Donaldson P. Scudder entered the courtroom with the air of a crusader, armed in the cause of righteousness and intent on routing the forces of evil. He faded to speak to Perry Mason. Judge Romley took the bench. The bailiff intoned the usual formula for opening court.
Scudder arose as soon as court had been convened, cleared his throat and said with the distinct articulation of one who is carefully weighing his words, “Your Honor, it has reached my knowledge within the last few hours that there is another eyewitness to the murder who was within a few feet of the defendant when she fired the first shot. I have endeavored to locate this eyewitness and have failed. While I can make no promises, I sincerely hope to be able to have this witness in court within forty-eight hours. I can assure your Honor that the circumstances necessitating the making of this motion are most unusual. I therefore ask that the case be continued for two days.”
Judge Romley shifted his eyes toward Perry Mason.
Mason was on his feet, his manner indignant, his voice booming through the courtroom. “Your Honor, not only do I oppose the motion and object to it, but I characterize the making of it as prejudicial misconduct. I characterize the statements made in regard to that witness as pure propaganda intended for newspaper consumption and comparable in every way with the statement released to the press yesterday that the body of Carl Moar had been recovered!”
Scudder took a deep breath, stood very erect, and said, “Your Honor, the only reason I cannot produce this witness now is that Perry Mason has concealed him. I even have reason to believe that the witness is being concealed against his will.”
Mason jumped to his feet. “Your Honor,” he shouted, “that is the most dastardly accusation which can be made against a practicing attorney. The deputy prosecutor...”
“Just a minute, Mr. Mason,” Judge Romley interrupted, his voice crisp and businesslike. “I wish to ask Mr. Scudder a few questions. Mr. Deputy District Attorney, are you aware of the grave implications attending your statement?”
“I am, your Honor.”
“Are you prepared to substantiate those statements?”
“I am not only prepared to do so, your Honor, but I would welcome the opportunity of doing so. At this time, I cannot produce the evidence which my office hopes to produce at a later date, when criminal action will be taken against the attorney for the defendant, but I can at least produce sufficient evidence to justify your Honor in granting this continuance.”
“And I demand that such proof be produced!” Mason shouted.
Judge Romley said, “Very well, the Court will at this time entertain proof in support of a motion made by the Prosecution that the case of The People versus Anna Moar be continued for forty-eight hours. Proceed with your proof, Mr. Deputy District Attorney.”
“Call Mabel Foss to the stand,” Scudder said.
The woman who had waited on Perry Mason and delivered the photographs to him, came forward and was sworn.
“You reside and have a place of business in a little storeroom at 3618 Stockton Boulevard?” Scudder asked.
“I do.”
“Are you acquainted with Perry Mason, the attorney sitting here?”
“I have seen him, yes.”
“When?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“Did you have any business transactions with him?”
“I did.”
“What?”
“Mr. Mason asked for some pictures which had been left to be developed by a Mrs. Morgan Eves. He said that he was a neighbor and friend.”
“And who is Morgan Eves?”
“He resides in the flat on the third floor.”
“Of the house in which you have your shop and place of business?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known Morgan Eves?”
“Some two months.”
“I will show you a photograph and ask you if that is a photograph of Morgan Eves.”
Scudder produced a printed placard showing a man’s face, both front view and profile. A prison number was printed across the man’s chest. Below appeared a series of fingerprints.
Mason said, “I object to this. There is no need to introduce a man’s criminal record in this indirect manner.”
“The objection is overruled,” Judge Romley said. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Counselor.”
“Do you know the man whose picture is shown here?” Scudder asked.
“Why, yes, that’s Mr. Eves. I had no idea he was a—”
“That’s the man you know as Morgan Eves, the man who lives in the flat on the third floor of the house at 3618 Stockton Boulevard?” Scudder asked.
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Mason called and secured pictures which had been left to be developed by Mr. Eves’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“Now, do you know a Roger P. Cartman?”
“I have seen him,” she said. “He came over from Honolulu with Mrs. Eves. She’s a nurse. He was suffering from a broken neck.”
“And was removed from an ambulance and taken up to the flat rented by Mr. Eves?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all,” Scudder said. “No questions,” Mason announced. “My next witness,” Scudder announced, “is Christopher G. Borge.”
Borge, looking decidedly bored, raised his huge frame from his chair, walked to the clerk, was sworn, eased himself into the witness chair, crossed his knees and looked at the deputy district attorney.
“Your name is Christopher Borge, and you are now, and for several years have been, a criminologist connected with the homicide detail of the police force in this city?”
“I am.”
“And what has been your training for your position?” the deputy district attorney inquired.
Mason raised his eyebrows in surprise, inquired, “May I ask if you’re endeavoring to qualify this man as an expert?”
“Yes!” snapped the deputy, without turning his head.
Borge paid no attention whatever to the comments of Counsel. He glanced indifferently down at the reporter’s desk, where the shorthand reporter was making his pen fly across the paper, and said, “I studied chemistry, fingerprinting, forensic medicine, and toxicology, ballistics, handwriting, photomicrography and several other allied subjects.”
“When you say that you studied fingerprinting, what do you mean?” the deputy district attorney asked.
“I mean that I took a regular course in fingerprinting and all of its phases, learned the methods of indexing and filing fingerprints, of identifying men from fingerprints, of developing what are known as latent fingerprints, photographing them, checking and comparing them.”
“I call your attention to the photograph which has been identified by the witness who preceded you as that of Morgan Eves and ask you if you have ever seen that man.
“I have.”
“Do you recognize him?”
“I do.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s James Whitly, also known as James Clerke.”
“Does he have a criminal record?”
Mason jumped to his feet, his manner that of one who is cornered and fighting desperately.
“Your Honor, I object. This is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”
“It is on a motion only, your Honor, addressed to the discretion of this Court,” Scudder said, “and this is preliminary. I intend to connect it up.”
“Overruled,” Judge Romley said.
Borge took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his perspiring forehead and the back of his neck and said in a bored voice, “Yes, he has a criminal record.”
“What is it?”
“Twice to San Quentin for burglary. Once to Folsom for assault with a deadly weapon. He’s been arrested three or four times and was tried for murder in—”
Mason jumped to his feet and said, “Your Honor, I object. Any man may be arrested—”
“Sustained,” Judge Romley said.
“Did you,” Scudder went on, “take this man’s fingerprints, Mr. Borge?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“In 1929, in 1934, and in 1935.”
“You have his fingerprints here?”
“I have.”
“Produce them, please.”
Scudder took the placard which Borge handed him, and said, “I would like to introduce these fingerprints in evidence.”
“No objection,” Mason said.
“Now then, Mr. Borge,” the deputy district attorney said, “I will ask you if you went last night to a flat rented by Morgan Eves.”
“I did.”
“And what did you do there?”
“Objected to,” Mason said perfunctorily, “incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”
“It is a preliminary merely. I wish to connect it up,” Scudder remarked, without arising from his chair.
“Overruled,” Judge Romley snapped.
“I used various powders on various articles for the purpose of developing latent fingerprints which might be found in that apartment.”
“And did you develop latent fingerprints?”
“I did.”
“And photographed them?”
“I did.”
“Have you photographs of those latent prints with you?”
“I have.”
Borge pulled a thick file of photographs from his pocket.
Scudder pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He spoke slowly and clearly, so that the audience would have no difficulty in following him or appreciating the significance of his question. “Now, then, Mr. Borge, I will ask you if among those latent fingerprints which you developed and photographed, you found any fingerprints made by the man about whose criminal record you have just testified?”
“I did.”
“Where did you find those prints?”
“I found them in various and sundry places, in the bathroom, on the table, on a mirror, on a doorknob, and on a discarded safety razor blade.”
“Did you photograph those prints?”
“I did.”
“Do you have these photographs with you?”
“Yes.”
“I would like to introduce them in evidence.”
“No objection,” Mason said, as Scudder handed the sheaf of photographs across to the clerk.
“Now then, did you find any other fingerprints in that flat?”
“I did.”
“Whose were they?”
“Objected to,” Mason shouted. “This is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial—”
“Overruled,” Judge Romley said.
Borge grinned at Mason. “I found fingerprints of Perry Mason,” he said. “I found fingerprints of Paul Drake, a detective employed by Perry Mason. I found a wheel chair, and on the wheel chair I found prints of the man who had evidently occupied that wheel chair. I also found some fingerprints of a woman.”
“And did you photograph these fingerprints and mark upon each photograph the place where the prints had been found?”
“I did.
“I’m going to ask that these be introduced in evidence.”
Mason sat back in his chair with the air of having been defeated. After a moment, Judge Romley said, “It appearing that there is no objection, the photographs will be received in evidence.”
“Now, Mr. Borge, ” Scudder went on, “were you present at that apartment last night at the hour of approximately ten-fifty in the evening, at a time when Perry Mason, Paul Drake, a certain Della Street, Inspector Frank Bodfish, and myself were present?”
“I was.”
“And at that time and at that place, did you hear me accuse Perry Mason of having spirited away the said Roger P. Cartman, who had temporarily occupied that flat or apartment? And did I then and there accuse the said Perry Mason of having kidnaped and abducted the said Roger P. Cartman and of holding him where he could not be found by the deputy district attorney, and could not be brought into this court to testify as an eyewitness in the case of The People versus Anna Moar, otherwise known as Ann Newberry?”
“I was there,” Borge said. “I heard you make that accusation.”
“And at that time and at that place, what statement did the said Perry Mason make in connection with that accusation?”
Mason jumped to his feet, his manner desperate. “Your Honor, I object! This is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial. This has nothing whatever to do with...”
Judge Romley cut him short. “Objection overruled,” he snapped.
Borge looked at Mason and said, without raising his voice, “He said you could never convict him because his accomplice had been an ex-convict, and no jury would convict him on the testimony of an ex-convict, and anyway you couldn’t convict him because you couldn’t corroborate the testimony of his accomplice.”
“You may cross-examine,” Scudder snapped.
Mason watched Borge wiping his moist forehead with a handkerchief. “How many men have you ever fingerprinted, Mr. Borge?” he asked.
“I can’t see that this is material,” Scudder objected.
“It goes to his qualifications,” Mason insisted. “You’ve qualified him as an expert, I certainly am going to cross-examine him, to show his qualifications.”
“I think the question is perfectly proper,” Judge Romley ruled. “Counsel did not stipulate to the qualifications of this witness, and he has a right to ask any reasonable number of questions touching upon his qualifications as an expert. The objection is overruled.”
“I couldn’t say,” Borge said. “I’ve fingerprinted thousands.”
“Who was the first man you ever fingerprinted?”
Borge smiled and said, “Why, I couldn’t remember.”
“When was it?”
“I can’t even tell you that — it was probably fifteen years ago. I can’t remember.”
“Who was the last man you fingerprinted?”
An expression of satisfaction animated Borge’s pale green eyes. “The last man I fingerprinted,” he said, and paused dramatically as he flashed a look of triumph at the deputy district attorney, “was Carl Moar. I took his fingerprints at two o’clock this morning in the City Morgue, shortly after you had told the newspapers the body wasn’t that of Moar, but of some other person.”
Mason hesitated for several awkward seconds, then said, “You’re stating positively that this man was Carl Moar?”
“Of course I am,” Borge said. “The body had been in the water for a couple of days, but I was able to get his fingerprints without any trouble. A man’s fingerprints never change, not even in death. They’re absolute means of identification.
“And can’t the fingerprints of one person possibly be confused with those of another?”
“No,” Borge said scornfully “Every high school kid knows that.”
Judge Romley rapped with his gavel. “The witness will confine himself to answering the questions,” he said. “The witness is being interrogated as to his qualifications as an expert. The Court will not permit the examination to be unduly prolonged, but if Counsel wishes to inquire concerning the qualifications of the witness as an expert, he has a perfect right to do so, and the witness will observe a respectful attitude in answering such questions.”
“Then you must have had Carl Moar’s fingerprints,” Mason argued. “That is, you must have had something with which to compare the fingerprints of the corpse.”
“I did. Moar was bonded by a bonding company when he worked for a bank fifteen years ago. The bonding company required that fingerprints be filed with the application for a bond.”
“Oh,” Mason said, as though the information had knocked the props from under him.
“Any further cross-examination?” the Court asked.
Mason walked slowly forward, picked up the sheaf of fingerprint photographs from the clerk, said to Borge, “And do you have photographs of the fingerprints of Carl Moar, deceased, with you?”
Borge slipped a perspiring hand in a voluminous pocket and pulled out an envelope of photographs. “They’re all marked,” he said, grinning at Mason. “Help yourself.”
Mason studied the photographs for a minute, shuffled them around in his hands. Abruptly, he picked out one and said, “Now, the fingerprint shown in this photograph, Mr. Borge, what is that?”
“That,” Borge said, “represents the fingerprint of Morgan Eves. It’s evidently the fingerprint of the man who leased the apartment. I found lots of those fingerprints over various articles, bottles, glasses, on the wash stand in the bathroom, on shaving things, on suitcases, mirrors... The one which you have reference to was one of several taken from a pane of window glass. I found virtually a complete set of fingerprints there, where a man’s hand had pressed against the glass, in raising the window.”
Mason slipped the print to one side. “And these?” he asked. “Those are the fingerprints of Carl Moar, the ones taken from the corpse.”
“These?” Mason asked.
“Those are fingerprints of the woman I assume was acting as nurse for Roger P. Cartman.”
“And these?”
“Those are the fingerprints taken from the wheel chair. I assume they are Roger P. Cartman’s prints.”
Mason said suddenly, “Look here, you’re basing your testimony, not upon what these fingerprints really are, but on memoranda which you’ve written on the bottoms of the prints.”
“Well, of course,” Borge said, “I had to find, some way of keeping the photographs all straight. But I could take a magnifying glass and identify any of those fingerprints.”
“Could you,” Mason asked, “do that here in court?”
“Of course.”
Mason took a sheet of paper from his pocket, tore a hole in it, and placed it over one of the photographs, so that only the portion showing the fingerprint was visible.
“Now then,” he said triumphantly, “let’s take that photograph, covered so that you can’t see the printing on it, and this photograph,” and Mason tore another hole in another piece of paper, covered another photograph, “and this one,” taking a third, “and see if you can identify those three fingerprints.”
“It would take a little time,” Borge objected.
“Take all the time you want,” Mason announced triumphantly.
Borge took a magnifying glass from his pocket, leaned over to study the fingerprints.
“And I’d have to consult certain data which I have in my notebook,” he said at length. “Two of these fingerprints are the same. I think they’re the fingerprints of Roger P. Cartman, I’m not certain.”
“Go right ahead,” Mason said.
The witness consulted his notebook, took a finely marked scale from his pocket, then looked up at the judge and nodded. “These two,” he said, indicating two photographs, “are both photographs of prints made by the right index finger of the man I assume was Roger P. Cartman, since I found his fingerprints on the wheel chair.”
Mason said, “Will you mark these right on the photographs, so there can be no mistake, with a cross in pen and ink?”
The witness, looking bored and contemptuous, took a pen from his pocket, made a cross on each of the photographs.
Mason triumphantly removed the paper and said, “Now, then, Mr. Borge, since you’ve qualified as an expert, and since you’ve said that any high school pupil knows that it’s impossible to confuse the fingerprints of two different people, will you kindly tell me how it happens that you have just identified a fingerprint made from the right index finger of Carl Moar, deceased, as being identical with a print of the right index finger of the man whom you have stated was Roger P. Cartman?”
Borge stared with incredulous eyes at the annotations on the two photographs. Scudder, jumping to his feet, hurried to the side of the witness.
Judge Romley regarded Mason with a puzzled frown. “Do I understand, Mr. Mason, that it is your contention the witness has confused two photographs?”
“No,” Mason said with a grin, “what your Honor should understand is that when my learned friend, the deputy district attorney, discovers the true significance of the testimony of this witness, the case against Anna Moar will be dismissed. Otherwise, the Prosecution will find itself confronted with the necessity of explaining to a jury in this case just how it happens the man the witnesses have sworn this defendant murdered on the night of the sixth instantly left fingerprints in a San Francisco flat on the afternoon of the seventh.”
“There’s trickery here someplace, your Honor,” Scudder said.
Mason smiled. “If Counsel is interested in discovering just where the trickery lies, I can give him two clues. One is that when Della Street stepped out on deck on the evening of the sixth, she inadvertently took a position almost exactly where Aileen Fell had been standing before she ran up to the boat deck. The second one is that at the time when the decedent, Moar, was about to sail from Honolulu, someone opened Moar’s locked suitcase and substituted a picture of Winnie Joyce, whom Miss Newberry greatly resembles, for a photograph of Belle Newberry. As for the rest, Counsel will have to figure it out for himself.”
Scudder bent forward to engage in a whispered conversation with Borge. Then, in a voice which showed all too plainly his bewilderment, said, “May I ask the Court for a brief recess? I wish to correlate certain facts.”
Judge Romley said, “Under the circumstances, I am quite certain there will be no objection to a brief continuance, Mr. Mason?”
Mason said, “I will not object to a continuance on only one condition, your Honor. The deputy district attorney has accused me of concealing witnesses. However, I have reason to believe that the deputy district attorney may have in custody a witness who has heretofore been subpoenaed by me as a witness for the Defense. I refer to an Evelyn Whiting, who acted as nurse for Roger Cartman.”
Judge Romley glanced at Scudder. “Do you have such a witness in custody?” he asked.
Scudder was visibly embarrassed.
“Why, your Honor,” he said, “I have been searching for Miss Whiting. She was apprehended by officers something over an hour ago. She is in my office. I have been interrogating her, but so far have had little success. I had no idea that she was a witness for Mr. Mason.”
“You will find that she has been regularly served with a subpoena,” Mason said, “and a return of service has been made and is on file with the clerk of this court. Under the circumstances, I demand an opportunity to examine her before this case is continued.”
“Is there any objection?” Judge Romley asked Scudder.
“Why, no, your Honor. I can only repeat I had no idea this woman was a witness.”
“How long will it take to get her here?” Judge Romley asked.
“Just a moment or two. She is at present held in the witness room. I think the bailiff can bring her here almost at once.”
While the bailiff was summoning Evelyn Whiting, Judge Romley regarded Perry Mason in puzzled scrutiny.
“Do I understand, Mr. Mason,” he asked, “that it is your contention that the body which I understand was found yesterday, and which has been identified as Carl Moar is not really the body of Carl Moar?”
“No, your Honor,” Mason said. “I gave an interview to the press last night in which I asserted that the body could not be that of Carl Moar. I did this solely because I wanted to force the Prosecution to use every means possible to get Moar’s fingerprints.”
“Then, if that was Moar’s body, how do you account for the fact that Moar’s fingerprints also appear on the wheel chair in this flat — and, I take it, upon other objects in the flat?”
“Unless this witness can explain matters,” Mason said, “I think I will leave it to my learned friend, the deputy district attorney, to do the explaining. After all, it’s his case.”
Scudder said testily, “I think counsel understands that the district attorney’s office will welcome any information which will throw light upon this mysterious affair.”
Judge Romley was about to say something when the bailiff brought Evelyn Whiting into the courtroom. She was sworn by the clerk and took the witness stand, her face showing plainly that she was laboring under a nervous strain.
Mason glanced up at Judge Romley and said, “I think if Court and Counsel will bear with me in what may perhaps be a somewhat unusual form of examination, we can clear this matter up. Miss Whiting, you understand that you have taken an oath to tell the truth; that any failure to do so may subject you to a perjury prosecution?”
“Yes.”
Mason said, “You have been keeping company with a man whom you knew as Morgan Eves for some time?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that he had a criminal record?”
She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes.”
“And you had previously known Carl Moar for some considerable period of time?”
“Yes.”
“He had, on at least one occasion, asked you to marry him?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Morgan Eves was arrested in Los Angeles and tried on a murder charge?”
“Yes, he was,” she said quickly, “and he was acquitted.”
“Yes,” Mason said, “and Carl Moar was on that jury, wasn’t he?”
“Why... yes, he was.”
“And when you saw that Carl Moar was on the jury, you thought that you could do the man you loved a good turn by approaching Carl Moar and asking him to do everything he could to get a verdict of acquittal?”
She hesitated.
“And,” Mason asked, “didn’t you offer Moar a bribe? Come now, Miss Whiting, the facts are all available. Your part in this matter has been rather culpable. You had better tell the truth.”
“No,” she said, “I did not.”
“Now,” Mason went on calmly, “after Moar discharged his duties on this jury and after Morgan Eves had been acquitted, Mr. Moar found himself in the possession of some twenty-five thousand dollars. He went to the Hawaiian Islands and was enjoying a vacation in Honolulu. Unfortunately, however, Mr. Moar was rather naive in some respects and had made no effort to conceal his sudden acquisition of wealth, or to account for it. He merely changed his name and proceeded to take up a new life.
“Now, Mr. Van Densie, the attorney who represented Morgan Eves, found himself under investigation on a charge of jury bribing. The district attorney launched a sweeping investigation. It became important to Mr. Van Densie, as well as Mr. Eves, to keep the grand jury from calling on Mr. Moar as a witness. Mr. Moar’s attempts to take a new identity were sufficient, so far as a mere neighborly interest was concerned, but would hardly have withstood the investigation of trained detectives. Therefore, you were selected to go to Honolulu and arrange with Mr. Moar for a more effective disappearance. In order to explain the trip you were making to your sister, you told her you were going on your honeymoon. Mr. Eves, whom you secretly married, found himself very busy at the moment, assisting Mr. Van Densie conceal matters from the investigators. He actually sailed on the ship with you, but after it had left the dock, climbed over the side on a rope ladder and returned on a speed launch. You went to Honolulu, explained that situation to Mr. Moar, and arranged with him for a complete disappearance.
“This scheme had been carefully thought out by Van Densie, Morgan Eves, and perhaps in part, by you. You knew that a Roger P. Cartman had been in an automobile accident and sustained a broken neck. You purchased a ticket in the name of Roger P. Cartman on the same steamship as that on which Mr. Moar traveled under the name of Carl Newberry. From time to time, Mr. Moar would surreptitiously visit your cabin. You would place a steel and leather harness, or brace, upon his neck so that it concealed much of his face, put on huge dark glasses which concealed his eyes, and wheel him about the deck in a wheel chair.
“On the night of the sixth you, having familiarized yourself with the custom of Aileen Fell of being on deck immediately after dinner, and feeling that this was a propitious time because of the storm, arranged to have Mr. Moar commit a supposed suicide by shooting himself and jumping overboard. You expected that the sound of revolver shots would attract Miss Fell’s attention so that she could see what apparently was the body of a man hurtling into the ocean.
“However, Miss Fell’s curiosity brought her up to the boat deck so in place of having Moar apparently a suicide, he seemed to be the victim of a murder, and his wife was accused of the murder.
“After Moar’s supposed plunge over the side, he went to your stateroom, where he became Roger P. Cartman, the invalid, and was actually carried off the steamer in a wheel chair, and taken to the flat on Stockton Boulevard.
“However, where the supposed suicide of Mr. Moar would have passed with only a small amount of notoriety, the supposed murder of Moar was an entirely different affair, and the situation became complicated when I dashed to Los Angeles and proved that Mr. Moar had not embezzled money from his former employer, the Products Refining Company. Therefore, Mr. Eves decided it would be better for you to leave the flat at Stockton Boulevard, since he felt some attempt might be made to trace Roger P. Cartman.”
“Now, he took you to a cabin up in the Santa Cruz Mountains, Miss Whiting. But did you know that after he had taken you there, he returned to the flat at Stockton Boulevard; that he then told Mr. Moar he had arranged for another place of concealment, placed him aboard a yacht, took him out by the Farallons, cruised about until he found one of the life rings which had been tossed overboard from the steamer the night before, shot Mr. Moar, stripped him of his clothes, placed his body in the life ring, and left it floating on the ocean, knowing that it would be discovered within a day or two.”
Mason paused, and Evelyn Whiting, gripping the arms of the chair with her gloved hands, moistened her lips and said nothing.
“You must have realized what had happened,” Mason went on, “when you read that Moar’s body had been found. Now then. Miss Whiting, it’s one thing to resort to jury bribing to shield a man whom you love. It’s quite another thing to become involved as an accessory on a murder charge. I think it’s time for you to tell the truth.”
She half rose from the chair, dropped back into it, looked helplessly about her, then slowly nodded her head. She raised her eyes to Judge Romley and said, “It’s true. I thought Morgan was innocent when he was being tried in Los Angeles. I thought the case was a frame-up against him, so I was willing to do everything I could. Mr. Van Densie said that if Morgan should be convicted, the district attorney would be able to frame a lot of Morgan’s business associates. He said these men had made up a purse to help my husband, and would give five thousand dollars for a hung jury, or twenty-five thousand for an outright acquittal. I explained the situation to Carl. I gave him my word that Morgan was innocent, and he managed to swing the jury. I made Carl Moar think the whole case was a frame-up, because I thought it was a frame-up.”
Mason said, “Now, you purchased a picture frame on the seventh, Miss Whiting.”
“Yes,” she said, “Carl was very much attached to his stepdaughter. In order to keep from being called as a witness, it was necessary for him to pretend to commit suicide and he knew that it would be years before he could ever see Belle again. He wanted her picture to keep with him. But he didn’t want his wife to know he’d taken this picture because that might make her suspicious of the suicide. So he switched pictures in the frame. Unfortunately, Mrs. Moar found out the pictures had been changed almost as soon as Carl had made the switch.”
“And you were the one who sent Carl Moar the note on the evening of the sixth?” Mason asked.
“Yes. We had it all planned. You see, we rigged up a dummy which we could throw overboard, and I left it up in the ship’s hospital. On the night of the sixth I waited until Miss Fell had come out on deck. Then I sent word to Carl. He was to come on deck. We were to drag the dummy to the rail and fire a couple of shots from a revolver to attract Miss Fell’s attention. Then we were to pitch the dummy overboard and leave Carl Moar’s gun where it would be found on the boat deck. Carl was to come down to my stateroom, climb into bed and put on the goggles and head brace, which would make it almost impossible to recognize him, particularly since we’d made such a careful build-up.”
“And how did it happen your dress got caught on one of the cleats?” Mason asked.
She said without hesitation, “Mrs. Moar made a mistake, leaving her wet clothes where they could be found. It showed she’d been on deck. If they searched my stateroom, I didn’t want them to find my wet clothes as evidence. I threw my dinner dress out of the porthole. By that time, the ship had turned around and the wind was blowing a gale. It caught my dress, tore it out of my hand, and sent it flying up in the air. I suppose a part of it caught on the cleat and the rest tore loose.
“Miss Fell had seen me dragging the dummy across the boat deck and your secretary, Miss Street, happened to be standing just below. She looked up and saw me as I pushed the dummy overboard and fired the second shot. I knew that she had run in and telephoned that a man was overboard, and I knew that sooner or later she’d be made to tell what she’d seen. You see, she was looking up into the rain, and therefore couldn’t see my features, but I was looking down and could see hers. The rain was in her eyes. It wasn’t in mine.
“Please understand me,” she pleaded, “I was willing to help the man I loved because I thought he was innocent. Then this morning when I read the papers, I knew why he’d left me up there in the mountains. He’d gone back and tricked Carl to his death. He figured that would keep Carl’s testimony from ever being given and that the murder would be charged to Mrs. Moar. I was sick. I loved him — I still love him — I can’t protect him now, though I see him for what he really is — even — I can’t stand back of him anymore— Tell me, Mr. Mason, since you seem to know all about it, he did — kill Carl, didn’t he?”
Her eyes, pleading and anxious, hoping against hope, rested on the lawyer’s face.
“Yes,” Mason said, “and he made the fatal mistake of leaving high-laced shoes on Moar’s body. You see, when Carl Moar was supposed to have gone overboard, he was dressed in a tuxedo. As soon as I saw the high-laced shoes on Moar’s body I realized what must have happened. The fact that the bullet in the body had been fired from a gun other than Moar’s gun was further convincing evidence. I’m sorry, Miss Whiting, but that’s what happened. And I’m not altogether blameless. I should have deduced the truth sooner than I did. Knowing that Moar had been on a jury in Los Angeles, that he had been instrumental in getting the defendant acquitted that Baldwin Van Densie, a notorious jury briber, had been the attorney representing that defendant and discovering that Carl had come into the unexplained possession of approximately twenty-five thousand dollars immediately after the verdict had been returned, should have been all I needed, particularly when one adds to that the fact that Belle Newberry’s picture, had disappeared from a suitcase to which only Mr. Moar had the key, and the lock showed no evidence of having been tampered with. I’m afraid, Miss Whiting, that the peculiar manner in which the case developed threw me off the track and prevented me from saving Carl Moar’s life.”
She nodded. Her lips quivered. “I loved Morgan,” she said. “I believed in him. I... trusted him.” She started to sob.
Mason’s voice was filled with sympathy as he said to Judge Romley, “If the Court please, won’t it be more merciful to take a recess?”