Erle Gardner: The Case of the Runaway

“That’s right.”

“And he’s left this letter to be delivered to the authorities in the event of his death?”

“That’s right.”

“That,” Mason said, “complicates the situation.”

“Doesn’t it?” Sara Ansel said impatiently.

“What is he dying from?” Mason asked.

“Dissipation!” Sara Ansel snapped.

“Perhaps,” Mason went on, “it would be better if you tried to give me a more complete outline of the background.”

Sara Ansel settled herself in the client’s big, overstuffed chair, giving a series of wiggling motions that expressed aggression rather than relaxation.

“Now you’ll have to listen carefully,” she warned, “because I’m not going to have time to repeat.”

Mason nodded. “My secretary, Miss Street, is taking notes. I can study those later.”

“William C. Delano was a very rich man and a very lonely man. During the past two years of his life his niece, Hortie—that’s Hortense Paxton—came to live with him. He was dying by inches and he knew it. His will left most everything to Hortie. She was nursing him. It was a terrific job. She wrote Myrna and Myrna and Ed came to help with the nursing.

“After they’d been there a short time Hortie became very ill. She died after a week’s sickness. Ed Davenport didn’t say anything at the time. Later on he told Myrna he thought Hortie had been poisoned. Where he got that idea no one knows. It’s typical of Ed Davenport—a neurotic, addlepated mass of selfish pigheadedness.”

“What was the cause of death?” Mason asked.

“Overwork. Her death was a terrible blow to William. She was his favorite niece. Under his will he had planned to leave her four-fifths of his estate and one-fifth to Myrna.”

“He left you nothing, Mrs. Ansel?”

“Eventually he did. He and I never got along too well. After Hortie died he changed his will.”

“You seem positive Miss Paxton’s death was a natural death.”

“Of course it was. She had this intestinal flu that’s going around. Only Hortie was so run-down she couldn’t fight it off.”

“Did you see her before her death?”

“Yes. I came there when I heard she was sick to see if I could help. I got there three or four days before she died, but I didn’t stay long after that.

“William Delano and I were fond of each other but he irritated me to death and I guess I clashed with him. Myrna insisted she could get along all right, what with the house-keeper and a practical nurse they called in, so I left.”

“And when did you return?”

“Shortly after William’s death.”

“Was there any autopsy at the time of Miss Paxton’s death?”

“Of course not. There was an attending physician and he signed the death certificate. She was buried and that was all there was to it until Ed Davenport started this talk of his. If you ask me the man simply isn’t all there. What’s more he’s trying to divert attention from what he’s done with Myrna’s money.

“Ed has these crazy ideas, and now he’s gone so far as to write that letter to be opened in the event of his death. The fool has high blood pressure. He may go any minute, and yet he’s written this dastardly letter. In the event of his death there’s no telling what may happen.”

“Where is that letter?”

“Up in his office somewhere.”

“Where’s the office?”

“In Paradise.”

“How’s that?”

“That’s the name of a place up near Chico in the northern part of the state. His office is in a house there. It’s the house where he and Myrna lived for a while after they came back from South America. Ed got hold of this mine on a shoe-string deal. After he and Myrna came down to Los Angeles to live with William, Ed fixed the house up in Paradise as an office for his mining company.

“That is, he says it’s an office. Two rooms are fixed up as offices, but he has a bedroom and a kitchen. He spends a lot of time up there. He’ll be gone for a week at a time, sometimes two weeks. Since I’ve been with Myrna he’s spent most of his time up in that place he calls his office—and in gallivanting around the country, playing he’s an economic big shot, the great mining magnate.”

“May I ask,” Mason inquired, “how it happens that you are so intimate a part of the picture—that is, I take it there was no love lost between you and William Delano. You—”

“After all, I’m fond of Myrna. Under the new will, I own a one-fifth interest in that big house of William’s. I’m riot going to let Ed Davenport put me out of my own house. After I saw how he was treating Myrna I became terribly indignant, but I’ve tried to keep my place and not say anything. I haven’t, have I, Myrna?

“Then we got this telephone call this morning that Ed is in Crampton and—”

Mason said, “I gather he had been taken ill?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you—he’s dying and we only have a few minutes left. The very idea of any man writing a fool letter like that to be delivered to the authorities in the event of his death, accusing his own wife of murder.”

‘Is that what’s in the letter?”

“As nearly as we can tell, putting two and two together, that’s what’s in the letter.”

“And how do you know what’s in the letter, Mrs. Davenport?” Mason asked.

Myrna said in a voice that was so low it was difficult to understand her, “He said as much. He got mad and accused me of poisoning Hortie and said since I knew he knew what I’d done, he didn’t feel safe himself.”

“And Mr. Davenport is in Crampton now?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. He started down here from Paradise and got sick. He’s in a motel. The doctor is quite alarmed about him—thinks he won’t live.”

“And if he does live?” Mason asked.

Sara Ansel said, “Well, of course. I’m not one to give advice. Myrna can do just as she wants, but as far as I’m concerned Ed Davenport has been juggling her money, mixing it all up with his. I’m absolutely certain he’s going to try to cheat her out of it. I know what I’d do if I were in Myrna’s place.”

“And if Ed Davenport dies?” Mason asked.

Sara Ansel looked across at Myrna Davenport.

“If he dies,” Myrna Davenport said in her soft, almost inaudible voice, “that letter will be delivered to the district attorney and heaven knows what will happen.”

“And what do you want me to do?” Mason asked.

“Get the letter,” Sara Ansel snapped.

Mason smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I can’t steal that letter.”

“It contains slanderous matter,” Sara Ansel said.

“Nevertheless,” Mason said, “the letter is his property during his lifetime.”

“How about after his death?”

“Undoubtedly he left instructions for it to be mailed to the police.”

“As it happens,” Sara Ansel said, “all of the property that he has is community property. It was all acquired with Myrna’s money, regardless of the fact that Ed Davenport has been busily engaged trying to juggle funds around so that no one can tell where the money came from.”

Mason’s face showed interest.

“Now then, suppose he does die. Myrna, as the widow, is entitled to step into possession of the property. Isn’t that right?”

“For the purposes of administration and to conserve it for the administrator,” Mason said guardedly.

“Then she’s entitled to the possession of that letter.”

“Go on,” Mason said, smiling.

“I don’t think it’s fair for that letter to fall into the hands of the police and the district attorney without Myrna knowing what’s in it.”