Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

“Of course,” Mason said, “a great deal depends on how the letter was written, or, rather, I should say, how the envelope is addressed—whether it’s addressed to the police to be opened in the event of his death, or whether it’s addressed to his secretary with instructions to her to mail the enclosure to the district attorney in the event of his death.”

“That would make a difference legally?” Sara asked.

“It might,” Mason said. “I’m not in a position to render an offhand opinion.”

Abruptly Sara Ansel got up from the chair. “Give me your key, Myrna.”

Wordlessly, Myrna opened her gloved hand, handed Sara Ansel a key. She, in turn, walked across and dropped it on the plate glass on Mason’s desk.

“What’s that?” Mason asked.

“The key to the office in Paradise.”

“And what do you want me to do with it?”

“In case Ed Davenport should die, we want you to get that letter.”

“Is there any element of truth in Ed Davenport’s accusations?”

“Don’t be silly! Myrna wouldn’t hurt a fly. She came there to help Hortie. Those two girls slaved their fingers to the bone. Hortie’s death was brought about purely and simply by overwork.”

“And Mr. Delano?”

“He had been dying for months. His heart was shot. The doctors gave him six months to live and he lived twelve. He’d have lived longer than that if it hadn’t been for Hortie’s death. That broke him all up.”

“Then why not let the letter be delivered?” Mason asked.

“If his charges are so absurd on their face why not simply explain to the police?”

The women exchanged glances, a brief flicker of an expressive signal that Mason was unable to interpret.

“Well?” he asked.

“It happens,” Sara Ansel said, “that the situation isn’t that simple. There are complicating factors.”

“In what way?” Mason asked.

“Someone telephoned the coroner. It was one of those anonymous calls. This person suggested the coroner had better check the death of Hortense Paxton.

“Of course it was just some busybody, unless it was Ed Davenport himself, but it may make trouble.”

Mason thought that over. “Myrna is Ed Davenport’s wife,” he said. “In case he should accuse her of poisoning Miss Paxton he might be jeopardizing the money his wife inherited—and which I understand he’s using. Have you thought of that?”

“We have. Ed hasn’t. He doesn’t think. He reacts. There’s no logic in what he does. Why would he write such a fool letter as that, particularly when he knows he may pop off any minute?”

Mason said, “He must be a psychopathic personality.”

“He’s a nut. You can’t tell what he’ll do. He may kill us both. If he had any idea we were here talking with you he certainly would.”

Mason reached an abrupt decision. “I’m going with you this far,” he said. “If Ed Davenport should die I’ll try to find out what’s in the letter. If, in my opinion, the letter is the work of a psychopath I’ll look into the case, and if everything seems to be in order I’ll surrender the letter to Mrs. Davenport. If, on the other hand, there is anything at all that’s suspicious about the case I’ll turn that letter over to the police, but I’ll try and do it under such circumstances that everyone gets a fair break.”

“If you only knew Ed Davenport,” Sara Ansel said. “He’s selfish, neurotic, completely engrossed in his own affairs, his own symptoms, his own feelings, and yet with it all he’s shrewd.”

“ You haven’t known Mr. Davenport very long,” Mason pointed out.

“Well, I’ve known him long enough,” she snapped. “I’ve talked with Myrna, and I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Mason.”

Mason thought the matter over, then abruptly said to Della Street, “Della, dictate a letter which Myrna Davenport is to sign, giving me complete authority to represent her in connection with any matters pertaining to her domestic relations or her property rights and to take such action as I may see fit in connection with safeguarding these property rights. In the event her husband should die—and you’d better mention in the letter that it’s understood he is seriously ill at the moment—I’m to represent Mrs. Davenport in connection with the estate and all matters in connection with the estate. I am to act in her name and on her behalf in taking possession of any property of any sort, nature or description, and do whatever I think may be for her best interests.”

Mason glanced at Myrna Davenport. “You’re willing to sign such a letter?”

It was Sara Ansel who answered, “You bet she’ll sign it.”

Mason, however, continued to look at Myrna Davenport.

At length she met Mason’s eyes and said in a low voice, “Of course, Mr. Mason. My husband no longer loves me. He’s interested in my money, and he’s stealing that. Right now and as of this very moment he’s trying to scramble my property so completely we’ll never be able to straighten things out.”

Sara Ansel looked at her watch. “Well, what are we waiting for?” she demanded.

Perry Mason nodded to Della Street.

Chapter 2

Shortly after three o’clock that afternoon Mason’s switch board operator rang Della Street to announce that long distance from Crampton was calling Mr. Mason, insisting that it was on a matter of the greatest importance.

Mason nodded to Della Street. “I’ll take it, Della, but you’d better listen in on the call.”

Mason picked up his phone and when he had been connected through the switchboard heard the voice of Sara Ansel, urgent and impatient, arguing with the operator.

“This is Mr. Mason, Mrs. Ansel,” Mason cut in.

“Well, it’s about time!” she said. “Here we are in a jam and bull; your operator has been fiddling around—”

“Well, I’m on the line now,” Mason interposed. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“He’s dead.”

“Davenport?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment of silence.

“And,” Sara Ansel went on, “Myrna is in complete charge. He left a will leaving everything to her—certainly the least he could have done under the circumstances.”

“When did he die?” Mason asked.

“About fifteen minutes ago. It’s taken me all that time getting you on the telephone. That operator of yours—”

“Yes, yes,” Mason said. “Now the letter that you had reference to—”

“The address in Paradise is on Crestview Drive. You can get there by taking the Southwest Airways which goes to Chico. Rent a car at Chico and it’s only twelve miles over good, paved road. You won’t have much trouble finding the place but it’s a lot better if you don’t ask questions. So here’s the way you get there. Take the main street through town, then turn left on Oliver Road. At the foot of the grade make a sharp left turn onto Valley View for a very short distance, then turn left again onto Crestview Drive, and it’s the last place on the right-hand side.”

“There’s no one in the house?” Mason asked.

“There’s no one there. The secretary will be off duty.

You’ll find that—I’m sorry, there’s no opportunity to talk any more. Good-by.” She slammed up the telephone.

Mason hung up the telephone at his end of the line, glanced across at Della Street.

“Do you go to Paradise?” Della Street asked.

Mason nodded.

“And when you get there what do you do?”

“Represent Mrs. Ed Davenport’s best interests.”

“By finding that envelope?”

“Perhaps.”

“And then doing what?”

“That,” Mason said, “depends on what we find when we get the envelope. Find out about plane reservations, Della.”