“I was afraid of that,” Della Street said. “Why did you have to call up? Why couldn’t you have stayed up there fishing? Why did you have to get your name in the papers?”
Mason laughed and hung up.
Paul Drake, of the Drake Detective Agency, came in and sat in the big chair in Mason’s office and said, “You have a bear by the tail, Perry.”
“What’s the matter, Paul? Didn’t your detective work in Jebson City pan out?”
“It panned out all right, but the stuff in the pan isn’t what you want, Perry,” Drake explained.
“How come?”
“Your client’s guilty.”
“Go on,” Mason said.
“The money he gave his wife was some of what was stolen from the vault.”
“How do they know it was the stolen money?” Mason asked.
Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Here’s the whole picture. The plant manager runs Jebson City. There isn’t any private property. The Jebson company controls everything.”
“Not a single small business?”
Drake shook his head. “Not unless you want to consider garbage collecting as small business. An old coot by the name of George Addey lives five miles down the canyon; he has a hog ranch and collects the garbage. He’s supposed to have the first nickel he ever earned. Buries his money in cans. There’s no bank nearer than Ivanhoe City.”
“What about the burglary? The men who did it must have moved in acetylene tanks and—”
“They took them right out of the company store,” Drake said. And then he went on: “Munson, the watchman, likes to take a pull out of a flask of whiskey along about midnight. He says it keeps him awake. Of course, he’s not supposed to do it, and no one was supposed to know about the whiskey, but someone did know about it. They doped the whiskey with a barbiturate. The watchman took his usual swig, went to sleep, and stayed asleep.”
“What’s the evidence against Corbin?” Mason asked.
“Corbin had a previous burglary record. It’s a policy of the company not to hire anyone with a criminal record. Corbin lied about his past and got a job. Frank Bernal, the manager, found out about it, sent for Corbin about eight o’clock the night the burglary took place, and ordered him out of town. Bernal agreed to let Corbin’s wife and child stay on in the house until Corbin could get located in another city.
“Corbin pulled out in the morning and gave his wife this money. It was part of the money from the burglary.”
“How do they know?” Mason asked.
“Now there’s something I don’t know,” Drake said. “This fellow Bernal is pretty smart, and the story is that he can prove Corbin’s money was from the vault.”
“The nearest bank is at Ivanhoe City, and the mine pays off in cash twice a month. Ralph Nesbitt, the cashier, wanted to install a new vault. Bernal refused to okay the expense. So the company has ordered both Bernal and Nesbitt back to its main office at Chicago to report. The rumor is that they may fire Bernal as manager and give Nesbitt the job. A couple of the directors don’t like Bernal, and this thing has given them their chance. They dug out a report Nesbitt had made showing the vault was a pushover. Bernal didn’t act on that report.” He sighed and then asked, “When’s the trial, Perry?”
“The preliminary hearing is set for Friday morning. I’ll see then what they’ve got against Corbin.”
“They’re laying for you up there,” Paul Drake warned. “Better watch out, Perry. That district attorney has something up his sleeve, some sort of surprise that’s going to knock you for a loop.”
In spite of his long experience as a prosecutor, Vernon Flasher, the district attorney of Ivanhoe County, showed a certain nervousness at being called upon to oppose Perry Mason. There was, however, a secret assurance underneath that nervousness.
Judge Haswell, realizing that the eyes of the community were upon him, adhered to legal technicalities to the point of being pompous both in rulings and mannerisms.
But what irritated Perry Mason was the attitude of the spectators. He sensed that they did not regard him as an attorney trying to safeguard the interests of a client, but as a legal magician with a cloven hoof. The looting of the vault had shocked the community, and there was a tight-lipped determination that no legal tricks were going to do Mason any good this time.
Vernon Flasher didn’t try to save his surprise evidence for a whirlwind finish. He used it right at the start of the case.
Frank Bernal, called as a witness, described the location of the vault, identified photographs, and then leaned back as the district attorney said abruptly, “You had reason to believe this vault was obsolete?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It had been pointed out to you by one of your fellow employees, Mr. Ralph Nesbitt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what did you do about it?”
“Are you,” Mason asked in some surprise, “trying to cross-examine your own witness?”
“Just let him answer the question, and you’ll see,” Flasher replied grimly.
“Go right ahead and answer,” Mason said to the witness.
Bernal assumed a more comfortable position. “I did three things,” he said, “to safeguard the payrolls and to avoid the expense of tearing out the old vault and installing a new vault in its place.”
“What were those three things?”
“I employed a special night watchman, I installed the best burglar alarm money could buy, and I made arrangements with the Ivanhoe National Bank, where we have our payrolls made up, to list the number of each twenty-dollar bill which was a part of each payroll.”
Mason suddenly sat up straight.
Flasher gave him a glance of gloating triumph. “Do you wish the court to understand, Mr. Bernal,” he said smugly, “that you have the numbers of the bills in the payroll which was made up for delivery on the fifteenth?”
“Yes, sir. Not all the bills, you understand. That would have taken too much time. But I have the numbers of all he twenty-dollar bills.”
“And who recorded those numbers?” the prosecutor asked.
“The bank.”
“And do you have that list of numbers with you?”
“I do. Yes, sir.” Bernal produced a list. “I felt,” he said, glancing coldly at Nesbitt, “that these precautions would be cheaper than a new vault.”
“I move the list be introduced in evidence,” Flasher said.
“Just a moment,” Mason objected. “I have a couple of questions. You say this list is not in your handwriting, Mr. Bernal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whose handwriting is it, do you know?” Mason asked.
“The assistant cashier of the Ivanhoe National Bank.”
“Oh, all right,” Flasher said. “We’ll do it the hard way, if we have to. Stand down, Mr. Bernal, and I’ll call the assistant cashier.”
Harry Reedy, assistant cashier of the Ivanhoe Bank, had the mechanical assurance of an adding machine. He identified the list of numbers as being in his handwriting. He stated that he had listed the numbers of the twenty-dollar bills and put that list in an envelope which had been sealed and sent up with the money for the payroll.
“Cross-examine,” Flasher said.
Mason studied the list. “These numbers are all in your handwriting?” he asked Reedy.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you yourself compare the numbers you wrote down with the numbers on the twenty-dollar bills?”
“No, sir. I didn’t personally do that. Two assistants did that. One checked the numbers as they were read off, one as I wrote them down.”
“The payrolls are for approximately a hundred thousand dollars, twice each month?”
“That’s right. And ever since Mr. Bernal took charge, we have taken this means to identify payrolls. No attempt is made to list the bills in numerical order. The serial numbers are simply read off and written down. Unless a robbery occurs, there is no need to do anything further. In the event of a robbery, we can reclassify the numbers and list the bills in numerical order.”