Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece

“But perhaps Maddox put in the call without waking Duncan up.”

“About one chance in ten million,” Mason said, “but just the same, we’ve got to plug up that loophole before the case comes to trial. And I want to find out what she meant by telling him his lawyer had already arranged a conference. This is where your men get busy, Paul. Get on the job and keep me posted.”

Drake crossed to the exit door, the casual indolence gone from his manner, his long legs covering the distance to the door in three swift strides.

Perry Mason was studying the pleadings in the case of Doris Sully Kent versus Peter B. Kent when Della Street slipped in from the outer office and said, “Edna Hammer’s out there. She’s so nervous I don’t think you should keep her waiting. She’s crying and half hysterical.”

Mason frowned and said, “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know, unless it’s the strain of having her uncle arrested.”

“No,” Mason said, slowly, “she knew this morning that they’d arrest him; but she was standing up to it like a little soldier.”

“Better keep your eye on that woman,” Della Street cautioned. “Tell her to quit carrying the world on her shoulders and let someone else do the worrying. She’s emotional and if she doesn’t watch out, she’s going to have a breakdown and then heaven knows what she’ll do.”

Mason nodded, said, “Send her in, Della, and stick around.”

Della Street picked up the telephone. “Send Miss Hammer in,” she said into the transmitter, and, as the door opened and Edna Hammer’s strained features twisted into a perfunctory smile, Della went forward, and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

Edna Hammer closed the door behind her, let Della Street guide her to the big overstuffed chair, sank into it and said, “Something awful’s happened.”

Mason said, “What is it?”

“Jerry walked into a trap.”

“What sort of a trap?”

“A police trap.”

“What happened?”

“He said the most awful thing without realizing what he was saying, and now he’s going to have to skip out to keep from being a witness against Uncle.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the carving knife wasn’t in the sideboard when he went to get a corkscrew a half hour or so before he left for Santa Barbara.”

Mason jumped to his feet. “Is Harris sure?” he asked.

“He says he is.”

“And he’s given that statement to the district attorney?”

“Yes.

Della Street, frowning thoughtfully, said, “Is that so awfully important, Chief?”

He nodded. “That’s the one thing on which the entire case will hinge. Don’t you see, if Kent had planned a deliberate murder, but wanted it to appear he was walking in his sleep, and particularly if he had any idea Edna was trying to protect him by keeping the sideboard locked, he’d naturally have taken out the knife before he went to sleep. In order to establish a case of sleepwalking, we must prove that he got up in his sleep, possessed himself of the deadly weapon while he was asleep, and committed the homicide without having the faintest conscious knowledge of what he was doing, and without forming any conscious intent.”

“Perhaps,” Della Street said, “Harris is mistaken.”

Mason shook his head gloomily. “No,” he said, “that’s the one thing in the case that stands out like a sore thumb, now that I stop to think of it. He can’t be mistaken. You see, Edna had the only key to that sideboard. I was with her when she locked the drawer. We, both of us, took it for granted the knife was in there. We didn’t open the drawer to find out. In the morning the drawer was still locked. The butler came to Edna to help him find the key. She pulled a little hocuspocus, produced it, and pretended it had been on the top of the sideboard all the time.”

Edna Hammer sobbed into her handkerchief. Della, seated on the arm of the big chair, patted her shoulder. “Save it,” she soothed. “Tears won’t help.”

Mason started pacing the floor. After several minutes, Della Street succeeded in calming the half hysterical girl, but Mason still continued the regular rhythm of his pacing steps. At length Edna Hammer volunteered a statement. “I’m fixing it up the best I can,” she said. “Jerry’s taking a plane. He hasn’t been subpoenaed yet. He’s going where they can’t find him. Tell me, will it be all right to do that?”

Mason, his eyes narrowed, asked, “Has he given a statement?”

“He made a statement, yes.”

“Did he sign it?”

“No, I don’t think so. It was taken down in shorthand. Now then, before he’s subpoenaed, can’t he leave town, go to some foreign country?”

Mason said, “It’s going to look like hell, so far as public sentiment is concerned. The district attorney’s office will play it up big in the newspapers. They’ll intimate he’s been spirited away to avoid testifying. Where is he now?”

“In his car, waiting down at the parking station across from your office. He has his bag packed and his reservation made on a plane for Mexico City. Then he’ll go from there to…”

There was a commotion at the outer door, a woman’s voice half screaming, “You’ll have to be announced,” then a man’s voice exclaiming irritably, “Beat it.”

The door burst open. Jerry Harris, his face grim, strode unceremoniously into the office, holding an oblong paper in his hand.

“By God,” he said, “they got me—caught me like a damned fool, sitting right in my own car in the parking station in front of your office!”

“Caught you with what?” Mason asked.

“Caught me with a subpoena to appear and testify before the Grand Jury tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

Mason spread out his hands and said, “Well, the district attorney stole a march on us. Hamilton Burger’s nobody’s fool.”

“But,” Edna asked, “can’t he still leave? The plane leaves tonight and…”

“And they’re undoubtedly keeping him under surveillance,” Mason said. “They saw him come up to this office after the subpoena had been served. If he leaves the country now, they’ll have me on the carpet before the grievance committee of the Bar Association. It was a poor idea in the first place. No, we’ve got to take this thing right on the chin. Sit down, Harris, and tell me about it.”

“I’m frightfully sorry,” Harris said lamely. “Thinking it over, I’m wondering if there’s any chance I could claim I was mistaken. Of course, at first it didn’t seem important and I was positive in my statement to the deputy district attorney and…”

“You don’t stand one chance in ten million,” Mason retorted. “They could almost establish the point without your testimony because Edna locked the drawer and kept the key. It’s a cinch the carving knife couldn’t have been in there.”

“But they don’t know I locked the drawer,” Edna said. “I’ll swear I didn’t. I’ll…”

“You’ll tell the truth,” Mason said. “Any time I have to depend on perjured evidence to acquit a client, I’ll quit trying cases. If he’s innocent, we’ll get him off.”

The telephone rang. Della Street picked up the receiver, then handed it to Mason. “Paul Drake calling and says it’s ‘important as hell.’“

Mason placed the receiver to his ear. Drake’s voice, for once showing enough excitement to overcome his habitual drawl, said, “You wanted to know where Doris Sully Kent went while she was in Los Angeles. My men have been telephoning in reports. Right at present I’m advised that her green Packard roadster is in a parking space across the street and that she’s headed across for your office. I thought you might want a minute or two to put your house in order.”