Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece

Edna Hammer nodded. “I think I understand.” Della Street flashed Mason a significant glance. Mason motioned her to silence. Together they watched Edna Hammer adjust her mind to the situation. Suddenly she raised her eyes and said, “Who actually puts this knife in the drawer?”

Mason held her eyes. “You do,” he said slowly.

“I do?”

He nodded. “And who discovers it?” she asked.

“Sergeant Holcomb.”

She frowned and said, “Suppose someone discovers it before Sergeant Holcomb does?”

“That,” he said, “is something we’re going to guard against. You take this knife, put it in the drawer and lock the drawer… I believe you have the only key to that drawer?”

“Yes.”

“You still have it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll tell Sergeant Holcomb that I’m coming out in the morning at about eight o’clock; that I’ve asked you to let me in, and you ask him if it’s all right for you to do so.”

“And you think he’ll be there?”

Mason laughed grimly and said, “You’re damn right he’ll be there.”

“Will I get into any trouble over this?”

“You will, if you get caught.”

“And you think it will help Uncle Pete?”

“I know it will.”

She got to her feet, smiled and held out her hand. “Shake,” she said.

Mason shook hands with her, nodded to Della Street and said, “Take Edna into the law library.” As he saw the questioning look on Edna Hammer’s face, he said, “I’m making arrangements to get the knife. I don’t care particularly about having you know where it’s coming from, because what you don’t know you won’t have to lie about. You’ll wait in the law library. Della Street will give you some magazines to read. When we’re ready, we’ll let you know.”

“When do I telephone Sergeant Holcomb?” she asked.

“As soon as you get the knife planted in the drawer and the drawer locked.”

“That will be rather late, won’t it?”

“Yes. But you can tell him I just called you and that you are to call me back to let me know. Don’t worry about disturbing Holcomb. He’ll be so tickled to think he’s going to block me from doing whatever I have in mind that he’ll fall on your neck and weep.”

Edna Hammer’s chin was tilted upward, her eyes steady. “I’ll do it,” she said.

Della Street escorted her into the library, returned after a few moments to find Mason once more pacing the floor. “Worried?” Mason asked her.

She grinned and said, “Nope. Go ahead and carry the ball, Chief. I’ll run interference.”

“Not worried about the tacklers?” he asked.

“Not a damn bit,” she told him; “the goal post’s ahead. On to a touchdown. Perhaps I can draw on my highschool days for a little encouragement… How did it go?… Oh, yes: ‘Strawberry shortcake, blackberry pie… Victory… Are we in it? Well I guess… Mason’s Law Shop, Yes! Yes! Yes!’“ She laughed up into his face, the carefree laugh of a woman who is sallying forth in life to encounter adventure side by side with a man to whom she has given her loyalty.

“Atta girl,” Mason said; “there’s another one. How does it go?… Oh, yes: ‘Hickety hiff haff—rickety riff raff—Give ‘em the horse laugh—haw, haw!”

He had barely finished when a knock sounded on the corridor door. Mason nodded to Della Street. She opened the door, and admitted Helen Warrington and Bob Peasley. Mason motioned them to seats. “Get it?” he asked Helen Warrington.

“Bob wants to know something about what you have in mind.”

“Just an experiment,” Mason said. “I want a knife that’s the duplicate of the one the prosecution claims was taken from the sideboard by Peter Kent.”

“What do you want it for?” Peasley asked.

“An experiment.”

“Can’t you tell me more than that?”

“No.”

Peasley hesitated for a moment, then slowly, almost reluctantly, produced a roll of brown paper, opened it and disclosed a black, hornhandled carving knife. Carefully taking a handkerchief from his pocket so that he would leave no fingerprints on the handle, he crossed to Perry Mason’s desk and deposited the knife on the desk. “That’s it,” he said.

“It looks like a dead ringer,” Mason said, inspecting it carefully.

“It’s exactly the same knife.”

Perry Mason turned it over slowly in his fingers. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“I happen to know something about carving sets. I sell them. When I knew the identity of the carving knife was going to enter into the case and that Helen might be called as a witness, I noted the manufacturer’s stock number, which was stamped in the shaft of the fork and looked it up.”

“And ordered a duplicate set?” Mason asked, arching his eyebrows.

“No,” Peasley said, “I had several in stock. You see, I sold the carving set to Kent.”

“How long ago?”

“Two or three months ago. Kent didn’t like the carving set he had and Helen was kind enough to say that I could get him one that would be guaranteed to give satisfaction.”

“I see,” Mason said, “thank you very much. I feel that Mr. Kent is indebted to both of you, and when the time comes, I shall see that he is advised of your cooperation.” Mason stood up, signifying that the interview was at an end.

Helen Warrington said, “You’re certain Bob won’t get into any trouble over this?”

Mason laughed and said, “Trouble is a relative word. It doesn’t mean much.”

Peasley said, “Frankly, Mr. Mason, I’m not certain that I am too keen about this.”

Mason patted him on the shoulder and gently escorted him toward the door and away from the carving knife which lay on the desk. “Forget it,” he said. “As a customer, I have a right to come into your store and buy a carving knife.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, that’s all I’m doing now.”

“No,” Peasley said, “you’re not in my store.”

“If you’d prefer to go down to the store and open it up, I’ll come in there and make the purchase,” Mason said, laughing, but holding the door open for them. Reluctantly, Peasley moved out into the corridor. “Good night,” Mason said, “and thank you again, both of you.” He pushed the door shut and the spring lock clicked into position.

Della Street was leaning over the desk staring down at the knife. “What next?” she asked.

“A lemon,” Mason said, “in that upper lefthand drawer of the desk, and we’ll cut the lemon with the knife and let the blade stand with the lemon juice on it long enough to take some of the newness off, then we’ll be very, very careful to wipe all fingerprints off of the knife. Then we’ll give it to Edna Hammer. She’ll be equally careful to leave none of her fingerprints on the knife.”

“Just as soon as that knife is discovered, Sergeant Holcomb will try to discover latent fingerprints on it,” she said.

“Absolutely,” Mason agreed.

“And he won’t find any.”

“Of course not.”

“Won’t that make him suspicious?”

“Why?”

“Because a carving knife should have some fingerprints on the handle.”

Mason made a little bow and said, “Now, my dear young lady, you commence to appreciate something of the position in which the district attorney will find himself.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Mason said, “Bear in mind that there were no legible prints on the handle of the knife which was discovered under Peter Kent’s pillow.”

She started to say something when the steady ringing of the telephone bell filled the room with sharply insistent sound. “What line’s that phone connected on?” Mason asked.

“The trunk line. While I was in here, I wanted to be sure we caught any incoming calls.”