Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

Paul Drake—In this case. Perry’s trusted private eye got an offbeat assignment: trailing another private eye

Jonathan Halder—The huffing and bluffing Butte County D.A. He thought Mason a remarkably cooperative witness until he found himself doing all the answering

Pete Ingram—A light-fingered reporter with a hot tip. He wanted to swap it for a hot scoop

Talbert Vandling—The D.A. of Fresno County. He was so wary and dangerous a prosecutor that Perry feared he’d met his match

George Medford—A freckle-faced nine-year-old. He found a hole big enough to hold a body—and three days later it did

Judge Siler—He was supposed to preside at a preliminary hearing, but the battle looked full-scale from his vantage point

Dr. Milton Hoxie —The toxicologist. He stated without a shadow of doubt that the victim had died of cyanide poisoning, and certainly not from arsenic

Dr. Herkimer C. Renault—The doctor who saw Ed Davenport die. He swore Davenport had symptoms of arsenic poisoning—of which he didn’t die—but ruled out cyanide absolutely

Chapter 1

Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, entered the lawyer’s private office and said, “There are two women in the outer office who say they have to see you at once.”

“What about, Della?”

“They won’t discuss it with a mere secretary.”

“Then simply say that I can’t see them.”

“They’re quite a team,” the secretary said.

“In what way?”

“They’re carrying suitcases, keep looking at their watches, apparently are catching a train or a plane and feel they simply must see you before they leave.”

“What do they look like?” Mason asked, his curiosity aroused.

“Mrs. Davenport is very, very mousy, a quiet, almost furtive, plain young woman.”

“How old?”

“Somewhere in the late twenties.”

“And very mousy?”

Della Street nodded.

“And the other?” Mason asked.

“If I describe Mrs. Davenport as being very, very mousy I’ll have to describe Mrs. Ansel as being very, very catty.”

“How old?”

“Fifty odd.”

“Mother and daughter?“

“Could be.”

Mason said, “The dear, devoted daughter has had to put up with too much from a brute of a husband. The daughter’s mother has come down to remonstrate and the husband called her a lot of vile names. She and her daughter are leaving him forever. They want their rights protected.”

“Probably,” Della said, “but they’re quite a team, any way.”

“Tell them I don’t take domestic relations cases,” Mason said, “and that they’d better hurry to see some other lawyer before their plane leaves.”

Della Street seemed reluctant.

Mason picked up several letters from the file marked “Urgent” which Della Street had placed on his desk. “You want me to see them,” he charged, “so that you can gratify your feminine curiosity. On your way, young woman.”

Della Street dutifully left the office, only to return within some thirty seconds.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“I told them,” she said, “that you didn’t take cases involving domestic relations.”

“And what did they say?”

“The mousy one said nothing.”

“And the catty one?” Mason asked.

“The catty one said that this was a murder case and she understood you liked murder cases.”

“And they’re still waiting?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. The catty one suggested I tell you they had a plane to catch.”

“That does it,” Mason said. “Send in the cat and the mouse with their murder case. My own curiosity has now been aroused.”

Della Street hurried from the office, returned in a few moments to hold the door open. Mason heard the sound of steps, of a suitcase bumping against a bookcase. Then a slender, demure-looking woman with downcast eyes entered the office carrying a suitcase. She looked up briefly, said, “Good morning,” then moved quietly along the wall and was lowering herself into a straight-backed chair when another suitcase banged vigorously against the door. An older woman pushed her way into the office, dropped the suitcase with a bang, looked at her wrist watch and said, “We have exactly twenty minutes, Mr. Mason.”

“Very well,” Mason said, smiling. “Please be seated. I take it you’re Mrs. Ansel.’

“That’s right.”

“And this is Mrs. Davenport?” Mason asked, indicating the young woman who sat with her hands folded on her lap.

“That’s right,” Sara Ansel said.

“Your daughter I take it.”

“No, indeed,” Sara Ansel said. “We never even saw each other until a few months ago. She’s been out of the country a lot—her husband’s a mining man—and I’ve been in the Orient, in Hong Kong. I’m sort of her aunt by marriage. My sister’s husband was her uncle.”

“My mistake,” Mason told her. “Do I understand that you want to see me about a murder case?”

“That’s right.”

Mason studied the two women thoughtfully.

“Did you ever hear the name of William C. Delano?”

Mrs. Ansel asked.

“Wasn’t he a big mining man?”

“That’s right.”

“He died, I believe”

“Six months ago. Well, my sister’s husband, John Delano, was his brother. John and my sister are both dead now. And Myrna here, that is Mrs. Ed Davenport, is a niece of John and William Delano.”

“I see. Now suppose you tell me what it’s all about and about the murder.”

“Myrna’s husband, Ed Davenport, has written a letter accusing Myrna of planning to kill him”

“And to whom did he send the letter?”

“He hasn’t sent it to anyone yet. He left it addressed to the district attorney or the police, we don’t know which, and it was to be delivered in the event of his death. It accuses his wife of poisoning Hortense Paxton, the niece who would have inherited the bulk of William’s money, and then Ed Davenport has the temerity, the unmitigated gall to state that Myrna suspects he knows what she’s done and may be planning to poison him, that in the event of his death he wants the whole thing investigated.”

Mason glanced curiously at Mrs. Davenport, who sat perfectly still. Once, as though sensing his gaze, she raised her eyes, then lowered the lids again and continued to regard her gloved hands.

“What in the world,” Mason asked, “gave him any such idea as that? Does he have any grounds for such accusations, Mrs. Davenport?”

“Of course not!” Sara Ansel said.

Mason continued to look at Mrs. Davenport.

She said, “I spend most of my time in my garden. I have some sprays, some pest controls. They’re highly poisonous. My husband has a besetting curiosity. Twice now I’ve had to warn him those sprays are not to be tampered with. That may have given him ideas. He’s very unreasonable. He gets ideas and they become fixed in his mind.”

“He’s neurotic,” Sara Ansel explained. “He broods. He drinks. He flies into rages, and then he gets strange ideas.”

“Apparently,” Mason said, “there’s rather a complicated picture here. I’ll have to know something more about it, and I take it you’re leaving on a plane.”

“That’s right. We have a taxicab waiting. The driver has given us a deadline. We’re going to have to make the airport in time for the 11:00 A.M. plane to Fresno.”

“Perhaps,” Mason said, “under the circumstances it would be better if you took a later plane and—”

“We can’t. Ed’s dying.”

“You mean Ed Davenport, this young woman’s husband?”