Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

“What do you mean?”

“A four-wheeled automobile and a two-wheeled house trailer.”

“I don’t get it,” Drake said.

“And then,” Mason went on, “We try to find Mabel Norge.”

“Why?”

“Because we want to question her.”

“How do we go about looking for her?”

Mason said, “You have her description. Tall, brunette, twenty-seven or twenty-eight; well-formed but not heavy; slategray eyes; narrow, black, penciled eyebrows. In order to find her you go to San Bernardino and start looking through the hotels and the motels. You also have someone keep in touch with the district attorney in Butte County or try to get a line into his office.”

“How come?”

“I think she’ll be communicating with him.”

“Why? What gives you that idea?”

“Because she doesn’t want to be a fugitive and she doesn’t want to have her absence misconstrued. I think probably she’ll telephone the district attorney and tell him where he can reach her but ask him to keep the address confidential.”

“You think the D.A. in Butte County will protect her?” Drake asked.

“I think he’ll try to.”

“Why?”

“Because he’ll use her either as a red herring or an ace in-the-hole, depending on which will better suit his purpose, and if he alone knows where she is it strengthens his hand.”

“Okay, Perry.” Drake sighed. “What do you want me to do now?”

“Right at the moment,” Mason said, “get your men covering San Bernardino. I want to find Mabel Norge. I’m particularly anxious not to disturb her complacency. My best guess is that she’s telephoned or will telephone the D.A. at Butte County. He’ll tell her to stay where she is. I don’t want anyone to know that we’re looking for her. It shouldn’t be too difficult a job. People who go to motels are usually transients. They’re there for one day. A young, attractive woman who stays over for a longer period should attract attention.”

“Okay. What next?”

“Della and I are going out to the location of the grave. We’re going to look around. We should be back shortly after you have this San Bernardino angle covered.”

“What about Sara Ansel?” Drake asked. “She’s been pestering me, trying to see me, trying to explain that she’s Myrna’s good friend and that she wants to patch everything up.”

“Leave her alone,” Mason said. “Leave her severely alone, Paul.”

“That’s all very well,” Drake retorted, grinning, “but how am I going to get her to leave me alone?”

“Probably,” Mason said, “you’ll have to club her over the head. Come on, Della, let’s go.”

Mason and Della Street left the hotel, drove to Crampton, then turned off on the road, which had been indicated in the maps shown by Vandling, to the location of the grave.

Quite a few curiosity seekers had been on the ground. There were evidences of cars having been parked. Empty film containers bore mute testimony to the amount of amateur photography that had taken place. Dozens of feet had tramped the ground around the shallow grave.

Mason said, “Della, if my theory is correct, there was a car with a house trailer parked within a very short distance. It probably was here for two or three days. I’d like to find where it stayed.”

Della Street raised her eyebrows. “If your theory is correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And what, may I ask, is your theory?”

Mason said, “Come, come, Della. Don’t deprive me of my triumph.”

“What do you mean?”

“If it turns out I’m right,” Mason said, “I will point out to Paul Drake the simple, elemental steps of reasoning that made it absolutely imperative that certain events should have happened in a certain sequence.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“If I’m wrong,” Mason said, “and I don’t give you my theory in advance, I can say casually, ‘Well, I had a theory but that theory doesn’t seem to be borne out by the facts so I won’t waste your time mentioning it.”

“That’s all right for you to say to Paul Drake,” Della Street said, “but aren’t you going to put me on a little different footing?”

“That’s exactly it,” Mason said. “I want to make an even better impression on you than I do on Paul Drake.”

“You don’t have to. You have already made it.”

“After all, Della, you wouldn’t expect a magician to tell you how he expected to perform the trick before he performed it. It would take away all of the glamour and all of the mystery.”

“You can’t take away any of your glamour by taking away the mystery,” Della Street said, “but if you want me to cooperate, tramping around through this country looking for a place where a house trailer parked, you’d better tell me why.”

“Let’s look at it this way, Della. The whole scheme of murder depended on the fact that someone must have known that Edward Davenport was going to be taken seriously ill immediately after leaving Fresno, that by the time he had driven to Crampton he would be so sick he couldn’t possibly continue his journey. He would have to move into a motel and call a doctor. Otherwise, there couldn’t have been any murder. There couldn’t have been any planning for a murder, at least to the extent of having a grave all ready.”

“That’s true. You’ve said that before. Chief.”

“Well,” Mason said, “who was the person? Who was the one person who could have known that Davenport would be taken sick at that particular place at that particular time?”

“Mabel Norge, the secretary?” Della Street ventured.

Mason laughed. “I’ve given you all the clues I’m going to, Della. You go look for the place where the house trailer was parked over on the east side of this hill. I’ll look over on the west side. But don’t go far. Don’t get out of the sound of my voice. It should be around here within a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards. If you see anyone or if you think you’re being watched, don’t be afraid to let out a whoop. I’ll be listening.”

Della Street hesitated a moment. “I get no more clues?”

“Not unless you find them,” Mason said. “After all, if I pull a rabbit out of the hat I don’t want to have the audience yawn in my face. I’m enjoying myself tremendously, Della.”

“You’re being a prig,” she said and, turning, walked down the hill and into the patch of brush.

Mason waited a few seconds, then went down on the other side, walking slowly in long zigzags, looking for wheel tracks.

Fifteen minutes later Mason was back on the hill, whistling for Della Street.

For a few anxious moments he waited, then was just starting down the hill when he heard her call some distance away.

Mason whistled once more, then hurried through the brush. At length he picked up Della Street’s tracks, and, whistling again, once more heard her call.

Again Mason walked a distance of some fifty yards, again he whistled and again received an answer.

“Heavens, Della,” he said. “I didn’t want you to go so far away. What would have happened if you’d met some—”

“I’m on a hot trail,” she said.

Mason hurried up to her and Della Street pointed to automobile tracks in the soft ground.

“Oh-oh,” Mason said.

“They’re narrow jeep tracks,” Della said. “Does that mean anything?”

“It may.”

“Would that eliminate the necessity of a house trailer?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I think not. Let’s follow the tracks.”

“Which direction?”

“Where did you pick them up, Della?”

“Within—oh, I don’t know—a hundred feet of the hill, I guess.”

“All right, let’s follow them away from the hill then.”