The transfer man nodded, walked back to the light transfer wagon at the curb, and started unpiling bags, suitcases and steamer trunks.
“How you going to get all that stuff into the one apartment?” the clerk asked.
“I d’know,” the transfer man admitted. “I’ll do it some way. Pile ’em in the center of the floor if I can’t do nothing else. She said to get ’em in, and I’ll get ’em in.”
The colored elevator boy approached the desk. “Boss, yo’-all remembah that the police officer man said you was to telephone him if anybody tried to get in that apartment.”
“No one’s trying to get in,” the clerk said. “The man’s simply delivering some baggage. However, I’ll notify Sergeant Holcomb.”
He plugged in a line, called police headquarters and asked for Sergeant Holcomb of the homicide squad. While he waited, the transfer man and the elevator boy moved baggage up to Rita Swaine’s apartment.
After a few moments Sergeant Holcomb’s voice said, “Hello. What is it?”
“This is the desk clerk at 1388 Chestnut Street. You’ll remember Miss Rita Swaine has an apartment here under lease, and you asked me to let you know if anyone tried to move anything out. Well, no one’s trying to take anything out, but some baggage is being delivered — that is, Miss Swaine has given orders to place Miss Street’s baggage in her apartment. The transfer man’s brought quite a few suitcases, trunks and— Just a minute, I’ll look— Yes, that’s right, it’s Della Street— What? — Well, I’ll be damned!”
The clerk pulled out the plug and set his face in stem lines of officious determination.
Della Street, tailored to the minute, as serenely confident as a poker player pushing a stack of blue chips into the center of the pile, came breezing in from the street door walked up to the desk and said, “I’m Miss Street. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“You’re the one who sent the baggage for Miss Swaine’s apartment?” the clerk asked.
“That’s right. But this baggage shouldn’t have gone up there at all. This is the ‘D.M.’ baggage. It should have been delivered to the Trader’s Transfer Company for storage. Where’s the transfer man, please?”
“He’s upstairs now.”
“Yes. I saw the truck out in front,” Della Street said, as she dazzled the clerk with a smile, walked over to the elevator and jabbed the elevator button.
The elevator took her to the fourth floor. The desk clerk, hesitating for a moment, once more plugged in the line and said, “Police Headquarters.” Again he asked to talk with Sergeant Holcomb, and, after a two minute delay, was advised that Holcomb had just left.
The clerk was pulling out the plug when the elevator door once more opened, an a perspiring transfer man started pitching out suitcases, hat boxes, trunks, and hand bags. The elevator made two trips of it. Della Street came down with the second load, trim, alert, and smiling. She said to the desk clerk, “Thank you very much indeed,” and walked to the door of the apartment house. The eyes of the desk clerk followed her with ardent masculine appreciation.
Less than five minutes later, Sergeant Holcomb came striding into the lobby. “Where is she?” he asked.
The clerk waved a deprecating hand. “It’s all right, Sergeant. I’m sorry I bothered you. I tried to get you again. It was all a mistake, but it’s all right now.”
“What the hell do you mean, it’s all right now?”
“She’s left.”
“Who’s left?”
“Della Street.”
“She was here?”
“Yes.”
“How about the baggage? Did you put that in the room?”
“No. She changed her mind, said that there’d been a mistake. So there’s nothing to bother about. She took it with her.”
“She what!”
“Took it with her.”
“You opened up the room with a passkey?”
“I didn’t personally. The elevator operator did.”
“And put that baggage in?”
“No,” the clerk said, “that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Sergeant. The baggage didn’t go in. It was a mistake. As soon as I saw Miss Street, I realized it must have been—”
“Never mind that,” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted, pushing his face across the counter. “Did that baggage go in that room — even for a second?”
“Oh, well, if you want to put it that way, I don’t know. I suppose some of it may have actually entered the room for a second or two. I wasn’t there.
“Was Della Street alone in the room with any of that baggage?”
“Why, I wouldn’t know — wait a minute, let me see— Yes, she must have been, because the first load of baggage came down with the operator and the transfer man in the cage. They unloaded that bunch of baggage and went back for another bunch. Miss Street must have been in the room with—”
“You fool!” Holcomb yelled. “She’s Perry Mason’s secretary. Perry Mason’s defending Rita Swaine. They wanted something out of that room and didn’t know how else to get it, so she took that baggage in, manipulated things so she was left alone in the room, opened one of the empty suitcases, pitched whatever it was she wanted in there, and took it out.”
The clerk stared at Sergeant Holcomb with shocked, incredulous eyes. At length he said, “Why, Sergeant, she’s a perfect little lady, trim, well-tailored, refined—”
“Bah!” Sergeant Holcomb said. “You make me sick. Why the hell didn’t you hold her?”
“Hold her? How could I?”
“Tell her she was under arrest. Hold her until I got there.”
“But you told me particularly, Sergeant, not to tell anyone you were coming.”
Sergeant Holcomb’s face darkened, as he groped for words. Suddenly the clerk had a bright idea.
“But wait a minute, Sergeant. I can tell you where she’s taking the baggage. If you hurry, you can catch it there.”
“Where?”
“The Traders’s Transfer Company. They’re going to store it.”
“What does it look like?”
“Well, it’s a very good grade of baggage, looks rather new. Very fine leather and—”
“What does it consist of?”
“Oh, everything. Hat boxes, hand bags, Gladstones, suitcases, steamer trunks—”
“Any identifying marks?”
“Yes. They’re all lettered ‘D.M.’ ”
“ ‘D.M.’?”
“Yes.”
“Her name’s Della Street. Why should she have D.M. on her baggage?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m just describing the baggage to you. She said something about the D.M. baggage being the wrong baggage. If you want to examine it, you can probably intercept it if—”
Sergeant Holcomb whirled and crossed the lobby at a run. A moment later the clerk heard the scream of a siren.
Emil Scanlon looked across the coroner’s jury and said, “You gentlemen have seen the remains.”
They nodded.
“The object of this inquest is to determine how that man met his death,” Scanlon said. “It may have been an accidental death, or it may have been something else. There’s even a possibility of suicide. I want you gentlemen to pay close attention to the evidence. This isn’t like a court of law. I conduct my inquests more or less informally. What I’m trying to do is to get at the facts. Some coroners don’t care to have attorneys asking questions. Sometimes I don’t. But, in a case of this sort, where I feel attorneys aren’t getting technical and taking up time, but are actually assisting us in getting somewhere, I’m always glad to allow questions. I think you gentlemen understand your duties. We’ll call the first witness.”