Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece

He turned to his secretary. “Della,” he said, “you and I are going to make a buildup.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

Mason grinned at her and said, “I’ll tell you after Paul Drake leaves.”

“That bad?” Drake asked, slowly sliding his body over the smooth arm of the big leather chair until his feet touched the floor. He stretched his long legs, reached the corridor door, opened it.

“Wait a minute,” Mason called after him. “There’s one thing you can do. I want to talk with Helen Warrington. Do you suppose you could get her in here right away?”

“Sure, I’ve got men trailing everyone in the case.”

“That chap she’s engaged to—Bob Peasley—runs a hardware store, doesn’t he?”

“I think so, yes. Why?”

“Never mind why,” Mason said. “Rush Helen Warrington up here.”

“And that’s all I’m to know?” Drake asked.

Mason nodded, “The less you know of what’s going to happen, Paul, the less your conscience will bother you.”

Drake drawled, “Hell, if I had a conscience you wouldn’t even speak to me, let alone employ me.” And, still grinning, he slowly pulled the door shut behind him.

Helen Warrington sat in the overstuffed black leather chair directly opposite from Mason and looked frightened. It was the hour when there was a lull in traffic. The office workers had gone home. The tide of theatergoers and pleasurehunters had not yet commenced to swell the downtown streets. The creamcolored, indirect lighting fixture in the center of the room shed a mellow light which showed her to advantage—a tall, straightlimbed brunette with large, dark eyes, midnight hair and very red lips. Her blackgloved hands nervously smoothed her dress over her crossed knees. “The question,” Mason said, “is whether you’re willing to do something for Kent.”

“Of course I’m willing to.”

Mason, staring steadily at her, said, “You’re nervous.”

She laughed, and the laughter caught in her throat. “Yes, I’m nervous,” she admitted. “Who wouldn’t be! A man tapped me on the shoulder, said he was a detective and that you wanted to see me right away. Before I had a chance to get my thoughts together, he bundled me into a car and brought me here.”

“You’re engaged to Bob Peasley?” Mason asked.

For a moment there was defiance in the dark eyes. “Does that enter into the situation?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Very well, then, I’m engaged to him.”

“Why haven’t you married him?”

“I prefer not to discuss that.”

“I thought you wanted to help Mr. Kent.”

“I don’t see how it’s going to help Mr. Kent to have you prying into my private affairs.”

“I’m afraid,” Mason told her, “you’ll have to take my word for that.”

“We haven’t married because of financial reasons.”

“He has a hardware store, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Business poor?”

“He’s overstocked with obsolete merchandise. He picked up a place at a receiver’s sale. It’ll take him months to get the old stuff turned into money—if it’s any of your business.”

“Take it easy, sister,” Mason told her, drumming with his fingertips on the edge of his desk. She said nothing, but her eyes showed indignation. “You’re living in Kent’s house?”

“Yes, of course; what’s that got to do with it?”

“Any detectives there now?”

“No, they made photographs, diagrams, and took measurements. They were there nearly all the afternoon.”

“As your accepted suitor, there wouldn’t be anything unusual in Peasley coming to call on you?”

“Certainly not.”

Mason said, “Perhaps I’d better give you my theory of this case: Peter Kent is in a spot. Under the law, he can’t be convicted of a murder until he’s proven guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. I don’t think the Prosecution could make a case if it wasn’t for Duncan’s testimony. Personally, I think Duncan’s a pompous old fossil who’s going to consider the facts of the case secondary to the appearance he makes on the witness stand.”

“Well?” she asked, her tone more conciliatory.

“An ordinary witness might be trapped on crossexamination, but Duncan’s a lawyer. As such, he’s more or less familiar with courtroom technique. He knows something about the ordinary traps he’ll have to avoid. There’s enough circumstantial evidence in the case to corroborate Duncan’s testimony. If I can’t shake him on crossexamination I’ll have to rely on a defense of sleepwalking. That defense isn’t too hot. I may get by with it, and I may not. A great deal will depend. The burden of proof is going to shift once I start to build up an affirmative defense.

“Now then, the former Mrs. Kent is very apt to prove herself a stumbling block to a sleepwalking defense. She may testify that Kent isn’t a sleepwalker but is fully conscious of what he’s doing when he pretends to be asleep, and uses the sleepwalking business to camouflage the fact he’s a murderer. She can’t give this testimony in so many words, but she can convey the impression all right.

“Well?” she asked, her voice showing interest.

“The murder was committed with a carving knife. It’s a carving knife which matches a fork in the sideboard drawer in Kent’s residence.”

“Well?” she repeated.

Mason said slowly, “If the Prosecution should be able to prove that Kent had taken the carving knife from the sideboard drawer before he went to sleep, it would knock my sleepwalking defense into a cocked hat. The case is going to be close enough so that this would be the determining factor.” He hesitated, to look at her searchingly. She returned his stare, her eyes curious but slightly defiant. “Now then,” Mason said, “I’m going to be frank with you. I’m going to put my cards on the table. I’d like to get a carving knife which would be the exact duplicate of the knife with which the murder was committed.”

“But how could you do that?”

“It would be possible,” he said, “to duplicate the knife if a hardware man got the maker’s name and the model number from the fork.” He paused again.

She said slowly, “And because Bob Peasley’s in the hardware business he could secure a knife which matched the identical set and then… Well, then what?”

“That would be all he needed to do,” Mason said. “I wouldn’t want him to do any more.”

“What would he do with the knife?”

“Give it to you.”

“What would I do with it?”

“Give it to me.”

“What would you do with it?”

He shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said, “I might use it to lay the foundation for a crossexamination.”

“Wouldn’t this be a crime of some sort—compounding a felony—or something like that?”

“Possibly.”

“I wouldn’t want to get Bob into any trouble.”

“I can assure you,” Mason said, “that I would do everything in my power to protect you both.”

“Bob,” she explained, “is rather… well, rather peculiar. He’s rather emotional, intent, and actuated by very high motives. He disapproves of the lives of what he calls the ‘idle rich.’“ Mason lit a cigarette and said nothing. Helen Warrington changed her position in the chair, laughed nervously and said, “You’re putting me in something of a spot, aren’t you, Mr. Mason?” He removed the cigarette and blew a smoke ring. She abruptly got to her feet. “Very well,” she said; “when do you want the knife?”

“As soon as I can get it.”

“You mean this evening?”

“By all means.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“I’ll be here in the office at ten o’clock.”