Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

Ten minutes later Della Street reported that by taking a direct plane to San Francisco it would be possible to pick up a Southwest Airways plane that would arrive at Chico at seven-fifty.

“Get two reservations, Della,” Mason said, “and let’s get started.”

“Two?” she asked.

He nodded. “Don’t think I’m going to walk into this without a witness.”

Chapter 3

The DC-3 puddle-jumped the bumpy air after it left Marysville, skimming over small communities mailed by clustered lights, over the dark spaces of fertile rice fields, past the glow that marked the location of Oroville, then swept low over Chico and into the landing field.

A taxicab took Mason and Della Street up to the center of town where Mason was successful in renting an automobile on a mileage basis. They found the road to Paradise and started climbing up the long grade.

Light from a three-quarter moon showed them something of the country, brought a startled gasp from Della at the sheer beauty of the scenery as the road skirted the edge of a lava cap and they looked down into the depths of a canyon, where crags of lava threw inky black shadows.

Mason glided past the group of stores which marked the center of the community, found the road where he turned left, and had no difficulty in locating the sharp curve which was the signal for another left-hand turn.

On each side of the road were modem, livable houses, among tall pines, bordered with green lawns. Up at this elevation all of the smoke and smog of the lower valley had vanished and, despite the moonlight, the brighter stars shone with steady splendor.

Della Street took a deep breath. “Just notice the air, Chief,” she said. “Pure and pine-scented, clear as crystal. And aren’t those beautiful homesites?”

Mason nodded.

“Do you suppose Ed Davenport’s place is like these?”

“We’ll know in a minute,” Mason told her, turning the wheel to the left.

They came to the end of pavement, crunched along on a groveled road past a neat house with a green fence, and then, as the road ended, turned right on the graveled driveway which swept them through a grove of pines, past thick manzanita, a few apple and pear trees, and brought them abruptly to the porch of a house which, despite the darkness within, seemed somehow to have a friendly, homey atmosphere.

Mason switched off the lights, turned off the ignition, walked around the car, and followed Della Street up on the porch.

“Suppose we’d better ring the bell just in case?” Della asked.

Mason nodded.

Della Street’s gloved thumb pressed against the bell button. Musical chimes sounded from the interior of the house.

“Ring once more,” Mason said after an interval, “and then we’ll try the key.”

Della Street rang the second time. After some ten seconds Mason inserted the key in the lock. The bolt clicked smoothly back. Mason turned the knob and the door swung open.

“Now what?” Della Street asked. “Do we use a flashlight or—?”

“We turn on lights,” Mason told her. “Using a flashlight would indicate a surreptitious visit. A surreptitious visit would indicate a consciousness of guilt. After all, Della, we’ve drawn cards in a game where we know very little about the other players and I’m darned if I know what the limit is.”

“But we’re playing for high stakes?” Della Street asked.

“Definitely,” Mason said, groping for a light switch.

The reception hallway flooded into brilliance, showing a hat rack made of deer horns and manzanita. A Navajo rug and two rustic chairs gave the place an atmosphere of sturdy simplicity. A big, oval, antique mirror hung on the wall. The aroma of good, strong tobacco clung to the place as though someone who lived there spent much time smoking a pipe.

Mason went through the door to the left, and switched on lights in a big living room. Della Street followed him through the house, taking one room at a time, switching on the lights until the long, rambling, one-story building had been fully illuminated.

“Now what?” Della asked.

“Ostensibly,” Mason said, “we’re simply taking charge on behalf of Mrs. Davenport. Actually we’re looking for a letter which may have been concealed somewhere in the premises. The question is where?”

“It seems such a silly thing to do,” Della Street said.

“What?”

“Write a letter to be delivered to the authorities in the event of his death and then leave that letter just hanging around anyplace without making some arrangements for its delivery.”

Mason nodded.

Della Street said, “He must have made some arrangements for the delivery of that letter.”

“Exactly,” Mason told her, “which is why we’re going to start our search with the secretarial desk in this office.”

“I still don’t get it,” Della Street said.

“We’re following the wishes, in fact, the instructions of our client,” Mason told her, “and at least we’re finding out what it’s all about.”

Mason slid back the drawers in the steel desk, disclosing stationery of various sorts, carbon paper, and in a bottom drawer of the desk a whole thick file of correspondence in a jacket marked “For Filing.”

Mason glanced at the dates on some of the letters, said, “Ed Davenport’s secretary seems to feel that there’s no hurry about keeping up the files.”

“Perhaps she was waiting for enough correspondence to accumulate to make filing worthwhile.”

Mason tried the right side of the desk and found that all of the drawers were locked.

“Got a nail file, Della?”

“Are you going to try and pick that lock?”

Mason nodded.

“Chief, do we have the right to look in there?”

“Why not?” Mason asked. “We’re searching for papers for the surviving widow.”

“It seems sort of—well, we’re intruding upon someone’s privacy.”

Mason took the nail file Della Street gave him and worked away at the lock. After a few moments a bolt clicked back and the drawers on the right side of the desk came open.

“Those are personal things,” Della Street said sharply.

“I know,” Mason said, “but we’re looking specifically for—What’s this?”

“That,” Della Street said, “very definitely is a lockbox.”

Mason shook the lockbox. “There seems to be just one document in it,” he said. “This may be what we want. Despite the look on your face, Della, my curiosity is rapidly overcoming my scruples. I don’t suppose you would have such an article as a hairpin on you.”

She shook her head.

Mason tried the end of the nail file on the lock. ‘I ‘m going to need something smaller than this nail file. A little piece of stiff wire would do it.”

“Where,” Della Street asked, “did you learn that technique?”

“A client taught it to me,” Mason said, grinning. “My only fee for defending him on a burglary charge.”

“I suppose you got him acquitted.”

“He was innocent.”

“Yes, I suppose so. He learned that lock-picking in a correspondence school I take it.”

“Strangely enough,” Mason said, “he really was innocent. The lock-picking was a carry-over from his lurid past. Ah, here’s a paper clip made of good, stiff wire. Now it only remains to bend the wire, so … to insert it in the back, rotate it slightly, and—Ah, here we are, Della.”

Mason opened the lid of the box and took out a fat manila envelope. On the back of the envelope, scrawled in a firm handwriting, had been written, “To be opened in the event of my death and the contents delivered to the authorities,” and underneath the writing was the signature “Ed Davenport.”

“Now, Mr. Attorney,” Della Street said, “perhaps you can tell me the technical rules of law. Is this the property of the widow, does it belong to the authorities, or is it the property of the secretary in whose desk it was located?”