Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece

“Answer it,” he said.

She picked up the telephone, said, “Hello,” listened for a minute and then said, “Mr. Mason is here now. I’ll tell him.” She held her hand cupped over the mouthpiece of the telephone. “It’s a man from the jail,” she said. “He says that Peter Kent has just had some papers served on him and he’s very anxious to see you at once.”

Mason nodded. “Tell him I’ll come right down.”

Placing the carving knife on the desk so that the sharp edge was uppermost, Mason said to Della Street, “Bring in Edna Hammer and let’s explain this thing to her before I start for the jail.”

Della stepped to the door of the law library. While Perry Mason was carefully polishing all fingerprints from the handle of the knife with his handkerchief, Edna Hammer entered the room. “Why,” she exclaimed, looking at the knife on the desk, “that is the same knife.”

“Well,” Mason told her, “there doesn’t seem to be any identifying mark on either of the knives.”

“What do you want me to do with this?”

He wiped off the blade on his handkerchief, inspected it critically, and rolled it up in the brown paper which had covered it when Peasley had brought it in. “Be careful not to leave any fingerprints on it,” he said. “Put it in the sideboard drawer. Telephone Sergeant Holcomb and tell him that I’m going to be there at eight o’clock in the morning. And, remember, my dear, I am going to be there at eight o’clock in the morning, and I want you to let me in.

“And I’m to lock the drawer?”

“Yes. Don’t let anyone know it’s in the drawer, lock the drawer and keep it locked.” As she reached for the paper parcel, he said, quite casually, “Why did you think your uncle was going to kill you, Edna?”

She recoiled as though he had struck at her. “What are you talking about?”

Mason took a quick step toward her. “You know what I’m talking about, Edna. You knew your uncle was walking in his sleep more than thirty days ago. You thought he was going to kill you.”

“That’s not so! That’s false!”

“Then why,” he demanded, “did you put that spring lock on the door of your bedroom?” She gave a little gasp, stared at him with frightened eyes. “Go on,” he said, “tell me the truth.”

“I… I…”

“You had a good enough lock on that bedroom door,” he said, “but you were afraid your uncle had a key to it and you wanted a lock that he didn’t have a key to, so you got a locksmith to install one of the most expensive locks money could buy, and you held the only key to it. Is that right?”

“No… that is… no.”

“Then why did you put that lock on your door?” She stepped back away from him, dropped into a chair and started to cry. Mason said, “Go on, cry all you want to. When you’ve stopped crying, answer my question.”

She raised eyes that were swimming with tears. “Why do you want to know about that lock?” she asked.

“Because,” he said, “that’s just the way the district attorney was planning to surprise you. He was going to jab his finger at you on the witness stand and make you act in front of a jury just the same way you’re acting here. You can see what that would do to your uncle’s case. It would make a jury think your uncle was a murderer at heart. Even if they thought he’d been sleepwalking, they’d convict him anyway.”

“But—but that isn’t the reason.”

Mason stared steadily at her. “All right, then, what’s the reason?”

“Jerry and I were married secretly a month ago,” she said, eyes lowered.

Mason heaved a sigh. “Thank God for small favors,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I was afraid you’d put that lock on because you’d known your uncle was walking around the house and were afraid of him.”

“No. Honestly, Mr. Mason, that had nothing to do with it.”

“Why didn’t you announce your marriage?”

“We wanted to keep it secret.”

“Does your uncle know?”

“No. He’s the one we wanted to keep it from.”

“Why?”

“He’s a little eccentric.”

“He approves of Jerry, doesn’t he?”

“Very much. But I didn’t want him to think I was going to leave him until after he’d married again.”

“Well, then,” Mason asked, watching her quizzically, “why all the haste?”

“Because,” she said, laughing, “I’m in love and this is Hollywood, and Jerry is pretty much of a sheik. Lots of women are crazy about him. By nature he’s fickle, and… Well, I just wanted to grab him while the grabbing was good.”

Mason grinned and said, “Well, just so you didn’t put that lock on the door because of your uncle’s sleepwalking, I don’t care why you did it. But when I saw that lock I figured the explanation for it was more sinister than romantic, and I figured the district attorney was going to bust you wide open on crossexamination… I suppose you have a key and Jerry has a key.” She nodded. “And there are no other keys?”

She smiled and shook her head. “After all,” she said, “I have only one husband.”

“Anyone else in your confidence; anyone else know that you are married?”

“Not a soul.”

“Okay,” Perry Mason said, “take that carving knife, plant it in the drawer and, if the district attorney starts examining you about that lock on the door when you get on the witness stand or in front of the grand jury, show a little emotion just like you did with me, and then tell the truth and laugh and cry when you tell it, and make it plenty romantic.” Mason nodded to Della Street, clamped his hat on his head and said, “I’m going down to the jail.”

Perry Mason, freshly shaved, wearing a gray business suit which looked as though it had just been received from the tailor’s, jabbed his thumb against the bell button of Peter Kent’s front door. Almost instantly the door was opened by Sergeant Holcomb of the Homicide Squad. Mason’s face showed surprise. “Rather early for you to be on the job, isn’t it, Sergeant?” he asked.

Holcomb said, “Yes—meaning that it’s rather early and that I’m on the job. What did you want?”

“I wanted to look over the premises,” Mason said. “I had a couple of questions to ask of some of the witnesses. Any objections?”

“The witnesses are under subpoena for the Prosecution,” Holcomb said; “you can’t tamper with them.”

“I don’t want to tamper with them, I want to talk with them.”

Holcomb held the door open, said, “If that’s the case, come right in. I’ll just stick around to avoid misunderstandings.”

Edna Hammer came forward and gave Mason her hand. “Good morning, Mr. Mason, is there anything I can do for you?” Mason nodded.

“She’s a witness for the People,” Holcomb pointed out.

Mason whirled to face the officer. “Because the district attorney serves a subpoena on a person doesn’t mean that person becomes sacred,” he said. “The duty of a witness is to tell the truth. When the case is set down for trial, I’ll subpoena a few of these witnesses myself. It just happens, Sergeant, that I am going to talk with Miss Hammer in private.”

Holcomb said, “You can’t tell her what to testify to.”

“And you can’t tell me a damn thing!” Mason said.

He took Edna’s arm, “I think we’ll talk in your room, Edna.” They walked down the corridor, Holcomb headed for the telephone. “What’s he going to do?” she asked.

“Call the district attorney,” Mason said, grinning. “How long has he been here?”

“Since seventhirty.”

“You called him?”

“Yes. I shouldn’t be too friendly with you, should I?” she asked. “We don’t want it to look like a frameup.” Mason nodded, said, “You planted the knife okay?”