“At this hour?”
“Yes, evidently the D.A.’s office made arrangements to have the oculist there.”
Mason chuckled and said, “Probably Duncan got to peering at the district attorney through the lower part of his bifocals and holding stuff out at arm’s length to read, and they realized what a rotten impression that would make on the witness stand.”
Drake nodded, said, “That’s all for the present, Perry. I’ll keep feeding you the facts as fast as I learn them.”
Mason had resumed his pacing of the floor by the time Drake reached the corridor door. “A hell of a case,” he said. “The facts dovetail together and yet they don’t mean anything after they’ve been dovetailed. It’s a crazy case any way you want to look at it.”
Chapter 16
Edna Hammer’s fingers twisted the hem of her dress as she nervously crossed her knees and glanced from Della Street to Perry Mason. “What is it?” she asked.
Mason said, “I want you to do something for your uncle. Will you do it?”
“Anything on earth.”
“This may be ticklish.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You might get into trouble, if you get caught.”
She sat for a few moments, then laughed nervously and said, “How about you? Would you get into trouble, if I got caught?”
“Plenty of it.”
“Let’s not get caught, then.”
“That’s damn good philosophy,” he told her.
“What do you want me to do?”
Mason said slowly, “Edna, I want to talk a little law to you, and tell you where I fit into the picture.” She looked puzzled. “A lawyer looks at murders a little differently from the way other people do,” Mason explained. “Murders are just cases to a lawyer. He doesn’t know the people who are killed, he doesn’t know the people who are accused. He’s able to give better service that way. He’s not blinded by sympathies and his mind isn’t clouded by worries.”
She nodded. “Now then,” Mason said, “I want to ask you a few questions, just as the district attorney will ask them of you.”
“What are they?”
“You are familiar with the particular carving knife which was part of the set kept in the top drawer of the sideboard in the dining room of Peter Kent’s house?”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“When did you last see that knife actually in the drawer?”
“I don’t know… I guess it was the time I put it in there after taking it out from under Uncle Peter’s pillow. Do you want me to change my story? If you do, say so.”
“You’ll be asked that question in just about that way,” Mason said, “and the only thing to do is to tell the truth, that the last time you saw the carving knife in that drawer was when you put it in there on the morning of the day of the murder. That was yesterday, the day you consulted me and persuaded your uncle to come in to retain me.”
She nodded. “Now then,” Mason said, “when did you next see that carving knife?”
“Under Uncle’s pillow when you were with me.”
“You are certain it was the same carving knife?” She nodded. “Now then, that illustrates my point,” Mason asserted.
“What do you mean?”
“The district attorney will examine the witnesses just about that way and they are going to answer the questions just about that way. And in doing it, they are going to unwittingly commit perjury.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“You don’t know that the knife you saw under your uncle’s pillow was the one you’d seen in the drawer. You surmised it was, because the knives looked the same and because you looked in the drawer for the knife, couldn’t find it, looked under your uncle’s pillow and found a knife there, which was of the same general appearance as the knife that was missing from the drawer.”
“Then it wasn’t the same knife?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he told her, “but it is up to the district attorney to prove that it was the same knife and that it was the knife with which the murder was committed.”
“Well, then,” she said quickly, “I could say I wasn’t certain it was the same knife.”
“You can,” he said, “but, before you get on the stand, he’ll have called four or five witnesses, including the butler, and asked them, ‘When did you last see the knife in the drawer?’ ‘When did you next see it?’ and ‘Where was it?’ Then, having shown by inference that it was the same knife, he’ll ask the question, casually—’Was it the same knife?’ or ‘You’re certain it was the same knife?’ or something of that sort. Now then,” Mason said, “I can talk with you frankly, but I can’t talk with the butler and the other witnesses because it would look as though I were trying to tamper with the prosecution’s witnesses. Subpoenas have been served on them.”
She gave a little gasp and said, “Come to think of it, that’s just the way they asked the questions of me when they took my statement.”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “What I am trying to do, Edna, is to point out a handicap under which I am working. No one knows that knife is the same. Everyone thinks it’s the same. It’s going to be important from our side of the case. The district attorney will sort of take it for granted that it’s the same knife and all of the witnesses will do the same thing. Then, when I start crossexamining, I’ll be the one who is trying to prove that it is not the same knife, and I won’t have a leg to stand on. Now, what I want to do is to make the district attorney prove that it is the same knife.”
“How are you going to do that?” she asked.
“By putting another knife in that sideboard drawer,” he said, watching her narrowly. “You’ll discover that knife tomorrow morning. Between us, we’ll see that the newspapers find out about this second knife. The district attorney will probably think I planted it. He’ll yell to high heaven that I’m guilty of unprofessional conduct, compounding felonies, tampering with witnesses and all that sort of stuff, but in order to counteract that, he’ll have to start bearing down with his witnesses on the question of identification. In other words, he can’t just make it a casual matter in which everyone will subconsciously take the identity of the knife for granted. You see what I mean, don’t you?”
Edna Hammer nodded. “I think I understand.” Della Street flashed Mason a significant glance. Mason motioned her to silence. Together they watched Edna Hammer adjust her mind to the situation. Suddenly she raised her eyes and said, “Who actually puts this knife in the drawer?”
Mason held her eyes. “You do,” he said slowly.
“I do?”
He nodded. “And who discovers it?” she asked.
“Sergeant Holcomb.”
She frowned and said, “Suppose someone discovers it before Sergeant Holcomb does?”
“That,” he said, “is something we’re going to guard against. You take this knife, put it in the drawer and lock the drawer… I believe you have the only key to that drawer?”
“Yes.”
“You still have it?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll tell Sergeant Holcomb that I’m coming out in the morning at about eight o’clock; that I’ve asked you to let me in, and you ask him if it’s all right for you to do so.”
“And you think he’ll be there?”
Mason laughed grimly and said, “You’re damn right he’ll be there.”
“Will I get into any trouble over this?”
“You will, if you get caught.”
“And you think it will help Uncle Pete?”
“I know it will.”
She got to her feet, smiled and held out her hand. “Shake,” she said.
Mason shook hands with her, nodded to Della Street and said, “Take Edna into the law library.” As he saw the questioning look on Edna Hammer’s face, he said, “I’m making arrangements to get the knife. I don’t care particularly about having you know where it’s coming from, because what you don’t know you won
’t have to lie about. You’ll wait in the law library. Della Street will give you some magazines to read. When we’re ready, we’ll let you know.”
“When do I telephone Sergeant Holcomb?” she asked.
“As soon as you get the knife planted in the drawer and the drawer locked.”
“That will be rather late, won’t it?”
“Yes. But you can tell him I just called you and that you are to call me back to let me know. Don’t worry about disturbing Holcomb. He’ll be so tickled to think he’s going to block me from doing whatever I have in mind that he’ll fall on your neck and weep.”
Edna Hammer’s chin was tilted upward, her eyes steady. “I’ll do it,” she said.
Della Street escorted her into the library, returned after a few moments to find Mason once more pacing the floor. “Worried?” Mason asked her.
She grinned and said, “Nope. Go ahead and carry the ball, Chief. I’ll run interference.”
“Not worried about the tacklers?” he asked.
“Not a damn bit,” she told him; “the goal post’s ahead. On to a touchdown. Perhaps I can draw on my highschool days for a little encouragement… How did it go?… Oh, yes: ‘Strawberry shortcake, blackberry pie… Victory… Are we in it? Well I guess… Mason’s Law Shop, Yes! Yes! Yes!’“ She laughed up into his face, the carefree laugh of a woman who is sallying forth in life to encounter adventure side by side with a man to whom she has given her loyalty.
“Atta girl,” Mason said; “there’s another one. How does it go?… Oh, yes: ‘Hickety hiff haff—rickety riff raff—Give ‘em the horse laugh—haw, haw!”
He had barely finished when a knock sounded on the corridor door. Mason nodded to Della Street. She opened the door, and admitted Helen Warrington and Bob Peasley. Mason motioned them to seats. “Get it?” he asked Helen Warrington.
“Bob wants to know something about what you have in mind.”
“Just an experiment,” Mason said. “I want a knife that’s the duplicate of the one the prosecution claims was taken from the sideboard by Peter Kent.”
“What do you want it for?” Peasley asked.
“An experiment.”
“Can’t you tell me more than that?”
“No.”
Peasley hesitated for a moment, then slowly, almost reluctantly, produced a roll of brown paper, opened it and disclosed a black, hornhandled carving knife. Carefully taking a handkerchief from his pocket so that he would leave no fingerprints on the handle, he crossed to Perry Mason’s desk and deposited the knife on the desk. “That’s it,” he said.
“It looks like a dead ringer,” Mason said, inspecting it carefully.
“It’s exactly the same knife.”
Perry Mason turned it over slowly in his fingers. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.
“I happen to know something about carving sets. I sell them. When I knew the identity of the carving knife was going to enter into the case and that Helen might be called as a witness, I noted the manufacturer’s stock number, which was stamped in the shaft of the fork and looked it up.”
“And ordered a duplicate set?” Mason asked, arching his eyebrows.
“No,” Peasley said, “I had several in stock. You see, I sold the carving set to Kent.”
“How long ago?”
“Two or three months ago. Kent didn’t like the carving set he had and Helen was kind enough to say that I could get him one that would be guaranteed to give satisfaction.”
“I see,” Mason said, “thank you very much. I feel that Mr. Kent is indebted to both of you, and when the time comes, I shall see that he is advised of your cooperation.” Mason stood up, signifying that the interview was at an end.
Helen Warrington said, “You’re certain Bob won’t get into any trouble over this?”
Mason laughed and said, “Trouble is a relative word. It doesn’t mean much.”
Peasley said, “Frankly, Mr. Mason, I’m not certain that I am too keen about this.”
Mason patted him on the shoulder and gently escorted him toward the door and away from the carving knife which lay on the desk. “Forget it,” he said. “As a customer, I have a right to come into your store and buy a carving knife.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, that’s all I’m doing now.”
“No,” Peasley said, “you’re not in my store.”
“If you’d prefer to go down to the store and open it up, I’ll come in there and make the purchase,” Mason said, laughing, but holding the door open for them. Reluctantly, Peasley moved out into the corridor. “Good night,” Mason said, “and thank you again, both of you.” He pushed the door shut and the spring lock clicked into position.
Della Street was leaning over the desk staring down at the knife. “What next?” she asked.
“A lemon,” Mason said, “in that upper lefthand drawer of the desk, and we’ll cut the lemon with the knife and let the blade stand with the lemon juice on it long enough to take some of the newness off, then we’ll be very, very careful to wipe all fingerprints off of the knife. Then we’ll give it to Edna Hammer. She’ll be equally careful to leave none of her fingerprints on the knife.”
“Just as soon as that knife is discovered, Sergeant Holcomb will try to discover latent fingerprints on it,” she said.
“Absolutely,” Mason agreed.
“And he won’t find any.”
“Of course not.”
“Won’t that make him suspicious?”
“Why?”
“Because a carving knife should have some fingerprints on the handle.”
Mason made a little bow and said, “Now, my dear young lady, you commence to appreciate something of the position in which the district attorney will find himself.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Mason said, “Bear in mind that there were no legible prints on the handle of the knife which was discovered under Peter Kent’s pillow.”
She started to say something when the steady ringing of the telephone bell filled the room with sharply insistent sound. “What line’s that phone connected on?” Mason asked.
“The trunk line. While I was in here, I wanted to be sure we caught any incoming calls.”
“Answer it,” he said.
She picked up the telephone, said, “Hello,” listened for a minute and then said, “Mr. Mason is here now. I’ll tell him.” She held her hand cupped over the mouthpiece of the telephone. “It’s a man from the jail,” she said. “He says that Peter Kent has just had some papers served on him and he’s very anxious to see you at once.”
Mason nodded. “Tell him I’ll come right down.”
Placing the carving knife on the desk so that the sharp edge was uppermost, Mason said to Della Street, “Bring in Edna Hammer and let’s explain this thing to her before I start for the jail.”
Della stepped to the door of the law library. While Perry Mason was carefully polishing all fingerprints from the handle of the knife with his handkerchief, Edna Hammer entered the room. “Why,” she exclaimed, looking at the knife on the desk, “that is the same knife.”
“Well,” Mason told her, “there doesn’t seem to be any identifying mark on either of the knives.”
“What do you want me to do with this?”
He wiped off the blade on his handkerchief, inspected it critically, and rolled it up in the brown paper which had covered it when Peasley had brought it in. “Be careful not to leave any fingerprints on it,” he said. “Put it in the sideboard drawer. Telephone Sergeant Holcomb and tell him that I’m going to be there at eight o’clock in the morning. And, remember, my dear, I am going to be there at eight o’clock in the morning, and I want you to let me in.
“And I’m to lock the drawer?”
“Yes. Don’t let anyone know it’s in the drawer, lock the drawer and keep it locked.” As she reached for the paper parcel, he said, quite casually, “Why did you think your uncle was going to kill you, Edna?”
; She recoiled as though he had struck at her. “What are you talking about?”
Mason took a quick step toward her. “You know what I’m talking about, Edna. You knew your uncle was walking in his sleep more than thirty days ago. You thought he was going to kill you.”
“That’s not so! That’s false!”
“Then why,” he demanded, “did you put that spring lock on the door of your bedroom?” She gave a little gasp, stared at him with frightened eyes. “Go on,” he said, “tell me the truth.”
“I… I…”
“You had a good enough lock on that bedroom door,” he said, “but you were afraid your uncle had a key to it and you wanted a lock that he didn’t have a key to, so you got a locksmith to install one of the most expensive locks money could buy, and you held the only key to it. Is that right?”
“No… that is… no.”
“Then why did you put that lock on your door?” She stepped back away from him, dropped into a chair and started to cry. Mason said, “Go on, cry all you want to. When you’ve stopped crying, answer my question.”
She raised eyes that were swimming with tears. “Why do you want to know about that lock?” she asked.
“Because,” he said, “that’s just the way the district attorney was planning to surprise you. He was going to jab his finger at you on the witness stand and make you act in front of a jury just the same way you’re acting here. You can see what that would do to your uncle’s case. It would make a jury think your uncle was a murderer at heart. Even if they thought he’d been sleepwalking, they’d convict him anyway.”
“But—but that isn’t the reason.”
Mason stared steadily at her. “All right, then, what’s the reason?”
“Jerry and I were married secretly a month ago,” she said, eyes lowered.
Mason heaved a sigh. “Thank God for small favors,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I was afraid you’d put that lock on because you’d known your uncle was walking around the house and were afraid of him.”
“No. Honestly, Mr. Mason, that had nothing to do with it.”
“Why didn’t you announce your marriage?”
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