The Case of the Terrified Typist

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “From whom?”

  “That has nothing to do with the case, Mr. Mason.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “I have to know who gave it to you, Jefferson.”

  “I am conducting my own affairs, Mr. Mason.”

  “I’m conducting your case.”

  “Go right ahead. Just don’t ask me questions about women, that’s all. I don’t discuss my female friends with anyone.”

  “Is there anything you’re ashamed of in connection with that gift?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then tell me who gave it to you.”

  “It would be embarrassing to discuss any woman with you, Mr. Mason. That might bring about a situation where you’d feel I was perjuring myself about my relationship with women … when I get on the stand and answer questions put by the district attorney.”

  Mason studied Jefferson’s face carefully. “Look here,” he said. “Lots of times a weak case on the part of the prosecution is bolstered because the defendant breaks down under cross-examination. Now, I hope this case is never going to reach a point where it will become necessary to put on any defense. But if it does, I’ve got to be certain you’re not lying to me.”

  Jefferson looked at Mason coldly. “I never lie to anyone,” he said, and then turning away from Mason signaled to the officer that he was ready to be taken back to jail.

  Della Street and Paul Drake fell in step with Mason as the lawyer started down the aisle.

  “What do you make of it?” Mason asked.

  “There sure is something fishy about this whole thing,” Drake said. “It stinks. It has all the earmarks of a frame-up. How can Burger think people of that sort can put across a deal like this on a man like Duane Jefferson?”

  “That,” Mason said, “is the thing we’re going to have to find out. Anything new?”

  “Walter Irving’s back.”

  “The deuce he is! Where has he been?”

  “No one knows. He showed up about ten-thirty this morning. He was in court.”

  “Where?”

  “Sitting in a back row, taking everything in.”

  Mason said, “There’s something here that is completely and thoroughly contradictory. The whole case is cockeyed.”

  “The police have something up their sleeves,” Drake said. “They have some terrific surprise. I can’t find out what it is. Do you notice that Hamilton Burger seems to remain thoroughly elated?”

  “That’s the thing that gets me,” Mason said. “Burger puts on these witnesses and acts as though he’s just laying a preliminary foundation. He doesn’t seem to take too much interest in their stories, or whether I attack their characters or their credibility. He’s playing along for something big.”

  “What about Irving?” Drake asked. “Are you going to be in touch with him?”

  “Irving and I aren’t on friendly terms. The last time he walked out of my office he was mad as a bucking bronco. He cabled his company, trying to get me fired. You haven’t found out anything about Marline Chaumont or her brother?”

  “I haven’t found out where they are,” Drake said, “but I think I’ve found out how they gave me the slip.”

  “How?” Mason asked. “I’m interested in that.”

  “It’s so damn simple that it makes me mad I didn’t get onto it sooner.”

  “What?”

  Drake said, “Marline Chaumont simply took her suitcases and had a porter deposit them in storage lockers. Then she took her brother out to an airport limousine, as though they were incoming passengers. She gave a porter the keys for two of the lockers, so two suitcases were brought out. She went in the limousine to a downtown hotel. She and her brother got out and completely vanished.”

  “Then, of course, she went back and got the other suitcases?” Mason asked.

  “Presumably,” Drake said, “she got a taxicab after she had her brother safely put away, went out to the airport, picked up the other two suitcases out of the storage lockers, and then rejoined her brother.”

  Mason said, “We’ve got to find her, Paul.”

  “I’m trying, Perry.”

  “Can’t you check hotel registrations? Can’t you—?”

  “Look, Perry,” Drake said, “I’ve checked every hotel registration that was made at about that time. I’ve checked with rental agencies for houses that were rented. I’ve checked with the utilities for connections that were put in at about that time. I’ve done everything I can think of. I’ve had girls telephoning the apartment houses to see if anyone made application for apartments. I’ve even checked the motels to see who registered on that date. I’ve done everything I can think of.”

  Mason paused thoughtfully. “Have you checked the car rental agencies, Paul?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the drive-yourself automobiles where a person rents an automobile, drives it himself, pays so much a day and so much a mile?”

  The expression on Drake’s face showed mixed emotions. “She wouldn’t—Gosh, no! Good Lord, Perry! Maybe I overlooked a bet!”

  Mason said, “Why couldn’t she get a drive-yourself automobile, put her stuff in it, go to one of the outlying cities, rent a house there, then drive back with the automobile and—”

  “I’d say it was one chance in ten thousand,” Drake said, “but I’m not going to overlook it. It’s all that’s left.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, “Try checking that idea for size, Paul.”

  Chapter 15

  Promptly at two o’clock court reconvened and Judge Hartley said, “Call your next witness, Mr. District Attorney.”

  Hamilton Burger hesitated a moment, then said, “I will call Mae Wallis Jordan.”

  Mae Jordan, quiet, demure, taking slow, steady steps, as though steeling herself to a task which she had long anticipated with extreme distaste, walked to the witness stand, was sworn, gave her name and address to the court reporter, and seated herself.

  Hamilton Burger’s voice fairly dripped sympathy. “You are acquainted with the defendant, Duane Jefferson, Miss Jordan?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When did you first get acquainted with him?”

  “Do you mean, when did I first see him?”

  “When did you first get in touch with him,” Hamilton Burger asked, “and how?”

  “I first saw him after he came to the city here, but I have been corresponding with him for some time.”

  “When was the date that you first saw him? Do you know?”

  “I know very well. He arrived by train. I was there to meet the train.”

  “On what date?”

  “May seventeenth.”

  “Of this year?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now then, you had had some previous correspondence with the defendant?”

  “Yes.”

  “How had that correspondence started?”

  “It started as a … as a joke. As a gag.”

  “In what way?”

  “I am interested in photography. In a photographic magazine there was an offer to exchange colored stereo photographs of Africa for stereo photographs of the southwestern desert. I was interested and wrote to the box number in question.”

  “In South Africa?”

  “Well, it was in care of the magazine, but it turned out that the magazine forwarded the mail to the person who had placed the ad in the magazine. That person was—”

  “Just a moment,” Mason interrupted. “We object to the witness testifying as to her conclusion. She doesn’t know who put the ad in the magazine. Only the records of the magazine can show that.”

  “We will show them,” Hamilton Burger said cheerfuly. “However, Miss Jordan, we’ll just skip that at the moment. What happened?”

  “Well, I entered into correspondence with the defendant.”

  “What was the nature of that correspondence generally?” Hamilton Burger asked. And then
, turning to Mason, said, “Of course, I can understand that this may be objected to as not being the best evidence, but I am trying to expedite matters.”

  Mason, smiling, said, “I am always suspicious of one who tries to expedite matters by introducing secondary evidence. The letters themselves would be the best evidence.”

  “I only want to show the general nature of the correspondence,” Hamilton Burger said.

  “Objected to as not being the best evidence,” Mason said, “and that the question calls for a conclusion of the witness.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Hartley said.

  “You received letters from South Africa?” Hamiltion Burger asked, his voice showing a slight amount of irritation.

  “Yes.”

  “Those letters were signed how?”

  “Well … in various ways.”

  “What’s that?” Hamilton Burger asked, startled. “I thought that—”

  “Never mind what the district attorney thought,” Mason said. “Let’s have the facts.”

  “How were those letters signed?” Hamilton Burger asked.

  “Some of them were signed with the name of the defendant, the first ones were.”

  “And where are those letters now?”

  “They are gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I destroyed them.”

  “Describe the contents of those letters,” Hamilton Burger said unctuously. “Having proved, Your Honor, that the best evidence is no longer available, I am seeking to show by secondary evidence—”

  “There are no objections,” Judge Hartley said.

  “I was going to state,” Mason said, “that I would like to ask some questions on cross-examination as to the nature and contents of the letters and the time and manner of their destruction, in order to see whether I wished to object.”

  “Make you objection first, and then you may ask the questions,” Judge Hartley said.

  “I object, Your Honor, on the ground that no proper foundation for the introduction of secondary testimony has been laid and on the further ground that it now appears that at least some of these letters did not even bear the name of the defendant. In connection with that objection, I would like to ask a few questions.”

  “Go ahead,” Hamilton Burger invited, smiling slightly.

  Mason said, “You said that those letters were signed in various ways. What did you mean by that?”

  “Well—” she said, and hesitated.

  “Go on,” Mason said.

  “Well,” she said, “some of the letters were signed with various … well, gag names.”

  “Such as what?” Mason asked.

  “Daddy Longlegs was one,” she said.

  There was a ripple of mirth in the courtroom, which subsided as Judge Hartley frowned.

  “And others?”

  “Various names. You see we … we exchanged photographs … gag pictures.”

  “What do you mean by gag pictures?” Mason asked.

  “Well, I am a camera fan, and the defendant is, too, and … we started corresponding formally at first, and then the correspondence became more personal. I … he asked me for a picture, and I … for a joke I—”

  “Go ahead,” Mason said. “What did you do?”

  “I had taken a photograph of a very trim spinster who was no longer young, a rather interesting face, however, because it showed a great deal of character. I had a photograph of myself in a bathing suit and I … I made a trick enlargement, so that the face of the trim spinster was put on my body, and I sent it to him. I thought that if he was simply being flirtatious, that would stop him.”

  “Was it a joke, or was it intended to deceive him?” Mason asked.

  She flushed and said, “That first picture was intended to deceive him. It was done so cunningly that it would be impossible for him to know that it was a composite picture—at least, I thought it would be impossible.”

  “And you asked him to send you a picture in return?” “I did.”

  “And did you receive a picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was the face of a giraffe wearing glasses, grafted on the photograph of a huge figure of a heavily muscled man. Evidently, the figure of a wrestler or a weightlifter.”

  “And in that way,” Mason asked, “you knew that he had realized your picture was a composite?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened after that?”

  “We exchanged various gag pictures. Each one trying to be a little more extreme than the other.”

  “And the letters?” Mason asked.

  “The letters were signed with various names which would sort of fit in with the type of photograph.”

  “You so signed your letters to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he so signed his letters to you?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason made his voice elaborately casual. “He would sign letters to you, I suppose, as ‘Your Prince,’ or ‘Sir Galahad,’ or something like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prince Charming?”

  She gave a quick start. “Yes,” she said. “As a matter of fact, at the last he signed all of his letters ‘Prince Charming.’”

  “Where are those letters now?” Mason asked.

  “I destroyed his letters.”

  “And where are the letters that you wrote to him, if you know?”

  “I … I destroyed them.”

  Hamilton Burger grinned. “Go right ahead, Mr. Mason. You’re doing fine.”

  “How did you get ahold of them?” Mason asked.

  “I … I went to his office.”

  “While he was there?” Mason asked.

  “I—When I got the letters, he was there, yes.”

  Mason smiled at the district attorney. “Oh, I think, Your Honor, I have pursued this line of inquiry far enough. I will relinquish the right to any further questioning on the subject of the letters. I insist upon my objection, however. The witness can’t swear that these letters ever came from this defendant. They were signed ‘Prince Charming’ and other names she said were gag names. That’s her conclusion.”

  Judge Hartley turned toward the witness. “These letters were in response to letters mailed by you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And how did you address the letters you mailed?”

  “To ‘Duane Jefferson, care of the South African Gem Importing and Exploration Company.’”

  “At its South African address?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You deposited those letters in regular mail channels?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And received these letters in reply?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “The letters showed they were in reply to those mailed by you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And you burned them?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “The objection is overruled,” Judge Hartley said. “You may introduce secondary evidence of their contents, Mr. District Attorney.”

  Hamilton Burger bowed slightly, turned to the witness. “Tell us what was in those letters which were destroyed,” he said.

  “Well, the defendant adopted the position that he was lonely and far from the people he knew, that he didn’t have any girl friends, and … oh, it was all a gag. It’s so difficult to explain.”

  “Go ahead; do the best you can,” Hamilton Burger said.

  “We adopted the attitude of … well, we pretended it was a lonely hearts correspondence. He would write and tell me how very wealthy and virtuous he was and what a good husband he would make, and I would write and tell him how beautiful I was and how—Oh, it’s just simply out of the question to try and explain it in cold blood this way!”

  “Out of context, so to speak?” Hamilton Burger asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s just it. You have to understand the mood and the background, othe
rwise you wouldn’t be able to get the picture at all. The letters, standing by themselves, would appear to be hopelessly foolish, utterly asinine. That was why I felt I had to have them back in my possession.”

  “Go ahead,” Hamilton Burger said. “What did you do?” “Well, finally Duane Jefferson wrote me one serious letter. He told me that his company had decided to open a branch office in the United States, that it was to be located here, and that he was to be in charge of it and that he was looking forward to seeing me.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “All of a sudden I was in a terrific panic. It was one thing to carry on a joking correspondence with a man who was thousands of miles away and quite another thing suddenly to meet that man face to face. I was flustered and embarrassed.”

  “Go on. What did you do?”

  “Well, of course, when he arrived—he wired me what train he was coming on, and I was there to meet him and—that was when things began to go wrong.”

  “In what way?”

  “He gave me a sort of brush-off, and he wasn’t the type of person I had anticipated. Of course,” she went on hastily, “I know what a little fool I was to get a preconceived notion of a man I’d never seen, but I had built up a very great regard for him. I considered him as a friend and I was terribly disappointed.”

  “Then what?” Hamilton Burger asked.

  “Then I called two or three times on the telephone and talked with him, and I went out with him one night.”

  “And what happened?”

  She all but shuddered. “The man was utterly impossible,” she said, glaring down at the defendant. “He was patronizing in a cheap, tawdry way. His manner showed that he had completely mistaken the tone of my correspondence. He regarded me as …he treated me as if I were a … he showed no respect, no consideration. He had none of the finer feelings.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I told him I wanted my letters back.”

  “And what did he do?”

  She glared at Duane Jefferson. “He told me I could buy them back.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I determined to get those letters back. They were mine, anyway.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “On June fourteenth I went to the office at a time when I knew neither the defendant nor Mr. Irving would normally be there.”