The Case of the Borrowed Brunette

by The Case of the Borrowed Brunette (retail) (epub)

  Gulling, recognizing the force of Mason’s argument, said coldly, “We’ll pass that for the moment. There’s also the question of your being an accessory after the fact of the crime of murder.”

  “Oh, that,” Mason said casually.

  “Yes, that!” Gulling snapped.

  “Of course if you want to talk about the murder, this is going to be rather long drawn out. The defendants in the murder case are being tried in a preliminary hearing before Judge Lindale. But, if you’re really interested in finding out something about that murder, you might ask some questions of your witness Arthur Clovis out there.”

  “Clovis?” the foreman of the Grand Jury asked. “Isn’t he to be questioned?”

  Gulling replied, “Just on the question of the numbers on the bills, for the purpose of identification.”

  “You might,” said Mason, “get Clovis to tell you how it happened that he had a key to the Siglet Manor apartment in his possession, and why he was so anxious to get rid of that key, and—”

  A deputy sheriff entered the room and said to Gulling, “This message to Mr. Mason has to be delivered immediately.”

  Gulling’s face flushed. “Don’t interrupt these proceedings to give messages to the witness. You should know better than that.”

  “But they said this was—”

  “I don’t care what they said. The Grand Jury is interrogating Mr. Mason.”

  Seeing the slip of paper in the deputy’s hand, Mason extended his own hand, said, “Since the interruption has already been made, I’ll take the message,” and coolly clamped his fingers about the folded paper before Gulling could object.

  Mason unfolded the paper. The message was in Della Street’s handwriting.

  Drake just phoned. It’s all a mistake about the key. It is to a Siglet Manor apartment, but not to Helen Reedley’s—it’s to Carlotta Tipton’s. Apparently Arthur Clovis used to live there in that apartment at the Siglet Manor. After he and Helen fell for each other, she thought it would be safer for him to live somewhere else, so he moved out and Carlotta Tipton moved in. Gosh, I’m sorry!—DELLA.

  Mason crumpled the sheet and slipped it into his pocket.

  “If you’re quite ready to answer questions,” Gulling said, “and can take enough of your valuable time to comply with the requirements of the law, Mr. Mason . . .”

  “What do you want to know?” Mason asked.

  “What were you going to say about Arthur Clovis?” the foreman asked.

  “Just that he had a key to the Siglet Manor Apartments,” Mason said. “He used to live there.”

  “Well, isn’t it natural for him to have a key, if he failed to surrender it when he moved?”

  “I just wanted you to know that he had a key to the apartment house in which the body was found.”

  “You don’t claim he had anything to do with the murder?”

  “Heavens, no! I just wanted you to know the facts.”

  “I don’t see what that fact has to do with it,” Gulling said. “You don’t claim that it was a key to the apartment where the murdered man was found, do you?”

  “No, no,” Mason said. “Nothing like that. It’s a key to an apartment now occupied by a Carlotta Tipton, I believe. You might check on that.”

  “We know all about her,” Gulling said.

  “Girl friend of the dead man,” Mason commented, his tone still casual. “She was quite jealous. Followed him when he went down to meet his death.”

  “How’s that?” the foreman asked.

  Mason looked at Gulling in surprise. “I thought you’d told him about that.”

  “You claim that Carlotta Tipton followed Robert Hines to the apartment of Helen Reedley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But she told me she was asleep all afternoon!”

  “She told me different,” Mason said, “and in the presence of witnesses.”

  “How many witnesses?”

  “Three.”

  “Disinterested?”

  “Two of them were in my employ.”

  “And the third?”

  “Paul Drake.”

  “Your detective?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A likely story,” Gulling sneered.

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “No.”

  “The jury that tries my client will,” Mason told him, smiling.

  “That doesn’t affect your connection with what happened,” Gulling said angrily. “You may draw a red herring across the trail when you get before the trial jury, but you can’t do it here.”

  “It’s no red herring.” Mason was sparring for time. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I think that might be a good idea, Mr. Gulling,” the foreman said.

  Gulling yielded, though with bad grace. “You will retire to the outer room, Mr. Mason, and—”

  “Why not let him stay right here?” the foreman suggested. “I’d like to hear what this woman says when she’s confronted with Mr. Mason.”

  “It’s illegal,” Gulling said. “Under the law only the consulting experts can be present.”

  The foreman urged impatiently, “I want Mason here. He’s a witness.”

  “Not being examined.”

  “Then he’s a consulting expert.”

  “I warn you it’s illegal.”

  “Then we’ll take a recess for a while and just have a sort of informal meeting. Bring her in.”

  “You can’t make her swear to her testimony if you’re in recess.”

  “Never mind that for the present. Get her in here.”

  “Bring her in,” Gulling told the deputy, again yielding with bad grace.

  When Carlotta Tipton entered she smiled at the grand jurors, sat down, and carefully arranged her legs so as to show just enough stocking to interest them.

  “Mr. Mason says,” Gulling began, “that you admitted to him that you had followed Robert Hines to the Reedley apartment where he was later found murdered. What about it?”

  She turned to Mason in surprise. “Mr. Mason said that?”

  “He did.”

  “Why, Mr. Mason, how could you say a thing like that? I told you particularly when you called there that I had been sleeping all the afternoon; that I knew Robert was acquainted with a Helen Somebody, or had some business transactions with her; but that I didn’t have the least idea who she was. And you could have knocked me down with a feather when I found it was a woman who had an apartment in the same building.”

  “You made that statement to Mr. Mason?” Gulling asked.

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “Did Mr. Mason have witnesses present?”

  “Yes. A flock of people trooped in—people who were working for him. And he told me that he was representing some clients and had to get them out of a murder charge; that if I could help him he’d appreciate it. I told him there wasn’t a thing that I could say or do that would help him. And then he said that if I would say I’d been jealous of Robert it would help, and I told him I couldn’t say that, because I knew that this business with ‘Helen’—whoever she was—was merely a matter of business. And he asked me if I couldn’t change my testimony just a little bit.”

  “He asked you to change your testimony?” Gulling demanded.

  “That’s right,” she said demurely.

  “You want to ask this witness any questions, Mr. Mason?” the foreman asked Mason.

  “Just a moment. Just a moment,” Gulling protested. “That’s irregular.”

  “I don’t care whether it’s irregular or not,” the foreman said. “As far as I’m concerned, Perry Mason is a lawyer, and a good one. He might cut a corner by trying to keep a client out of circulation, but if he says this woman said certain things to him, I don’t think he’s lying. And if he’s got three witnesses to back him up, I want to know more about it. It seems to me the district attorney’s office should show a little more concern over the possibility that this witness, Carlotta Tipton, may b
e the one that’s committing perjury.”

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Mason can’t examine witnesses. It’s irregular and it’s illegal.”

  The foreman said angrily, “Well, I can ask questions, and Mr. Mason can talk to me. Tell me what questions to ask, Mr. Mason.”

  “Ask her what time she went to sleep.”

  Carlotta Tipton replied angrily, “I don’t look at my watch every time I go to sleep. It was right after lunch.”

  “Took her clothes off and went to sleep while Robert Hines was in the apartment?” Mason asked the foreman. “You might inquire about that.”

  “You can’t throw mud at me,” Carlotta exclaimed. “I was fully dressed until after Bob Hines left the apartment.”

  Mason caught the foreman’s eye and tapped his watch significantly.

  “What time was that?” the foreman asked.

  “About five minutes of two.”

  “And when did you see Hines again?”

  “I never saw him again.”

  “You might ask her how long she slept,” Mason said.

  “All afternoon,” Carlotta Tipton snapped back at Mason.

  “This is highly irregular!” Gulling protested helplessly.

  Ignoring him, Mason went on. “You can easily prove that’s a lie. Helen Reedley had the number of the telephone in Miss Tipton’s apartment; Adelle Winters had the phone number of that apartment; and Eva Martell had the number. That apartment was where they were to call Mr. Hines. And that phone was ringing pretty steadily all afternoon—and was answered by Carlotta Tipton.”

  “Of course,” Gulling sneered, “Eva Martell and Adelle Winters would swear to anything to save their necks.”

  “Try Helen Reedley,” Mason invited.

  There was silence.

  Carlotta Tipton broke it to say nervously, “Well, I did wake up long enough to answer the phone once or twice, but I rolled right over and went back to sleep. I didn’t leave that apartment from five minutes to two onward!”

  Gulling said coldly, “This hearing is getting somewhat out of hand. It seems to me that we should conduct it—”

  The foreman said, “I’m not going to let a lawyer be smeared. I don’t know how the other members feel about it, but if Mason has committed any crime I’m going to indict him. If he hasn’t I’m going to exonerate him. And before I do anything I’m going to make mighty certain that he isn’t being framed!”

  Several heads nodded assent.

  “Perry Mason is representing two persons who are guilty of robbery and murder,” Gulling said.

  Mason said, “Why don’t you let the murder case wait until it’s been tried in court, Gulling?”

  “Because I don’t have to. But if this Grand Jury is interested, I can show—”

  “Wait a minute!” Mason interrupted.

  He was on his feet, his eyes level-lidded with concentration, looking over the heads of the grand jurors, staring into space.

  “Well?” the foreman asked after a moment.

  Mason said abruptly, “I have a suggestion to make to this Grand Jury.”

  “What is it?” the foreman asked.

  “Eva Martell and Adelle Winters are being prosecuted for the Hines murder on an information,” said Mason. “I would suggest that while this Grand Jury is in session and has all of the witnesses present, it indict the real murderer.”

  “Who?” Gulling asked sarcastically.

  “The assumption has always been that Robert Hines was murdered between five minutes of two and ten minutes past two, because at eleven minutes past two Adelle Winters left the apartment, carrying with her the gun with which Hines was killed.”

  “Well,” the foreman asked, “what’s wrong with that reasoning?”

  “Everything,” Mason said. “It isn’t any of it true. The gun was found buried under garbage. Adelle Winters certainly didn’t push it down into the garbage; yet no garbage was put in after the gun was deposited there. Just consider what that means.”

  “It doesn’t mean a thing,” Gulling said.

  “Yes, it does,” Mason said sharply. “It means that somebody—somebody not Adelle Winters—pushed that gun way down into the garbage because that somebody recognized the possibility that more garbage might have been deposited since the time when Adelle Winters had been seen looking inside. It means, therefore, that some person must have taken the gun out of the garbage can, used it, and put it back—and in putting it back pushed it well down into the garbage.

  “Furthermore, it means that the person was somebody who knew that Adelle Winters had been seen at that spot. So far as I know, only two persons knew this. One of them is the detective, Tom Folsom; the other is the man who employed the Interstate Investigators to shadow Adelle Winters—Orville Reedley.”

  “Reedley has a perfect alibi for the time when the murder was committed—if that’s what you’re getting at,” Gulling said.

  “The time when you think the murder was committed,” Mason corrected. “The time at which the murder was actually committed was some half-hour later than that. Orville Reedley, sitting in the office of the detective agency, got the report that Adelle Winters had left the apartment, had gone directly to the Lorenzo Hotel, had gone to a garbage can and raised the lid. He was curious to learn whether she had put anything into the garbage can. He left the agency’s office, went at once to the hotel—using the alley entrance so as to be safe from observation—and found she had put a gun in the garbage.

  “He wondered why Adelle Winters had left the apartment and taken pains to hide a gun so promptly. He took the gun and went up to investigate, knowing that both women were then out of the place. Evidently he had a pass-key he’d got hold of for just such a chance.

  “Well, you can see how it looked to Reedley. There was Hines sitting in the bedroom in his shirt sleeves, making himself entirely at home. And remember—Reedley thought that the detectives were following his wife, and that the substituted brunette was the woman with whom he was madly in love. He had a gun in his pocket, and the thought must have suddenly flashed through his mind that, if he pulled the trigger on that gun and eliminated his rival, he had only to go back again to the hotel and push the gun down into the garbage can to make sure that somebody else would pay the penalty for his crime.”

  “Any proof of that wild theory?” Gulling asked.

  “Fingerprints on the under side of the garbage-can cover,” Mason said curtly. “You had your expert develop those prints, but your reasoning was so sloppy that you failed to check them with the witnesses’ prints. You have your fingerprint expert here, and Orville Reedley is outside. I suggest that in just about five minutes you can determine whether you’ve got proof or not.”

  And, moving with calm assurance, Mason walked toward the door. Bowing to the foreman of the Grand Jury, he said, “I guess you gentlemen don’t need me any more.”

  The foreman smiled. “Better wait until we get those fingerprints,” he said.

  21

  PAUL DRAKE and Della Street were sitting in Mason’s private office when the lawyer unlocked the door and entered.

  “Gosh, Perry,” Paul Drake said, “it’s ten o’clock. Did they give you a good sweating?”

  Mason grinned. “They sweated the truth out of me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mason said, “I was darn near asleep at the switch, Paul. It took the jolt of your message about that key to jar me into realizing the truth.”

  “Go on. Shoot.”

  “We were all hypnotized because we had been given an erroneous time factor. Because the murder was committed in the apartment house with a weapon that left that building at eleven minutes past two, we naturally assumed that the murder had been committed before that. And Adelle Winters didn’t help any. She’s a most terrible liar. Whenever the going gets rough she hides from the facts. Because she felt certain the murder had been committed while she was down in the lobby at the apartment house, she told about seeing an empty shell in the gun and sme
lling powder. Actually, she did no such thing, but she wanted to have some good reason which would explain why she ditched the gun and, of course, she felt certain the gun had been fired at that time.”

  “Hadn’t it?”

  “Gosh, no!”

  “It was in the garbage pail after that.”

  “Actually, the revolver made another trip back to the apartment house and then back to the garbage pail.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Orville Reedley. He went to the hotel to see what Adelle Winters had been looking for in the garbage pail. Actually, he assumed she might have dropped something in and wanted to see what it was. He found a gun lying on top of the garbage. He was the only one who knew that the revolver was in the garbage pail. And as it happened, he was smart enough to realize that he could take that gun, go kill the man he wanted out of the way, and have a perfect setup to blame the crime on someone else. Where he slipped up was in leaving the print of his right index finger and his ring finger on the inside of the metal handle on the garbage pail. Once they took his fingerprints and compared them with the developed latents on the garbage pail, there was nothing to it.”

  “How about the wallet that Adelle Winters took—if she did take it?” Della Street asked. “That’s what’s bothering me.”

  “It bothered me too,” Mason admitted, “and it bothered Gulling. The story about that wallet is really good.”

  “What is it?”

  “After Orville Reedley had pulled the trigger, he realized that he might plant a little additional evidence if he could make it appear that the body had been frisked. He knew that someone was going to discover the body; he thought it would be Adelle Winters. When he took the wallet from Hines’s pocket there was only four hundred and fifty dollars in it, and he wasn’t sure that would be considered enough to have tempted somebody to steal the wallet. The person he was laying for all along, of course, was Adelle Winters. He felt certain she’d be back. Understand, he didn’t know why the two women had left the apartment. It was his idea—as you know—that the woman who was occupying the place—the woman whose chaperone Adelle Winters was—was his wife. And it was Adelle Winters that he wanted to involve. So he cast some bread on the waters. He opened his own wallet, extracted thirty-one hundred dollars, pushed the bills into the wallet, then tossed the wallet into the bedroom and closed the door. And Adelle Winters did exactly what he hoped she’d do.”