Erle Gardner - The Case of the Lame Canary

Mason chuckled and said, “Don’t mind her, Paul. She’s filled with travel bugs. She’s been down picking out light whatnots to wear in tropical countries.”

“Not only in the countries,” Della Street said, “but on shipboard, under the stars, and in the moonlight. Think, Chief, of sailing down below the equator, with the Southern Cross blazing overhead, the wind a warm caress on the skin, the wake of the boat streaming out behind in a white path. The scent of spices in the air, the hiss of water past the bow. Over on the right—”

“Starboard,” Drake interrupted. “By the time you’ve gone below the equator, you’ll know the nautical terms.”

“Okay,” she said, with a sweep of her arm, “over on the starboard is an island, the crests of the volcanic mountains silhouetted against the stars. Down lower against the water, where the palm trees fringe the lagoon behind the barrier reef, is a native village. And, from the deck of the ship you can hear the rhythmic throb of the native drums, the peculiar wail of primitive music—”

“No,” Mason interrupted, “you’re wrong again. The captain wouldn’t be standing in that close to an island after dark. He’d be out where there was plenty of sea room and—”

Della Street shook her head sadly. “Pardon me! My mistake! What we should talk about is murder — corpses with battered heads — clues, circumstantial evidence, bloodstained bullets, perjured testimony, and the beautiful things in life. Murderers who are corpses, corpses who are murderers. Now you, Paul Drake, get a load of this: Tomorrow the Chief and I are going to sail on the President Monroe on a round-the-world cruise. We have our staterooms all engaged, our tickets bought and paid for. There’s only one thing standing between us and the gangplank and that’s this Rita Swaine, who drifted in here with a lame canary and a hard luck story and got the Chief all tangled up in a mess. Now, you two get busy and straighten it out. But just remember that tomorrow—”

Drake, who had slid into his favorite position in the big leather chair, shook his head mournfully and said, “That’s what I came to tell you about, Perry. It’s all over except the shouting. You can sail any time you get ready.”

“What’s happened?” Mason asked.

“Your client’s confessed.”

“You mean Rita?”

“Yes.”

“What did she confess to?”

“Oh, a lot of things — going upstairs to change her clothes, stepping into the bedroom, finding Walter’s body, going through his pockets, taking a letter out of his wallet, and all that sort of stuff. After the contradictory stories she’s told, plus the fact that she forthwith skipped out of the state and fought extradition, a jury will bring in a first-degree murder verdict without leaving the box. You can probably get her life imprisonment if you change her plea from not guilty to guilty, and right now that’s the best thing you can do for your client. Then you can catch your ship and go bye-bye.”

Mason stood staring down at the detective. “How did you hear about this, Paul?”

“One of the newspaper boys tipped me off. The district attorney released a statement. The thing will be on the street in half an hour. Hell, Perry, they had the goods on her, anyway. They had her fingerprints on the wallet, and they’ve found bloodstains on her shoes and had reconstructed enough of the charred fragments in the fireplace to know what letter had been taken from Prescott’s pocket and burned. The D.A. was holding all that stuff back, getting ready to slap you in the face with it when you walked into court.”

“Did she,” Mason asked, “admit that she killed him?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s still holding out on that.”

“Anything else?” Mason asked. “What have you found out about that Rosa Hendrix?”

Drake said, “Hell, Perry, you know the answer to that without me having to tell you. If you want to be mean about it, you’ll have a chance to do it tonight.”

“How so?”

“She’s leaving for Reno tonight.”

“You mean Rosa Hendrix?”

“No, not Rosa Hendrix, but Diana Morgan, the rich young divorcee who has the swell apartment in the Bellefontaine.”

“Certain about that?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Something’s happened to whatever it was Trader delivered to the garage. He says he can’t remember exactly, a couple of boxes, and he thinks a barrel. At any rate, the stuff disappeared. Trader says he set it just inside the door, as Prescott had instructed him to.”

“Perhaps the D.A. took it for evidence,” Mason said.

“No. One of the newspaper boys did a little snooping for me and finds out that the district attorney overlooked that angle of the case entirely.”

“I wonder,” Mason said thoughtfully, “if the whole thing may not have been a stall. I’m wondering if Trader actually did return to Prescott’s house and deliver stuff to the garage.”

“Yes. Mrs. Weyman saw him back the van up to the garage.”

“How about Weyman? Was he home at the time?”

“He was home, but indisposed,” Drake grinned.

Mason looked at his wrist watch. “What else do you have on Rosa Hendrix, anything?”

“Not a thing,” Drake said cheerfully. “Rosa Hendrix is a nice girl, but I have my suspicions about Diana Morgan. That girl seems to know her way around and she has an independent income from some place.”

“How about Wray?” Mason asked. “Does he play around with the redhead after office hours?”

“Apparently not. Wray is quite a mixer, fond of clubs, lodges, smokers and all that sort of stuff. His gregarious instinct seems to have for its ultimate goal the making of contracts and the landing of business for the firm of Prescott & Wray.”

“Any idea who’s putting up the money?” Mason asked.

“Not for Diana Morgan,” Drake said, “but I have a line on Rosa Hendrix.”

“What sort of a line?”

“In case you’re interested,” Drake said, “she has a luncheon engagement tomorrow with Jimmy Driscoll.”

Mason stared at him with thought-slitted eyes.

“Listen, Paul,” he said, “what sort of baggage does that woman have?”

“Rosa Hendrix,” Drake said, “has a cheap, split-leather suitcase with a pasteboard backing, a steamer trunk, and—”

“No, I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about her other identity — Diana Morgan.”

“The sort of baggage that would go well with a three-hundred-and-ninety-five dollar apartment,” Drake said. “Hat boxes, suitcases, trunks, finest of leather—”

“How are they marked?”

“Simply with the initials ‘D.M.’ You’ll have a chance to see the stuff tonight, Perry. She’ll be moving out on that trip to Reno.”

“Do you think she actually intends to go to Reno?”

“Diana Morgan does,” Drake said, grinning, “but Rosa Hendrix will be on the job tomorrow — don’t forget Rosa’s luncheon engagement with Jimmy Driscoll.”

“I won’t,” Mason promised him. “Do you happen to know what time tonight she intends to move the baggage, Paul?”

“ ‘Happen’ is not the word to describe the manner in which I attain my knowledge,” Drake said, twisting his fish-mouth into a droll grin. “It takes elbow-grease, concentration, perspicacity, and perspiration, a rare combination of intuitive—”

“Yes, I know,” Mason interrupted, matching Ms grin. “I’ll find all that in the expense account when I get it. But, please tell me, Mr. Worldly-Wise Man, what time she intends to move the baggage.”

“She told the porter to be up at her apartment at ten-thirty; that a transfer man would be waiting outside the apartment house at that time.”