessory after the fact, I believe,” Inspector Bodfish announced.
“Kidnaping,” Borge added.
“That all?” Mason asked.
“That’s all so far. Perhaps we can add resisting an officer by the time we have you booked.”
“Got a warrant?” Mason inquired, lighting a cigarette.
“We don’t need one.”
“All right,” Mason said to Della Street, “you go up to the room and wait, Della. Paul can keep you company. I won’t be...”
“They’re coming right along,” Inspector Bodfish said.
“What grounds?”
“The same grounds.”
“All three of us?”
“All three of you.”
Mason yawned, “Let’s get it over with.”
Borge called a taxi. They drove silently, Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake in the back seat, Inspector Bodfish and Borge seated on the folded backs of the jump seats, facing the trio. The cab turned into Stockton Boulevard, ran several blocks, and stopped.
“The D.A. live here?” Mason inquired.
“You know damn well who lives here,” Borge remarked.
Mason said to Bodfish, “I’d like to have your unbiased opinion, Inspector. Do you think it’s necessary for an officer to ape this hard-boiled style in order to be efficient?”
“Shut up,” Bodfish ordered.
Mason nodded to Drake. “He does,” he told the detective.
Borge led the way up a flight of stairs, across’ a porch, rang a bell, received a buzzing signal, pushed the door open, and said, “Upstairs, you three.”
They climbed the stairs, with no word. Mason pushed past Della Street, so that he was the first up. Scudder, who had been standing by a window, walked across to meet Mason, and said, “Perhaps you can tell us what happened here.”
“Oh, did something happen here?”
“You know it did.”
“When?”
“When you were here.”
“And when was that?” Mason asked.
“Not very long ago.”
Mason looked at the powder which had been dusted over various objects, and said to Paul Drake and Della Street, “Don’t touch anything. Paul, stick your hands in your pockets and keep them there. They’ve been frisking the place for fingerprints. It looks like a frame-up.”
Scudder’s face flushed. “You’re not in Los Angeles now,” he said. “You can’t pull that stuff and get away with it.”
Mason shrugged his shoulders.
“A man by the name of Roger P. Cartman was here,” Scudder said. “You have him concealed somewhere. I want him.”
Mason said, “You’re crazy.”
“You were here earlier this evening. You and a man named Eves decided to hide him so he wouldn’t have to testify.”
“Have you,” Mason inquired solicitously, “looked under the bed?”
“Take his fingerprints,” Scudder ordered.
“This,” Mason remonstrated, “is a damned outrage!”
Borge slipped out of his overcoat, draped it across the back of a chair, wiped perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. Inspector Bodfish moved in on the other side.
“Is this the way you do things in San Francisco?” Mason demanded.
Scudder said nothing.
Borge grabbed Mason’s right wrist. Mason jerked back.
Borge twisted Mason’s arm under his own, pivoted his body so that Mason was pulled up against the big man’s hip.
“Wrestler, eh?” Mason inquired.
Borge, saying nothing, twisted Mason’s arm so that the fingers were spread out. Bodfish put ink on Mason’s fingers and took a series of impressions. “Hold out your other hand,” Bodfish ordered. Mason held it out.
Silently, Inspector Bodfish took the fingerprints from the other two.
“Now then,” Scudder said, “we want to know when you last saw Mr. Cartman.”
Mason said hotly, “You started this party, now go ahead and run it. Tell your big bruiser to try and make me talk-or do you use a rubber hose in this jurisdiction?”
“You mean you’re not going to answer questions?” Scudder demanded.
“I mean I’m not even going to give you a pleasant look,” Mason said.
“Perhaps you’ll tell us something,” Scudder said, facing Della Street. “You’re mixed up in this thing deep enough already. Loyalty is an excellent thing in its place, but you’re carrying it too far...”
“Don’t answer a single question, Della,” Mason ordered.
“You remember a man by the name of Cartman who sailed on the ship from Honolulu with you?”
“Don’t answer, Della,” Mason warned her.
Della Street clamped her lips together.
“You’re not answering?”
She shook her head.
Scudder swung to Drake. “You,” he said, “are on a spot. In some ways, I don’t blame you — Mason’s a client of yours. He gives you all of his business. You naturally want to protect him. But you have a living to make. They revoke the licenses of detectives who...”
“You can save it, Scudder,” Mason said grimly. “Drake isn’t going to talk. If you’d gone at this thing in a decent manner, we’d have been glad to answer questions. As it is, you can go jump in the lake.”
Scudder regarded Mason with sullen hostility. “Mason,” he said, “you’re all finished. You have a reputation for pulling fast stuff and getting away with it. This time you can’t do it. Other times, district attorneys have been willing to let things drop when you blew their cases up. This time I’m going through to a finish. I have all the evidence I need, and I’m going to get more.”
Mason lit a cigarette, and said tauntingly, “I thought you were a better lawyer than that, Scudder. You can’t make a case against me.”
“What do you mean?” Scudder demanded.
Mason said, “I’m a practicing lawyer. District attorneys don’t like me, but I have a good reputation with the public. How the hell are you going to get a jury to convict me on the testimony of an ex-convict?”
Scudder’s face was a mask. “You’re kidding yourself,” he said.
Mason went on, “Furthermore, a man can’t be convicted on the uncorroborated testimony of an accomplice. Turn that over in your mind and see where it leaves you-if you want to get technical.”
Scudder’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Mason in thoughtful appraisal. “So your accomplice was an ex-convict,” he charged.
Mason, instantly wary, said, “Now, wait a minute. Let’s not have any misunderstandings about this. I haven’t admitted having an accomplice, I’ve merely quoted some law.”
Scudder said, “Let him go, boys.”
Inspector Bodfish said, “You mean book him on an open charge or...”
“I mean let him go. Let him walk out of here,” Scudder ordered. “Turn all three of them loose.”
Mason’s bow was sardonic.
“Do I,” he asked, “get my fingerprints back?”
Scudder said grimly, “Try and get them.”
Borge wiped his forehead, blinked through the thick-lensed glasses, and said, “We aren’t done with this guy.”
Scudder said, “Shut up, Borge. That’s all. Mason. Get out.”
Mason led the way down the long flight of stairs to the street.
En route to the hotel, Mason turned to Drake and said with a grin, “Well, Paul, that wasn’t so bad as you thought it would be, was it?”
“Your grammar’s all shot to hell,” Drake said mournfully. “You mean to say, ‘Well, Paul, this isn’t as bad as you think it will be, is it?”’
Mason said, “I think we’re in the clear now, Paul.”
“You mean the district attorney’s going to quit?” Della Street asked.
“Lord, no!” Mason told her. “He’s just starting. That was the idea back of all this, to get the district attorney started.”
“Well,” Drake said, “you’ve got him started now.”
Charles Whitmore Dail was waiting for Mason at his hotel. “May I see you for a few moments. Counselor?” he asked.
“You can if you have that ten thousand dollars,” Mason told him, grinning.
“I have it,” Dail said, “and there’s another matter I wish to take up with you.”
“Come on up,” Mason invited.
When they were seated in the lawyer’s room, Dail looked significantly at Della Street and said, “In addition to this settlement I am making with Mrs. Moar, Mason, I had another matter I wanted to discuss with you.”
“All right,” Mason said, “go ahead and discuss it. I have no secrets from Della. Let’s get this ten thousand dollars out of the way first.”
“You have an agreement prepared?” Dail asked.
Mason nodded, and passed over a typewritten paper which contained Mrs. Moar’s signature. Dail studied it a moment, then folded it, slipped it in his pocket, opened a wallet, took out ten one-thousand-dollar bills and passed them over to Mason.
“Go ahead,” Mason told him.
“It’s about my daughter, Celinda.”
“What about her?”
“She has been subpoenaed as a witness in this case. It’s rather a minor matter. She happened to see Mrs. Newberry running down the stairs from the upper deck. Mrs. Newberry was carrying a chamois-skin money belt in her hand, and her gown was soaking wet.”
“How long was this after the whistle sounded its five blasts?” Mason asked.
“Celinda doesn’t remember clearly,” Dail said.
“What did you want to see me about?” Mason asked. “If the district attorney has subpoenaed Celinda, she should talk with him, not me.”
“I wanted to discuss Celinda’s temperament with you,” Dail said. “The child is rather nervous. She’s never been in court before and she’s read in the newspapers something of your vigorous cross-examination of Aileen Fell. I thought that perhaps we might reach some arrangement, Mr. Mason, by which Celinda wouldn’t be subjected to such a grilling cross-examination.”
Mason said, “What agreement did you have in mind?”
“Well,” Dail said, “of course the matter is rather delicate and I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand what I have in mind, but as I understand it, five thousand dollars of the money I have just paid goes toward your fees, five thousand goes to Mrs. Moar. Now, it seems to me that the very clever and adroit representation you are giving Mrs. Moar should entitle you to a larger fee. And, because she was a fellow passenger on the ship, I might be willing to interest myself somewhat in her behalf.”
“You mean to the extent of adding to my fees?” Mason asked.
“Yes,” Dail said.
Mason’s mouth twisted in a fighting grin. “I think I understand you perfectly, Dail,” he said, “and it happens I’m very glad your daughter is going to be a witness.”
“Why?” Dail said. “I thought the fact that she had seen Mrs. Moar carrying that money belt might... well, might be damaging.”
Mason said, “Never mind that. When Celinda gets on the stand, I’m entitled to show, by way of cross-examination, her bias toward the parties.
“I happen to know that Celinda found out from Belle that she’d graduated from the University of Southern California; that she sent a wireless to Rooney asking him to look up a Belle Newberry who had graduated from the University of Southern California. With that to go on, it didn’t take Rooney long to find out that her stepfather was Carl Moar. Celinda wanted to humiliate Belle Newberry. She thought the best way to do it would be to have detectives waiting at the gangplank to take Moar into custody. I have reason to believe she had made all the arrangements. Now then, on cross-examination I am entitled to show all of that in order to show bias on the part of the witness.”
“But,” Dail said, “I don’t see what that’s going to gain you. After all, it’s rather petty, it certainly doesn’t affect Mrs. Moar—”
“No,” Mason said, “but it affects Belle. When Roy Hungerford learns that Celinda was on that ship posing as a friend of Belle Newberry, asking her to attend week-end parties after the ship had docked, and all the time planning to humiliate her at the gangplank by showing that her stepfather was an embezzler, Hungerford will have a very accurate appraisal of just what your daughter considers fair play.”
“Oh, I say,” Dail protested, his face flushing, “isn’t that hitting below the belt?”
Mason said, “Dail, when I’m fighting for a client, I hit where it’s going to hurt the most. You might tell Celinda what to expect in the line of cross-examination.”
“I’d like very much to avoid this,” Dail said.
Mason got to his feet and crossed to the door. “I feel quite certain that you would,” he said. “In fact, Mr. Dail, thinking back on it, I have a very clear recollection of the charming urbanity with which you signified your willingness to discuss a monetary settlement with Moar. Knowing the plans which you had in the back of your mind, I can only call your attention to the old proverb about chickens coming home to roost.”
Dail tried to make his exit dignified. He turned on the threshold and said, “You can’t get away with it, Mason. You’ll find that I draw some water around here. Good night!”
He slammed the door.
Mason grinned across at Della Street.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Chief.”
“Why not?”
“Celinda will get in touch with Roy Hungerford and bring things to a head tonight. She’s clever, and she wants him. She’s a shrewd campaigner.”
“That,” Mason said, “is exactly what I figured she’d do. Now, I happen to know that of all the things Roy Hungerford detests, a woman who tries to force things is his pet abomination. Designing females have been trying to give him the rush act ever since he was old enough to wear long pants. If he’s hesitating between Celinda, who’s in his set, and Belle, who’s not, Celinda will wreck all of her chances trying to rush things-and the beautiful part of it is that it will be all her doing.”
Della Street said, “Well, I hope she cooks her goose to a cinder!”
Mason opened the door to Paul Drake’s room and said, “Paul, I have something else for you.”
“What is it?” Drake asked.
“You said that Morgan Eves was acquitted of murder about two months ago in Los Angeles?”
“Yes.”
“And,” Mason went on, “Baldwin Van Densie defended him?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Mason said, “Moar was on a jury in Los Angeles about two months ago. It was a murder case. Van Densie was defending. Moar took a dislike to Van Densie, claimed he was putting up a sell-out defense. The D. A. had a pushover with the other jurors, but Moar went to the bat in the jury room and whipped them into line. You might have your Los Angeles office look up the records and see if Moar was on Morgan Eves’s jury.”
The detective twisted his forehead into a frown. “Gosh, Perry, if that was the case, then Eves would be bound to Moar by a debt of gratitude, and if Evelyn Whiting had been going with Moar for some time, she must have... Why? dammit, Perry, as soon as she found out Moar was on the jury, trying the man she loved, she’d have brought all sorts of pressure to bear to get an acquittal.”
Mason grinned and said, “You’re doing fine, Paul. Go ahead and put through that call. And in the meantime, I’m on my way to the morgue where I will loudly proclaim that the body is not that of Carl Moar.”
“You mean to say they’ve identified the wrong body?” Drake asked.
“I mean to say,” Mason replied, “that I am going to give an interview to the press in which I will positively deny that the body is that of Carl Moar.”
“There’ll be newspaper reporters there?” Della Street asked.
“There will be before I get through talking,” Mason said grimly.
Drake, reaching for the telephone, said, “Gosh, Perry, if you’d only stayed in Bali!”