Erle Gardner - The Case of the Lame Canary

“What do I say about the twelve thousand dollars?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Mason said, “other than that you gave Walter some money to invest. His untimely death prevented you two from having a financial accounting.”

“That’s what I say, but what about the twelve thousand dollars?” she demanded.

“It doesn’t make any difference now,” Mason told her. “You inherit whatever property there is. Now that the authorities have decided not to prosecute you on a murder charge, I’m filing application for letters of administration. Are there any relatives?”

“No. Otherwise he’d have willed everything to them. In any event, he—”

“Forget it,” Mason interrupted. “Remember that Walter was nervous. Walter was working too hard. Walter was a man who cared nothing for society or companionship, but only because he was too self-sufficient. The fact that you didn’t get along with him doesn’t mean there was anything wrong with his character.”

She said venomously, “I hate to lie. He embezzled my money. He was a—”

“Never mind what he was,” Mason said. “He’s dead. You remember what I told you about him. Keep that attitude whenever you speak of him. He left no relatives, and you as his wife inherit all of his property, whether it’s separate or community. You’ll get your twelve thousand back that way.”

The private telephone on his desk jangled into noise. Only three people had the number of that telephone. It was used only in the event of major emergencies.

Mason scooped the receiver to his ear and heard Drake’s voice saying, “Sorry to call you on this line, Perry, but this is important as hell. I think we’ve found Jason Braun, or Carl Packard, whichever you want to call him.”

“Where?” Mason asked.

“Out in the country. I’m having a man bring up a car.”

“Where are you now?”

“Just leaving the office. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

Mason said, “Okay,” banged up the receiver, pushed back his chair, called over his shoulder to Rosalind Prescott, “Be back in an hour. In the meantime, remember what I told you. Change your attitude to the newspaper boys. Talk plenty, but don’t tell them anything.”

Della Street scooped her notebook and pencils into a handbag, said, “Do you want me, Chief?”

He shook his head and said, “Go over Mrs. Prescott’s story with her a little. Pretend you’re a newspaper woman. Ask her questions and get her answers. I’ll either be back in an hour or telephone you.”

He grabbed his hat, jerked open the corridor door, and strode down the flagged floor. Drake was waiting for him at the elevator.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“It’s reported as an automobile accident,” Drake said. “It went in through the traffic department. I don’t think the police have taken a tumble yet.”

“What sort of an accident?”

“Car rolled over a grade out in the mountains between Santa Monica and Triumfo. It’s been down at the bottom of the canyon for a couple of days.”

“The man that drove it?” Mason asked.

“Under the car. Smashed flatter than a pancake.”

The elevator slid to a stop. Drake started to say something as they stepped into the cage, but Mason said, “Save it, Paul,” and glanced significantly at the elevator operator.

Not until they were speeding out Wilshire Boulevard in a car driven by one of Drake’s men did the detective give any details to the attorney. “This report came in to the Highway Department. I won’t bother you with details, Perry, but one of the possibilities I’d figured on was that this chap, Packard, had disappeared because something had happened to him. So I’d assigned men to look into every murder and accident case, as well as every automobile accident. As soon as a report came in, my man chased out to the scene of the accident. He found out this fellow’s hat had the imprint of a haberdashery store in Altaville in the band, and that the initials ‘C.P.’ had been stamped in the band. There seemed to have been no papers of identification in the pockets. From all I can understand, the corpse is pretty much of a mess. However, we can make an identification from finger-prints. The Board of Fire Underwriters had all of their men fingerprinted, and I managed to secure a copy of Jason Braun’s prints.”

Mason said, “Of course, Paul, if the man’s dead, it isn’t going to do us any good to discover him in advance of the police, unless there are some circumstances in connection with his death which would give us a clue. After all, the thing I want is to find out what this man saw in the window of the Prescott house which distracted his attention and sent him crashing into that van.”

“Well,” Drake said, “I figured we’d get on the job, find out all we could, and perhaps take some photographs. I brought a camera along.”

“Where’s the place?”

“Up in the mountains. We go out to Santa Monica, start up the coast boulevard toward Oxnard, and then turn off on one of the side roads. My man will be waiting at the intersection to flag us down.”

Mason lit a cigarette, smoked thoughtfully for a moment while the driver, swinging to the outside lane of traffic, sent the speedometer needle quivering upward.

“Incidentally,” Drake said, “I’ve found out why the police took such prompt steps when the report came in about Stella Anderson having seen the man hiding the gun.”

“Shoot.”

“Prescott had telephoned the police that he had reason to believe someone was going to try to kill him, but couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say who that someone was. The police asked him a few questions, and, among other things, wanted to know if he wanted a permit to carry a gun. He said he didn’t, but said there’d been a prowler around the house for a couple of nights, and if he should telephone the police, he wanted quick action. He said he kept a double-barreled shot-gun in the house and said he wasn’t going to take any chances; that if anyone tried to break in he was going to cut loose with his shot-gun.”

“That sounds phony,” Mason said. “It doesn’t ring true.”

“I know it doesn’t,” Drake told him, “but that’s why the police paid attention to the report that came in about Driscoll giving a gun to the girl to hide.”

Mason said thoughtfully, “I wonder if he thought Jimmy Driscoll was going to be hanging around the house, and he could lay a foundation with a complaint to the police, and then spray Driscoll full of lead.”

“If we’re guessing,” Drake said, “it sounds like a good guess.”

Mason smoked in silence for half a dozen blocks, then said meditatively, “Well, we’re guessing... Paul, there’s something phony about Walter Prescott. I can’t put my finger on just what it is, but somehow he doesn’t ring true. This business of taking money from his wife to invest in the business, and salting it away — the large deposits which he apparently made in the bank, notwithstanding the relatively small amounts he took out of his business— By the way, Trader mentioned he was delivering some stuff to Prescott’s garage. I wonder just what that stuff was. Suppose you check into that angle?”

“But he had the accident and went right on to the hospital,” Drake said “—No, you’re right, at that, Perry, he did make the delivery later. I remember now. He said he left the hospital to come back to the garage.”

“Prescott, you’ll remember,” Mason told him, “had given Trader his keys.”

“That’s right.”

“So Trader had a key to the garage door.”

“I wonder what happened to those keys,” Drake remarked. “Trader’s never accounted for them, as far as I can find.”

“Might be a good plan to give him a little more shakedown.”