Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece

The airplane, which had swept into a landing, taxied up to a stop. Mason, watching the people disembarking from it, said, “Okay, Kent, I believe you. I’m going to see you through. If you’ve told me the truth, go ahead and tell your story to the officers. If you built this sleepwalking business up, as your wife claims you did in her case, to give you a chance to murder someone you wanted out of the way, say so now.”

“No, no, I’m telling you the truth.”

Mason raised his hand and called out, “Over this way, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Holcomb, flexing his muscles, after emerging from the plane, started at the sound of Mason’s voice, then, with Deputy District Attorney Blaine, at his side, came striding toward Mason and Kent. “What is it?” Kent asked in an apprehensive half whisper.

“Stick to your guns,” Mason cautioned. “Tell your story to the officers and to the newspapers. We want all the publicity we can get…”

Sergeant Holcomb said belligerently to Perry Mason, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Mason, with an urbane smile and a gesture of his hand said, “Sergeant Holcomb, permit me to present Mr. Peter B. Kent.”

Perry Mason paced the floor of his office, listening to Paul Drake’s drawling voice as it droned out a succession of facts. “… Sleepwalking looks like your only defense. There weren’t any fingerprints on the handle of the knife, but Duncan now swears it was Kent he saw walking around in the moonlight. Duncan’s hostile as hell. Don’t ever kid yourself that that old windbag won’t do you all the damage he can. I understand that when he first told his story he said he saw a ‘figure’ sleepwalking. Now he says he knows it was Kent, and the only thing that made him think it was a case of sleepwalking was that Kent wore a long, white nightgown. He…”

Mason whirled to face Drake. “That nightgown sounds fishy,” he said, “doesn’t Kent wear pajamas?”

Drake shook his head. “Nothing doing, Perry. I thought we could bust Duncan’s story with that nightgown business but there’s no chance. Kent wears one of those oldfashioned nightgowns.”

“I presume the district attorney’s office grabbed it as evidence.”

“Sure, they have the nightgown that was found on the foot of Kent’s bed, presumably the one he wore.”

“Any blood stains on it?”

“I can’t find out, but I don’t think so.”

“Wouldn’t there have been?”

“The theory of the Prosecution is that since the knife was plunged through the bedclothes, the blankets prevented any blood spurting up on the hands of the murderer or on his clothing.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Mason said, “reasonable enough to convince a jury, anyway. What time was the murder committed?”

“That’s a question. For some reason or other, the district attorney’s office is trying to make it a big question, claiming that it’s hard to fix the time exactly. They’ve told the newspaper reporters it was sometime between midnight and four o’clock in the morning. But they’ve been questioning servants to see if they saw or heard anything around three o’clock.”

Mason, standing with his feet planted apart, head thrust forward, scowlingly digested that bit of information. “They’re doing that,” he said, “to pave the way for Duncan to change his story. I’ll bet you twenty bucks that they can fix the time of the murder within an hour, one way or the other, but Duncan said he saw Kent carrying the knife across the patio at quarter past twelve… Paul, did that clock in Duncan’s room have a luminous dial?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“Because, if it did,” Mason said, “they’re keeping the time indefinite until they can convince Duncan that it was three o’clock instead of quarter past twelve. A man with poor eyesight, looking at a luminous dial, could easily confuse the two times.”

Della Street, looking up from her notebook, said, “Do you think Duncan would do that?”

“Sure he would. They’ll hand him a smooth line, saying, ‘Now, Mr. Duncan, you’re a lawyer. It wouldn’t look well for you to be trapped on crossexamination. The physical facts show the murder must have been committed at three o’clock. Now, isn’t it reasonable to suppose that it was the small hand you saw pointing at the figure three on the dial of that clock instead of the large hand? Of course, we don’t want you to testify to anything that isn’t so, but we wouldn’t like to see you made to appear ridiculous on the witness stand.’ And Duncan will fall for that line, go home, think it over and hypnotize himself into believing that he remembers distinctly that the time was three o’clock, instead of quarter past twelve. Men like Duncan, prejudiced, opinionated and egotistical, are the most dangerous perjurers in the world because they won’t admit, even to themselves, that they’re committing perjury. They’re so opinionated all of their reactions are colored by their prejudices. They can’t be impartial observers on anything.”

“Can’t you trap him in some way,” Della Street asked, “so the jury will see what kind of man he is?”

He grinned at her and said, “We can try. But it’s going to take a lot of trapping, and in some quarters it might not be considered ethical.”

“Well,” Della Street said, “I don’t think it’s ethical to let a client get hung because some pompous old walrus is lying.”

Drake said, “Don’t worry about Perry, Della. He’ll work out some scheme before the case is over that’ll get him disbarred, if it doesn’t work, and make him a hero, if it does. No client of Perry Mason’s was ever convicted on perjured evidence yet.”

“You’re trailing Duncan?” Mason asked.

“Yes. We’re putting shadows on every one who leaves the house, and I’m getting reports telephoned in at fifteen minute intervals.”

Mason nodded thoughtfully and said, “I particularly want to know when he goes to an oculist.”

“Why the oculist?” Drake asked.

“I’ve noticed he keeps looking through the bottom of his glasses,” Mason said. “They’re bifocals. Evidently they don’t fit him. A lot’s going to depend on his eyesight. The D.A. will want him to make a good impression. Right now he can’t read anything unless he looks through the lower part of his glasses and holds it at arm’s length. That won’t look good on the witness stand when a man’s testifying about something he saw in the moonlight at three o’clock in the morning.”

“But he didn’t sleep with his glasses on,” Della Street objected.

“You’ll think he slept with binoculars on by the time he gives his testimony,” Mason remarked grimly. “The district attorney’s a pretty decent chap, but some of these deputies are out to make records for themselves. They’ll give Duncan a hint about what they’re trying to prove, and Duncan will do the rest. How about Jackson; is he back?”

She nodded, and said, “Harris overheard a telephone conversation between Doris Sully Kent and Maddox. I think you’ll want Paul to hear what Jackson has to say about that conversation.”

“Show Jackson in,” Mason said.

She paused in the doorway long enough to say, “Do you think it’s on the level—Kent’s plane having motor trouble?”

“Yes, I talked with the pilot. It was just one of those things. He made a forced landing in the desert. It didn’t take so long to fix the ignition trouble, but he had to clear off a runway by grubbing out a lot of greasewood. It was just one of those things that happen once in a million times.”

“Then Kent isn’t married.”

“No.”

“That means Lucille Mays can be a witness against him?”

“She doesn’t know anything anyway. Bring Jackson in.”