Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

She didn’t say anything when he lapsed into silence. A few seconds later she heard the even, regular breathing of an exhausted man dropping off into the contentment of much-needed slumber.

Noiselessly, she raised herself to her feet, moved as silently as she could through the soft sand until she was half a dozen steps away, then she turned to look back at him, a wistful tenderness in her eyes as she saw the moonlight caressing the careworn features relaxed in sleep.

For a moment she stood looking down at him, then she turned and walked quietly toward the big house which had always been so distasteful to its owner. She invaded a guest room, folded a couple of heavy blankets over her arm, returned to the cactus garden, tiptoed up to the sleeping physician and very gently placed the blankets over him, using the deft skill of a trained nurse so that no pressure would rouse him.

Then she hurried back to the house, looked in on Perry Mason, then on Della Street. Then, going into the library, she dialed Operator and said, “Police Headquarters, please. I wish to report an attempted homicide.”

Lieutenant Tragg of the Metropolitan Police Force seated himself on the edge of Perry Mason’s bed. The motion of the bedsprings, due to his weight, caused Mason to open his eyes.

“Hello,” Mason said. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Tragg grinned at him. “Believe it or not, I’m on my vacation.”

“It’s optional with me?” Mason asked, his voice showing weakness.

“What is?”

“Whether I believe it or not.”

Tragg laughed outright. “It happens to be the truth, Mason. My brother-in-law’s the sheriff here. I’ve been on a fishing trip, dropped in on my way back to leave a few trout with my sister — and the telephone call came in about the poisoning. Sam Greggory, my brother-in-law, wanted me to take a hand. I told him nothing doing. I have enough of that sort of stuff in my own bailiwick without trying to borrow trouble. Then he explained to me that his latest victims were from my home town. Perry Mason and Miss Della Street, his secretary. You can imagine my reaction. I couldn’t miss a set-up like that.”

Mason’s eyelids fluttered. He tried a grin, but it was only a grimace. “I’m a little groggy. I think they’ve given me a hypodermic. Tell me the truth, now, Tragg, are you real, or are you just part of the drug-induced nightmare?”

“I’m part of the nightmare.”

“That’s what I thought. It’s a big relief.”

“How does it seem to be the victim, for once?”

“Terrible.”

“Well, you’ve had it coming to you for a long while. You’ve been sticking up for criminals and now you can see the other side of the picture.”

Mason roused himself. “Not 'sticking up for criminals’,” he protested indignantly. “I have never stuck up for any criminal. I have merely asked for the orderly administration of an impartial justice.”

“Taking advantage of all the technicalities, of course,” Tragg said.

Mason’s voice was blurred as that of a man who talks in his sleep, but there was no fumbling over words. “Why not? The law is technical. Any man-made rule is technical. You make a line of demarcation between what is prescribed and what is prohibited, and you will always have borderline cases that seem so close to each other as to be absurd. And furthermore, Lieutenant — furthermore.... I’ll thank you to remember that my clients are not criminals until they’ve been convicted by juries — and so far, that hasn’t happened... Guess I just had that hypo... I’m shaking it off.”

Tragg said curiously, “I suppose you will be telling me next that the person who slipped that poison into your sugar is entitled to the benefit of all the safeguards of the law.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you feel any resentment?”

“I couldn’t feel enough resentment against anyone to ask that due legal process be disregarded. Due legal process is my own safeguard against being convicted unjustly. To my mind, that’s government. It’s law and order. Damn it, Tragg, can you understand what I’m saying?”

“Sure.”

“My mind is clear,” Mason said, “but my tongue seems a foot thick. You’ve cleared the fuzz out of my brain, but the words seem to get garbled as my tongue wrestles with them. However, I’m getting better and stronger every minute. How’s Della?”

“Doing fine.”

“What time is it?”

“Around midnight.”

“Where’s Banning Clarke? How is he?”

“No one knows. He isn’t here. Now let’s finish this question of ethics. Would you be able to pocket your individual resentment enough to defend whoever my brother-in-law arrests for putting poison in the sugar?”

“Why not?”

“Even if you thought that person guilty?”

Mason said, somewhat wearily, “The law guarantees a person a trial by jury, Tragg. If I should refuse to defend someone because I thought him guilty, that would be a trial by Perry Mason, not a trial by jury. Of course, the accused wouldn’t want me to represent him. Why do you say the poison was in the sugar? Is that just a guess?”

“No. We’ve found white arsenic in the sugar bowl.”

“All through the sugar?”

“No. Apparently some had been scattered on the top of the sugar bowl. Looks as if the poisoner hadn’t had time to mix it in with the contents of the bowl, but had just dumped it on top.”

Mason struggled up to a sitting position in the bed. His eyes were clear now, his words crisp. “Look here, Tragg, that can’t be right.”

“What can’t be?”

“The sugar.”

“What about it?”

“It happens that Della Street and I both take sugar in our tea. So does Banning Clarke. Now Clarke had already eaten his dinner. He said he’d have a cup of tea with us and the housekeeper served him his tea first. He took two big teaspoonfuls from the top of the sugar bowl, then Della and I both had sugar when our tea was served. After that, Nell Sims helped herself to a cup of tea and I distinctly remember she put two full spoonfuls of sugar in it. Then, as I remember it, there were several more cups all around. At least Della, Banning Clarke and I had a couple of refills. If arsenic had been put in the top of the sugar bowl and hadn’t been mixed with the sugar lower down, I doubt if you could have recovered very much from what sugar was left in the sugar bowl.”

“Well, we did. We—” Tragg broke off suddenly. He looked up, grinned, said, “Come on in, Sam. I want you to meet my own particular thorn in the flesh. Sam, this is Perry Mason, the noted lawyer, the man who has upset my apple cart several times.”

Sam Greggory, a powerful, thick-set man with a good-natured grin and steel-hard eyes, crossed the room to shake hands with Perry Mason. “I’ve always wanted to meet you,” he admitted.

“Now don’t tell him that you’ve followed his cases with such great interest,” Tragg said. “That sort of talk spoils him.”

“Not at all,” Greggory said. “My interest has been purely one of family connection. I’ve always wanted to see the man who could get the Lieutenant’s goat and keep it the way you’ve done.”

“Ouch,” Tragg said. “I should have known better than to lead with my chin on that one.”

“What,” Mason asked, “does the housekeeper say, and is she poisoned?”

“The housekeeper, so far, has said nothing,” Tragg said, “and we don’t know whether she’s poisoned for the simple reason that we haven’t been able to find her. Apparently her daughter’s out getting married, and it’s my hunch Mamma is on the long-distance telephone somewhere trying to stop it. Mrs. Bradisson and her son James evidently went out with an attorney by the name of Moffgat. They’re having a conference somewhere. Apparently they’re afraid you might have a dictograph concealed in the walls here.”