Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

“Well, don’t be such a clam. According to your theory there was only one person who knew he was to be taken sick as soon as he left Fresno and that he’d get as far as Crampton and then stop. It wasn’t—good heavens, you don’t mean it was Ed Davenport himself?”

“That’s right.”

“But why on earth? Why would he want—?”

Mason said, “We’ll know some of the answers in a few minutes if Mabel Norge talks, and under the circumstances I rather think she will. It’s going to be rather embarrassing to her when we step in and find her registered as Mabel Davenport.”

“And you mean that Ed Davenport deliberately planned to get sick so that—?”

“Ed Davenport was the only person on earth who could have known definitely, positively and absolutely that he was going to get sick in Crampton—that is, Della, if it was planned out in advance.”

“Well, it had to be planned out because of the grave.”

“That at least is the theory of the prosecution,” Mason said.

Della Street was silent for a few moments, trying to figure it out, then she shook her head and said, “It’s too deep for me.”

“I think,” Mason told her, “we’re going to get some information that will enable us to unravel the puzzle. Remember that telephone call we received in Paradise, Della. The man didn’t ask for any kind of identification. As soon as you said hello he gave you the information about the motel in San Bernardino, then hung up.”

“I get it,” Della Street said, “and Mabel Norge came by the place in Paradise not simply because she was driving by but because she was waiting for a phone call that would tell her where to go.”

“That’s right.”

“And because she didn’t get that phone call she didn’t know where to go and—but she knew it was somewhere in San Bernardino, and so she went to San Bernardino and waited.”

“That’s right.”

“But why didn’t she go back to the place in Paradise after we had left and—?”

“She probably did,” Mason said. “She went back there and sat waiting for a telephone call that didn’t come. The reason it didn’t come was because you had taken the telephone call earlier. There had probably been some alternate instructions. If Mabel hadn’t received the call by a certain time, say midnight, then she was to go to San Bernardino, register at the Antlers Hotel as Mabel Davenport, and await instructions there.”

“But how would that account for her having embezzled money out of—?”

“Who said she embezzled money?” Mason asked.

“Well, she drew out virtually everything there was in the account in Paradise, and then disappeared.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “That’s not embezzlement.”

“Well, it looks like it to me.”

“We’ll see what Mabel Norge has to say about it,” Mason said.

He parked the car at the parking lot by the Antlers Hotel, entered the lobby, and had no difficulty identifying the man in the gray suit with the blue and red tie.

The man, who had been lounging by the cigar counter, sauntered over to Mason and said, “She’s in the cafe. She just went in for dinner. Do you know her when you see her?”

Mason nodded.

“Do you want to wait until she comes out or—?”

“No,” Mason said, smiling. “We’ll join her for dinner.”

“Okay, you want me to stay on the job?”

“I think so,” Mason said. “Come on, Della, we’ll drop in on Mabel.”

“She’s in the second booth to the right, sitting alone,” the detective said.

“Okay, we’ll join her.”

Mason held the swinging door open for Della Street. They entered the restaurant, turned to the right. Abruptly Mason paused, said, “Well, well, Della, here’s someone we know.”

Mabel Norge, who had been studying the menu, glanced up curiously and then suddenly panic filled her eyes.

“Good evening,” she said coldly.

Mason moved over and extended his hand. “Well, well, Miss Norge! How are you tonight? I heard you were here.”

“ You heard I was here?” she asked after hesitating a moment in extending her hand.

“Why, yes,” Mason said. “You notified the authorities in Butte County, didn’t you?”

Her face colored. “They weren’t supposed to tell anyone.”

Mason easily and quite naturally seated himself opposite her, and Della Street slid in beside him.

“Well,” Mason said, “it’s nice finding you here where we can talk and—”

“I don’t care to talk.”

“Then it may be necessary to notify the newspapers after all, Della,” Mason said to Della Street.

“The newspapers?” Mabel Norge echoed.

“Why certainly,” Mason said. “You haven’t kept abreast of developments up in your part of the country. You’re a young woman who is very much sought after.”

She bit her lip and said suddenly, “Mr. Mason, I have nothing to discuss with you. I came in here to eat. I don’t care to be disturbed.”

“Okay by me,” Mason said. “Della, call the newspaper here. Find out who is the representative of the AP and who represents the UP. We’ll get the wire services to work on this angle—”

“Mr. Mason, I told you I didn’t care to be disturbed.”

“It isn’t what one wants in a murder case,” Mason said, “particularly when the newspapers get started.”

“But I have nothing to do with any murder case.”

“You probably think that,” Mason said, “but the facts indicate the opposite.”

“There are no facts indicating the opposite. I did what I did on the definite instructions of my employer.”

“Sure,” Mason said, “but the definite instructions of your employer now are going to become evidence in the case.”

“Mr. Halder told me it would be all right,” Mabel Norge said.

Mason laughed, said, “Halder is very much on the periphery. He doesn’t even know what’s going on. Now Mr. Vandling is the district attorney at Fresno. He’s the one who’s trying the case. You ring him up and see what he has to say.”

Mabel Norge was silent.

“She evidently doubts my word, Della,” Mason said. “There’s a telephone booth down by the cashier’s cage. Get Vandling on the line. Tell him that Mabel Norge is here registered under an assumed name and ask him what he wants to do about it. Perhaps it’s better to let him work through the local police and then the newspapermen can pick the thing up from the local police.”

Della Street arose.

“Got plenty of quarters?” Mason asked.

“I can get some at the cashier’s cage.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Mason said. “Get him and—”

“Don’t.” Mabel Norge said, and suddenly began to cry.

“Now wait, wait.” Mason said. “We don’t want to upset you. Miss Norge, but, good Lord, you can see the plain implications of the case. You know what Mr. Vandling will do. He finds you here registered under the name of Mabel Davenport, so it’s quite natural to assume that you were to join Mr. Davenport here. Or, rather, that he was to join you, as Mr. and Mrs. Davenport—”

“How dare you say a thing like that?”

“Why, your own conduct—good Lord, you don’t think there’s any other interpretation that the press would place upon it, do you?”

“If the press intimates anything like that I’ll … I’ll sue them.”

“Sure,” Mason said. “You can sue but what good would that do? You get up in front of a jury and some attorney starts examining you, you have to admit that you disappeared from Paradise, that you looted the Paradise bank account before you left, that you came down here and registered under the name of Mabel Davenport, and that you were waiting for Ed Davenport to join you.”