Erle Gardner - The Case of the Lame Canary

“How about Jimmy Driscoll?” Della asked.

“Driscoll,” he said, “or Rodney Cuff, his lawyer, or both, evidently had some inkling of what was going on. I think Jimmy tried to implicate Rita in order to free himself and Rosalind, so the two of them could work to bring about a solution of the case. Unfortunately, I won’t have time to conduct any postmortems on the clues with Rodney Cuff. However, that young man apparently has considerable on the ball. He figured out just about what had happened all the way along the line.”

“Then,” Della said, “Weyman and Trader must have stolen a car, taken Jason Braun’s body out into the Santa Monica Mountains, wrecked the car, and left the body in such a manner that the features were practically unrecognizable. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” he said, “only I think what happened to Braun’s features took place in the covered van on the road to the hospital. It isn’t a nice thing to think about.”

They drove in silence for a couple of miles. Then Della Street said, “Why did you want Sergeant Holcomb to get into that baggage?”

“Because,” he said, “I figured we needed proof. I didn’t want to start exposing Weyman until I had something definite. Weyman was so clever he acted the part of a surly ox and fooled me. When I realized the truth, I thought he’d dodge the subpoena and it would be necessary for me to make some accusations in open court. You see, Weyman had absolutely nothing to fear from any person in the world except one man. That man was Dr. James Wallace. Knowing that Dr. Wallace would probably be a witness at the inquest on Jason Braun’s body, I couldn’t believe that Weyman would have the audacity to show up. But that’s where Weyman was more clever than I gave him credit for. You see, if he’d refused to obey the subpoena, that would have been an incriminating circumstance in itself. So Weyman outsmarted everyone by claiming that his face had become infected, and bandaging it in such a way that no one could recognize him.

“I thought, of course, that after Holcomb had once got on the trail, he’d shake down Trader and Rosa Hendrix until he got all the dope. But, by that time, our ship would’ve sailed. If Weyman showed up at the autopsy, I wanted to make a spectacular, whirlwind finish. I explained to Scanlon generally what I was working on, and Scanlon agreed to give me a free hand, within reasonable limits.”

“Why didn’t you go to Holcomb and tell him?” she asked.

Mason chuckled and said, “In the first place, Holcomb would have tried to grab all the credit, and, in the second place, he wouldn’t have co-operated. I could never have got Mm to search the luggage of Diana Morgan if it hadn’t been for making him think that baggage contained stuff which would implicate you and me.”

“How did you happen to suspect Weyman as the guilty party, Chief?”

“To begin with, he and Prescott both moved into the neighborhood at the same time — six months ago. Knowing that if a switch of victims had been made in that van, the man who went to the hospital must have had medical treatment, and remembering what Dr. Wallace had said about the injuries being facial and superficial, the wonder of it is that I didn’t suspect Weyman before.”

“Was Trader in on Prescott’s murder?” she asked.

“No. He knew nothing about it until later, because he went right ahead and delivered the stuff to Prescott’s garage. Then, learning of the murder, and knowing the police would search the garage, he sneaked the stuff up to Diana Morgan’s apartment, to take it out last night concealed in inexpensive trunks and suitcases which would enable it to be shipped.”

She frowned thoughtfully, then asked, “Why did Weyman support Driscoll by swearing he’d seen him at the telephone?”

Mason laughed. “Because he was clever as hell. He didn’t care about Driscoll, but by swearing, apparently unwillingly, that he’d been standing where he could see Driscoll, he gave himself an alibi for the time of the auto accident, just in case anyone should get to wondering. It was a clever move. You see, he told his wife all about it, knowing she’d tell Mrs. Snoops, and knowing Driscoll’s lawyer would interview Mrs. Snoops. The way he staged it fooled everyone. I might have doubted whether it was Jimmy Driscoll he saw at the phone, but he planted his build-up so smoothly that until I went back to first principles I never doubted that Weyman was there on the street, instead of in the van.”

“All right,” she told him. “I know enough now to figure it all out. If there are any loose ends I can tie them up myself. You pay attention to your driving.”

Mason stole a glance at his wrist watch, frowned, and pushed the accelerator down close to the floorboards. “And how!” he said.

The President Monroe had blown its fifteen-minute whistle. One minute to go. All visitors had been ordered ashore. Dock-hands were standing at the gangplank, ready to take it up. The band was playing.

Clouds which had blanketed the bay earlier in the morning were lightening somewhat, with patches of blue sky showing through. Streamers of colored paper furnished ribbons of color which stretched from passengers on the upper decks to friends who had gathered on the dock to say farewell. The edge of the wharf was lined with people calling out good-natured banter to those who were standing at the ship’s rail.

The uniformed officer who was importantly directing the parking of cars stifled a yawn. Half an hour before, cars had been arriving by the score. Five minutes later, they would be leaving in droves. Right now he had nothing to do, save push his chest against his uniform and strut importantly up and down the pavement.

He looked up as he heard the sound of screaming tires, the roar of an automobile. He raised his whistle to his lips, then jumped to one side to avoid being struck as a car skidded sideways, swung half around, and lurched to a stop.

Mason jumped out, yelled at him, “Park that car somewhere,” grabbed Della Street, and, together, they raced up the gangplank just as the hoarse bellow of the ship’s whistle aroused echoes along the waterfront.

The gangplank was pulled away. Lines were cast off. The lawyer and his secretary, breathless from their mad scramble, stood by the rail, laughing, panting, and looking down across the widening strip of oily water at the sea of upturned faces.

Suddenly Mason said, “Look down there, Della, over against post number seven.”

Della Street followed the direction of his eyes. Rodney Cuff, Jimmy Driscoll, Rosalind Prescott, and Paul Drake were gathered together in a compact group. Drake spotted them just as Della Street looked. He said something to his companions, then raised his voice and yelled, “Perry! We burnt up the road to get here. A client of mine has a case he wants you to take. This is right down your alley. He has plenty of money and—”

“Not interested,” Mason called back.

“You can come back with the pilot,” Drake shouted, “and—”

“Not interested,” Mason interrupted, waving his hand. “I have a date in Singapore with a lady.”

Cuff shouted, “I wanted to congratulate you. You got out of the courtroom before I knew you were going. Wonderful work, Counselor.”

“Thanks,” Mason called. “Hey, Paul, tell your man to take Ms case to Rodney Cuff. Good-by! I’ll send you a card from Waikiki!”

The big engines throbbed into vibrations as the ship gathered speed. Drake yelled something which was unintelligible. The dock with its human fringe of waving figures slipped astern.

Mason turned to Della Street. “How’s that,” he asked, “for keeping a promise?”