Erle Gardner: The Case of the Lame Canary

“And what happened to the canary?”

“The canary was flying all around the place, frightened, and fluttering up against the windows.”

“And the man had been there for some time then?”

“Yes. And he let her go and she was all flustered and nervous. She tried to catch the canary, and couldn’t. The young man slipped out into the adjoining room. And then I heard the accident.”

“So then you left the dining room window and ran to the front window, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And then what happened?”

She lowered her voice and said, “After this young man had gone back into the Prescott house, I went back to the dining room window. I couldn’t help wondering what he and Mrs. Prescott—”

“Oh, was Mrs. Prescott there?”

“No, she wasn’t,” Stella Anderson said. “That was my mistake. I’d thought for a minute it was Mrs. Prescott, though. You see, Rita Swaine was wearing one of Rosalind Prescott’s dresses. It’s a print house dress that I know just as well as I know my own clothes, because I’ve seen it so often. She and her sister aren’t twins, but they’re as alike as two peas from the same pod. And, at the time, seeing that dress and not being able to see her face clearly, I thought it was Mrs. Prescott. And thinking what a pretty kettle of fish it would make if this young man had been that way with a married woman— Well, I’m glad he wasn’t!”

“Perhaps it was Mrs. Prescott,” Mason said.

“No, it wasn’t. Afterwards I got a good look at her face.”

“And it wasn’t Mrs. Prescott?” Mason asked.

“No,” she said in a voice which showed her disappointment, “it wasn’t.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course I’m certain. I’m just as certain as I am that I’m sitting here right this minute.”

“You’re talking now about something which took place after the accident?”

“You mean when I found out for certain it was the unmarried sister?”

“Yes.”

“Well, by that time this young man had gone back into the Prescott house. He seemed frightened about something, and that’s when he gave Rita Swaine the gun.”

“A gun?”

“Yes— Oh, I wasn’t going to tell you about that. Perhaps I shouldn’t. You—”

“What kind of gun?”

“It was a blued-steel revolver. He took it from his hip pocket and gave it to Rita and she pulled out a drawer in that big desk near the corner of the solarium, and pushed the gun in back of the drawer and then closed the drawer.”

“Then what happened?” Mason asked.

“Well,” she said, “I’d already telephoned to the officers that there’d been an accident and that a man was hurt. I figured I could tell them about the gun when they came over here to question me. And then they didn’t come.”

“Was the man still in the coupe when you telephoned?”

“No. He’d been taken to the hospital.”

“How long would you say it was after you telephoned that the officers came?”

“I don’t think it could have been over five minutes. It might have been seven or eight minutes, but I think it was around five.”

“And what did they do?”

“They looked the coupe over and took down the license numbers, and then this young man was just coming out of the house, and they took his name and address and looked at his driver’s license, and then dismissed him, and then they got in their car and drove away without once coming over here. I can’t understand it. I was the person that had called them. They didn’t ask me what I knew about it.”

“But, of course,” Mason said, “you didn’t see the accident.”

“Well,” she said, “I saw plenty of it. And, again, how did they know that? I might have seen the whole thing for all they knew. I might have been standing right there in the window.”

“Yes,” Mason said thoughtfully, “that’s so. Whom have you told about this?”

“No one,” she said, “except Mrs. Weyman.”

“Mrs. Weyman?”

She nodded and said, “Yes, that’s the next door neighbor over on Fourteenth Street. They’ve been there for six months now. Our back doors are just a few steps from each other. I told her about it right after the accident, within less than an hour. She’s a wonderfully fine woman. It’s certainly too bad about her husband.”

“What’s wrong with her husband?” the lawyer inquired.

“Drink!” she sniffed. “When he’s sober he’s all right, but when he’s drunk he starts looking for trouble. He’s always beating someone up or getting beat up. Land sakes, he came in while I was there telling about it. He was reeking of whiskey, staggering all over the place, and he’d been in an awful fight. Well, perhaps that’ll be a lesson to him. He got the worst of this one.”

“Did he admit it?” Mason asked, smiling.

“He didn’t have to admit it. He’d had a bloody nose and a cut cheek and a couple of black eyes. It was bad enough so he’d had to go to a doctor and have his face bandaged. A pretty how-d’y-do when a man can leave a sweet, refined little woman like Mrs. Weyman sitting home crying her eyes out, while he makes a sodden nuisance of himself.”

Mason nodded sympathetically.

“Getting back to what happened over in the Prescott house,” he glanced casually out of the window and observed the square-shouldered, short-necked individual who was plodding his purposeful way toward the Anderson residence, “you say you had a good look at Rita Swaine — that is, you saw her clearly enough so you couldn’t be mistaken?”

“Of course I did. Later on she caught the canary and came and stood right at the window. She seemed to want to get a lot of light on what she was doing. My Heavens, you’d think she’d been a surgeon doing a brain operation, the fuss she made over that bird’s claws!”

“I’m wondering,” Mason said, “whether you are good at remembering details.”

“I think my powers of observation are quite normal, young man.”

“Could you, for instance, tell me which foot she was clipping when she was so careful to get the light on her work?” Mason asked.

Mrs. Anderson pursed her lips, wrinkled her forehead into a frown, and then said positively, “The right one.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, I can see her right now in my mind’s eye, standing there at the window, the canary held in her left hand, his feet up in the air — yes, it was the right foot she was working on.”

“That was after the young man had left?”

“Oh, yes, that was after I’d come back from the Weymans’— Well, now, here’s someone else coming! I wonder what he wants. Land sakes, this has been a day!”

Mason got to his feet and stood by his chair while Mrs.Anderson, with quick, nervous strides, fluttered over toward the door. Sergeant Holcomb had hardly touched the bell button before she opened the door and said, “How do you do? What do you want?”

“You’re Stella Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sergeant Holcomb, of the homicide squad. You reported having seen a young man over in the house next door hand a revolver to a woman who concealed it?”

“Why, yes,” she said, “but I don’t know how you found it out. I haven’t told a soul except Mrs. Weyman, and a man who’s calling on me—”

“What man?” Holcomb asked.

“A Mr. Mason.”

Mason heard the pound of Sergeant Holcomb’s feet, then the police sergeant stood scowling at him from the threshold. “So,” he said, “you’re here.”

Mason nodded and said casually, “How are you, Sergeant? Better ditch the cigar. She doesn’t want the curtains to smell of tobacco smoke.”