Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

“I thought you might like to know those things,” Vandling said, “particularly in case you considered having the defendant plead guilty. Right now, in view of the fact that an important defense witness seems to have given the police the slip, if you wanted to go into court, comment on that fact and have your client plead guilty. I would certainly advise the court that under those circumstances the prosecution would be content to ask for life imprisonment and not for the death penalty.”

“And then they’d take her back to Los Angeles to try her for the murder of Hortense Paxton,” Mason said, “and when she got on the stand to deny her guilt the district attorney would cross-examine her and by way of impeachment would say, ‘Isn’t it a fact that you have been convicted of a felony?, and she would have to say, ‘Yes.’ Then he would say, ‘Isn’t it a fact that you were convicted of poisoning your husband up in Fresno County?’ and she’d have to say, ‘Yes.’ And then the jury in Los Angeles would decide she was a habitual poisoner and would close their ears to any evidence that might be in her favor, would find that she was guilty of the poison murder of Hortense Paxton and would sentence her to death.”

Vandling placed his hand to his face, rubbed his fingers along the angle of his jaw, and then slowly nodded. “Yes,” he said at length, “I can see that you have your problems, too, Counselor.”

“So,” Mason said, “I’ll go and talk with my client. Thanks for putting the cards on the table. I have an idea it’s going to be rather tough trying a case with you on the other side.”

Vandling’s fingers gripped Mason’s hand. “I’m going to try my damnedest to make it tough,” he said. “How about what happened up in Paradise? How about that letter with the blank sheets of paper in it and the flap that had been steamed open? You want to make any statement about that?”

Mason shook his head.

“I didn’t think you would,” Vandling said. “The D.A. up there telephoned me that I’d find you loquacious but evasive. He said you’d talk your head off but wouldn’t say anything.”

Mason said, “A man’s tactics change with different people and with different circumstances. I think it would be rather difficult to be loquacious and evasive with you.”

“I’d try to make it so,” Vandling said. “Well, go ahead and see your client, Mason, and anything we can do here to make you comfortable just call on us. I’m a Rotarian myself. I’d like to take you down to the club and introduce you. If you like to play golf, we can fix you up and—”

“Thanks,” Mason said. “I’m afraid I’m going to be pretty busy.”

“I’ll sure try to keep you busy.” Vandling told him. “Good luck. I think you’re going to need it. Perhaps we both are.”

Chapter 9

Mason found Mrs. Davenport waiting for him in a small, office-like room which contained comfortable chairs and a small table. Aside from the peculiarly stale atmosphere, permeated with the sweetish smell of disinfectant, there was nothing to indicate the environment of a jail.

Myrna Davenport looked quickly at Mason, then came toward him and put her hand in his. The fingers somehow seemed to cling to the lawyer’s hand as though drawing strength from him.

“I’m so glad you came,” she said in her characteristic low monotone. “They told me you were here. The district attorney is very nice.”

“Did you talk with him?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell him?”

“As much as I knew of what had happened.”

“Did you sign anything?”

“No.”

Mason said, “From now on quit talking. Let the other people do the talking.”

“What shall I say if they ask me questions?”

“Refer them to me. Say that I’m answering all questions.”

“But, Mr. Mason, I’d like to get this thing cleared up. I’d like to—”

“Sure you’d like to get it cleared up,” Mason said. “Who wouldn’t? But when you get this cleared up they’re going to drag you back to Los Angeles and try you for the murder of Hortense Paxton.”

“Won’t they do it anyway? Won’t they—?”

Mason shook his head.

“Each county is hoping the other one will take the first crack at you. If you get convicted of anything in either county you’ll get the death penalty in the other. Let’s be frank. Let’s put the cards on the table and face the facts.”

Myrna Davenport sat down abruptly in one of the chairs as though her knees had lost their strength.

“Does it hurt much?” she asked.

“What?” Mason asked.

“Death by gas.”

Mason eyed her sharply. “They say it’s completely painless. You take one whiff and pass out in a tenth of a second.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s a relief. Someone told me they choked and strangled and coughed and suffered.”

“Who told you that?”

“One of the people in here.”

“One of the officers?”

“No. An inmate.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Stay away from her. Don’t talk with anybody. Don’t form any friendships. Sit tight. Leave things in my hands.”

“You’re going to continue to represent me?” she asked.

Mason nodded.

“I was afraid you’d .. - afraid you might back out.”

“I don’t back out.” Mason told her. “Even if you’re guilty you’re entitled to a fair trial. You’re entitled to all of your rights under the law. It’s my business to see that you get them.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you guilty?”

“No.”

“Of poisoning Hortense Paxton?”

“No.”

“Of poisoning your husband?”

“No.”

“You’ve got some things to explain,” Mason said wearily, drawing up a chair and sitting down across from her.

“I know.”

Mason watched her sharply, “Your friend, Sara Ansel turned against you.”

“She’s back in my comer now.”

“How do you know?”

“She telephoned.”

“Did they let you take a telephone message?”

“From her, yes.”

Mason said angrily, “They were monitoring the conversation. What did she say? Anything?”

“Only that she had doubted me and turned against me and had told the police everything she knew and a lot of things she didn’t know, and then she started thinking things over and had become thoroughly ashamed of herself.”

Mason said, “She had told police she watched you digging a hole and burying some poisons.”

Myrna Davenport’s eyes raised to Mason’s. For a moment there was a distinct flicker of panic in them.

“She told the police that?”

Mason nodded.

Myrna folded her hands on her lap, looked down at them, and said, “Well, of course, she had every reason to doubt me.”

“You packed your husband’s bags when he went on trips?”

“Oh yes.”

“He carried candy with him?”

“Yes, always.”

“You bought that candy?”

“Yes.”

“The candy in his bag was poisoned.”

“I know. They told me,”

“You didn’t poison it?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“You had been living in the house in Paradise?”

“Yes.”

“And after your uncle, William Delano, became ill, you went to live with him?”

“Yes.”

“And what did your husband do?”

“He stayed up in Paradise most of the time, but he would come and visit us.”

“Your husband didn’t like the idea of you moving down to Los Angeles?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He said that I was letting myself in for a lot of drudgery and making a nursemaid out of myself, that when Uncle William died I’d never get a dime out of the estate.”