Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

“Everything’s okay if you’re feeling all right.”

“I’m better,” she said. “My gosh, wasn’t that the most awful experience? — What time is it?”

“Getting along toward four o’clock,” Mason said switching on the light.

“I’ve been sleeping quite a little while. I remember the nurse was in here. She gave me a hypodermic. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m wobbly,” Mason admitted. “You knew that Banning Clarke was dead?”

“Yes. Miss Starler told me they’d found him — but he wasn’t poisoned. As I understand it, he’d been killed by a bullet.”

“An interesting legal situation,” Mason said sitting down on the edge of her bed. “Want a cigarette?”

“No, thanks. My mouth still has a peculiar taste. I don’t think I’d enjoy it. — What about the legal situation?”

“Suppose,” Mason said, “I should give you a dose of poison and you should die. That would be murder, wouldn’t it?”

She laughed. “Sometimes when I’ve made mistakes I think it would be justifiable homicide. But go on. What’s the idea?”

“But,” Mason went on, “suppose that before the poison had quite resulted in death, someone came along, whipped out a gun, fired a fatal shot, and made his escape. — Who is guilty of murder?”

Della Street frowned. “Both of them,” she ventured.

Mason shook his head. “Not unless there’s a joint venture, or a conspiracy. In the absence of any joint effort, or any conspiracy, only one could be convicted of murder.”

“Which one?”

“Figure it out.”

“I can’t. You mean that the victim would have enough poison so that he’d surely die?”

“That’s right.”

“And was actually dying?”

“Yes. Only be a matter of minutes — perhaps seconds.”

Della Street said, “Well, in any event, I’m not going to bother about it now. I have other things to think of. You should wake me up at four o’clock in the morning to propound legal puzzles! Get out of here and let me dress. I take it you want to leave?”

Mason got up off the bed. “We,” he announced, “have work to do.”

“What sort of work?”

“I think,” he told her, “that what I am about to do is something that would be very irritating to Sam Greggory.”

Mason paused in the doorway of the bedroom. “You’re sure you are feeling well enough to travel?”

“Yes. I’m all right now. I felt, for a while, like a dishrag that had been tied in knots.”

“Tell you what I want you to do, Della. Cover me while I go into this room down the hall, will you?”

“What do I do?”

“Stand here in the doorway. If you hear anyone coming, act as though you were just on the point of stepping out in the hall, start a conversation and—”

“But suppose that person goes into that room?”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take. I can’t avoid that. What I want to prevent is having anyone see me entering Banning Clarke’s room or emerging from it.”

“Okay. It doesn’t make any difference who it is, you don’t want anyone to know you’re in there?”

“That’s right.”

“If Lieutenant Tragg should come back, I’ll have trouble. He’ll want to know just where you are.”

“Yes,” Mason said. “All we can do is pray. Raise your voice and greet whoever it is by name so I’ll have a chance to know just what I’m up against. All ready?”

“Give me a few minutes to get my clothes on.”

“No. I can’t wait. I’m going to pop in that door now. Cover me. You can dress while you’re keeping an eye on the corridor. All ready. Here I go.”

Mason left the doorway, moved quietly down the corridor until he came abreast of the bedroom in which he had seen Mrs. Bradisson sitting at the desk. The door of this room was closed now. Mason opened it abruptly, darted into the room, closing the door behind him, and waiting for a moment, listening to see if Della Street gave any signal.

When he heard nothing, Mason clicked on the light switch near the door, flooding the room with brilliance, and went over to the roll-top desk. He had no difficulty finding the legal paper which Mrs. Bradisson had placed in the pigeonhole.

Mason unfolded it. It was a will dated the twelfth of July, 1941, apparently entirely in the handwriting of Banning Clarke. The will left everything to his beloved wife, Elvira, or “in the event she should predecease me, then to her lawful heirs at law-excluding, however, James Bradisson from any share in my said estate.”

Mason wasted only a few seconds on the will. He hastily glanced through it, returned it to the pigeonhole in the desk, and then set himself to the task of finding what had caused the pounding noises he had heard after he had left the room.

Mason first gave the carpet a careful scrutiny. There was nothing to indicate that it had been lifted and then replaced. He tried all the edges, carefully inspected the corners. There were half a dozen framed photographs in the room. Mason moved them out from the walls, scrutinized the backs of the picture frames to see if the brads which held the cardboard in place had been removed and then replaced.

At the end of his search he could find no indication that any of the pictures had been tampered with.

There was no evidence that any nails or any tacks had been pounded into the walls. Mason turned chairs upside down, looked on the bottoms, looked also on the bottom of the table. He then lay down on the floor, flat on his back, and ran his hand along the under side of the drawer containers in the roll-top desk. When he found nothing here, he pulled out the drawers one by one, taking them entirely out of the desk and tilting them enough so he could see the bottom part of each drawer.

It was on the bottom of the lower drawer on the left-hand side that Mason found what he was looking for.

This was an old-fashioned desk made of the finest materials throughout, and the bottoms of the desk drawers were of a hard wood, which had made it necessary for Mrs. Bradisson to pound the thumbtacks in order to make certain they were driven in to the heads. This, Mason realized, accounted for the pounding noises he had heard.

It took Mason a few moments to empty the drawer of its contents, then turn the drawer bottom side up and inspect the document which had been laid out flat, and, in that position, fastened to the bottom of the drawer.

It was a will dated the preceding day. It was entirely in handwriting — an angular, somewhat cramped hand.

Mason opened the blade of his pocketknife, started to pry off the thumbtacks, then paused long enough to read the will.

The will read:

I, Banning Clarke, realizing, not only because of precarious health, but also because of certain sinister influences at work around me, that I may die suddenly and with no opportunity to pass on vital information to those whom I cherish, make this my last will and testament in words and figures as follows, to-wit:

First: I revoke all previous wills made by me.

Second: I give, devise and bequeath to Perry Mason the sum of two thousand five hundred dollars, which I trust will be accepted by the said Perry Mason in the nature of a fee to see that my wishes are carried out, and I leave it to his shrewd judgment and understanding to determine what these wishes are.

Third: I give, devise and bequeath to my nurse, Velma Starler, the sum of two thousand five hundred dollars.

Fourth: I give, devise and bequeath all of the rest, residue and remainder of my property to P. C. (Salty) Bowers, my friend and for years my partner.

There is one other person for whom I wish to provide, but I am unable to do so because any attempt to put a proper provision in my will would defeat its own purpose. I am leaving it to the perspicacity of my executor to understand what I have in mind. And as the only clue which I dare to give, I warn my executor that there is danger of the drowsy mosquito robbing of a valuable heritage the person I wish to benefit.