Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

“Shoot,” Mason said, “but I hope it’s important.”

“It is if you’re representing Myrna Davenport. My night operator said you were working on the Ed Davenport case.”

“What about it?”

“Myrna Davenport’s arrested and is being questioned about a murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“Two murders. Ed Davenport, her husband, and Hortense Paxton, her cousin.”

“How come?”

“A secret order of exhumation was made day before yesterday. The body of Hortense Paxton was disinterred. She was the niece of William C. Delano. She died a short time before he did, and—”

“Yes, yes,” Mason said. “I know all about that. Go on, what about it?”

“They found enough arsenic in the body to kill a horse. There seems to be no question that she died of arsenic poisoning, although a physician signed it out as a natural death.”

“And what about Mrs. Davenport?”

“Picked up for questioning on that murder and also on orders from Fresno for the murder of her husband.”

“Have they found his body?”

“The husband’s?”

“Yes.”

“Not yet, but they seem to have uncovered some new evidence up there. At first they thought a doctor had made a mistake. They gave him hell but he stuck by his guns and now he seems to have them pretty well convinced the man was murdered.”

“Then the body climbed out through a window and drove away,” Mason said. “That’s a pretty active corpse if you ask me.”

“Well, I don’t know all the details. I’m just telling you what I know.”

“Where is Mrs. Davenport?”

“Picked up by the local police, but she may have been flown to Fresno for questioning there.”

“Have you found out anything about Davenport’s last night in Fresno, where he stayed—probably under the name of Stanton?”

“Not yet. Perry, but we’re working on it. Now here’s the problem, Perry. Here’s where all this begins to get pretty close to you. You may lose a little hide over this one.”

“Shoot,” Mason said.

“Davenport, you know, had the business office of his mining company up in Paradise. So the police telephoned the sheriff of Butte County at Oroville and the sheriff went up to Paradise to make an investigation.”

“Then he found out that you had been up there last night, that you’d been in the place, apparently taking charge of things for the widow. There was an envelope that Davenport had left to be opened in the event of his death.

“The sheriff’s office opened the envelope. In it they found six sheets of blank paper. They submitted the envelope to an expert who states that the envelope had been steamed open within the last twenty-four hours and resealed with mucilage.

“You can figure out where that leaves you. I thought I’d wake you up and let you know because you may be in a position where you have to answer some embarrassing questions.”

“When?”

“As soon as they can locate you. This angle is hot as a stove lid. They think you found accusations that named your client as a poisoner and destroyed the original letter, substituting those blank sheets of paper.”

“Mrs. Davenport has been formally arrested?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“What about Sara Ansel?”

“No charge against her. Della Street wanted me to tell you that she’s been haunting the office but Della has been holding her off—”

“Della?” Mason said. “Is she at the office?”

“Bright and early,” Drake said. “She opened up at nine o’clock.”

“The devil!” Mason exclaimed. “I told her to get some sleep. What time is it now?”

“Ten o’clock. Della thought you’d be wanting to sleep so she went up to open the office and filter things through so that you wouldn’t be disturbed except on a matter of urgency.”

“Does she know about this?”

“Not all of it,” Drake said. “I called you first. I’m going down the hall and tell her about it as soon as I hang up.”

Mason said, “Tell her I’ll be at the office within twenty or twenty-five minutes.”

“Provided the authorities don’t pick you up for questioning,” Drake reminded him.

“Tell her I’ll be up within twenty or twenty-five minutes,” Mason repeated and hung up.

Mason hurriedly dressed, left his apartment house by a back exit, and hurried to his office. He hesitated for a moment at the door of the Drake Detective Agency, then decided to see Della Street first and walked rapidly down the corridor. He fitted his latchkey to the door of his private office and went in.

Della Street saw him and placed a warning finger on her lips. She hurriedly closed the doors to the law library and the connecting office, then lowered her voice and said, “Chief, we have a bear by the tail.”

“How come?”

“Wait until you hear Sara Ansel’s story.”

“What about her?”

“She’s fit to be tied.”

“Why?”

“She’s suddenly found out that Myrna Davenport wasn’t the sweet, passive little thing she thought.”

“ How did she find out?”

“She wants to tell you. Chief, you aren’t really obligated to represent Mrs. Davenport in this case. This is a murder case. Your agreement with her was to represent her in the estate matter and—”

Mason interrupted with a shake of his head.

“No?” Della asked.

“No,” Mason said. “When I take a client I stay with that client.”

“I know,” she said, “but—well, wait until you talk with Sara Ansel.”

“You’ve talked with her?”

“Generally.”

“How does it look?”

“Bad.”

“All right,” Mason said, “suppose Myrna’s guilty. She’s at least entitled to a fair representation. She’s entitled to her day in court. She’s entitled to her constitutional rights. She’s entitled to be confronted with the witnesses against her and to have them cross-examined. But somehow I can’t feel this case is as black as it seems.”

“It couldn’t be,” Della Street said. “Do you want to talk with Mrs. Ansel now?”

“Bring her in,” Mason said. “Why didn’t you get some sleep, Della?”

“Because I wanted to be on the job so you could get some rest. I can catch forty winks after lunch. If you get mixed up in this thing you’re really going to be busy. And there are several longdistance calls. Among them a call from the district attorney of Butte County.”

“I wonder what he wants,” Mason said, and then smiled.

“Yes,” Della Street remained demurely, “I wonder.”

“Well, let’s take things one at a time,” Mason said. “I’m in conference at the moment. I can’t be disturbed by any calls. I’ll be available in thirty minutes. Now let’s see what Mrs. Ansel has to say.”

Della Street nodded, picked up the phone and said to Gertie at the switchboard, “Mr. Mason is in now, Gertie. Tell Mrs. Ansel he’ll see her at once. I’m coming out to escort her in.”

Della Street left the office and returned with Sara Ansel, who had ceased all pretext of keeping herself well groomed. Her face was haggard and tired. There were swollen pouches under her eyes. Such make-up as she was wearing had been hastily applied and it was quite apparent she had had no sleep.

“Mr. Mason,” she said, crossing the office toward him and literally grabbing his hand, “you must do something. We’ve got to extricate ourselves from this thing. It’s terrible.”

“Sit down,” Mason said. “Calm yourself. Tell me just what happened.”

“Everything’s happened.”

“Well,” Mason said, “tell me about it.”

“I can never forgive myself. I can never forgive myself for being such a fool. I let that little minx pull the wool right over my eyes and … and then I got you into it. I thought I knew something about human nature, and in the relatively short time I had known her that woman became almost like a daughter to me. She seemed so helpless, so imposed upon, so frightfully inadequate to cope with the situation. And now to think of what has happened.”