Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Howling Dog

"Spill it," Mason said; "go ahead and tell me. Who bought it?"

"The gun," said Paul Drake slowly, his eyes watching Perry Mason's face in concentrated scrutiny, "was purchased in Santa Barbara, California, by Bessie Forbes, two days before her husband ran away with Paula Cartright."

Perry Mason's face became wooden. He stared at the detective in expressionless appraisal for nearly ten seconds.

"Well," said Drake, "what have you got to say?"

Perry Mason's eyes half closed.

"I'm not going to say anything," he said. "I'm going to take back something that I did say."

"What?"

"When I told you that at the proper moment I could bust that case against Bessie Forbes wide open."

"I," said Drake, "am doing a lot of mind changing, myself."

"It's all right," Mason said slowly. "I still think I can bust that case wide open, but I don't know."

He picked up the telephone, placed the receiver to his ear with a slow, deliberate motion, and when he heard Della Street 's voice, said, "Della, get me Alex Bostwick, the city editor of The Chronicle. Get him on the line, personally. I'll wait."

The expression of surprise gradually faded from Paul Drake's eyes, and his face resumed once more its look of droll humor.

"Well," he said slowly, "that hands me a jolt. I'm commencing to think you either know more about this case than I thought you did, or else that you're crazy like a fox. Maybe it was a good thing Mrs. Forbes didn't rush out and make a lot of explanations to the police."

"Perhaps," Perry Mason said softly, then turned to the telephone. "Hello… this Bostwick? Hello, Alex, Perry Mason talking. I've got a hot tip for you. You always claimed that I never gave you tips so that your men could dig up a scoop. Here's one that's a pippin. Have a reporter go out to 4893 Milpas Drive. It's the residence of a man named Arthur Cartright. He'll find a housekeeper there who is deaf and cranky. Her name's Elizabeth Walker. If your reporter will draw her out, he'll find that she knows who murdered Clinton Foley… yes, Clinton Forbes, who lived at 4889 Milpas Drive, under the name of Clinton Foley…

"Yes, she knows who did the killing…

"No, it wasn't Bessie Forbes. You get her to talk…

"All right, if you insist. She'll tell you that it was Arthur Cartright, the man for whom she works, and who has mysteriously disappeared. That's all. Goodby."

Perry Mason slid the receiver back on the hook and turned to Paul Drake.

"God! Paul," he said, "but I hated to do that."

The room in the jail, set aside for conferences between attorneys and clients, contained no furniture other than a long table running the length of the room, flanked with chairs on either side. Midway along the table, stretching entirely through the table to the floor, and up to a height of five feet above the table, was a heavy wire screen.

An attorney and his client could sit on opposite sides of the table. They could see each other's faces, hear plainly what was said; but they could not touch each other; nor could they pass any object through the screen. The visiting room had three doors. One of them opened from the jailor's office to the side of the room where attorneys were admitted; one opened from the jailor's office to the side where prisoners were admitted, and one led from the prisoners' side of the room to the jail.

Perry Mason sat in a chair at the long table, and waited impatiently. His fingers made little drumming sounds upon the battered table top.

After a few moments the door from the jail opened and a matron walked into the room, with Mrs. Forbes on her arm.

Bessie Forbes was whitefaced, but calm. Her eyes held a haunting expression of terror, but her lips were clamped together in a firm, determined line. She looked about the room, and then saw Perry Mason, as the attorney got to his feet.

"Good morning," he called.

"Good morning," she said, in a firm, steady voice, and walked over to the table.

"Take that seat across from me," said Perry Mason.

She sat down and tried a smile. The matron withdrew through the door which went to the jail. The guard peered curiously through the steel cage, then turned away. He was entirely out of earshot. Attorney and client were alone.

"Why," said Perry Mason, "did you lie to me about the gun?"

She looked about her with a haunted, hunted look, then moistened her lips with the extreme tip of her tongue.

"I didn't lie," she said. "I had just forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" he asked.

"Forgotten about purchasing that gun."

"Well, then," he said, "go ahead and tell me about it."

She spoke slowly, as though choosing her words carefully.

"Two days before my husband left Santa Barbara," she said, "I found out about his affair with Paula Cartright. I got a permit from the authorities to keep a gun in the house, went down to a sporting goods store, and bought the automatic."

"What did you intend to do with it?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said.

"Going to use it on your husband?"

"I don't know."

"Going to use it on Paula Cartright?"

"I don't know, I tell you. I just acted on an impulse. I think, perhaps, I was just going to run a bluff."

"All right," he said, "what happened to the gun?"

"My husband took it away from me."

"You showed it to him, then?"

"Yes."

"How did you happen to show it to him?"

"He made me angry."

"Oh, then you threatened him with it?"

"You might call it that. I took the gun from my purse and told him I'd kill myself before I'd be placed in the position of a neglected wife who hadn't been able to hold her husband."

"Did you mean it?" Perry Mason asked, studying her from expressionless, patient eyes.

"Yes," she said, "I meant it."

"But you didn't kill yourself."

"No."

"Why?"

"I didn't have the gun when it happened."

"Why didn't you?"

"My husband had taken it from me. I told you."

"Yes," said Mason, "you told me that, but I thought perhaps he'd given it back."

"No. He took it, and I never saw it again."

"So you didn't commit suicide because you didn't have the gun?"

"That's right."

Mason made drumming motions with his fingertips on the table top.

"There are other ways of committing suicide," he said.

"Not easy ways," she told him.

"There's lots of ocean around Santa Barbara."

"I don't like drowning."

"You like being shot?" he asked.

"Please don't be sarcastic. Can't you believe me?"

"Yes," he said slowly. "I'm looking at it from the standpoint of a juror."

"A juror wouldn't ask me those questions," she flared.

"No," Mason told her moodily, "but a district attorney would, and the jurors would be listening."

"Well," she said, "I can't help it. I've told you the truth."

"So your husband took that gun with him when he left?"

"I guess so. I never saw it again."

"Then your idea is that some one took that gun from your husband, killed the police dog and killed him?"

"No."

"What is your idea?"

"Some one," she said slowly, "who had access to my husband's things took that gun and waited for the right opportunity to kill him."

"Who do you think that was?"

"It might," she said, "have been Paula Cartright, or it might have been Arthur Cartright."

"How about Thelma Benton?" said Perry Mason slowly. "She looks like rather an emotional type to me."

"Why should Thelma Benton kill him?" asked the woman.

"I don't know," said Perry Mason. "Why should Paula Cartright have killed him, after she lived with him so long?"

"She might have had reasons," said Bessie Forbes.

"According to that theory, she would have first run away with her husband, then returned and killed Forbes."