Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

I nominate Perry Mason executor of this, my last will and testament, to serve without bond. I direct his attention to that which he will find in the right-hand small drawer in the upper pigeonhole compartment of the desk. It is the only clue I have so far been able to find, but it is highly significant.Entirely written, dated, and signed in the hand of the undersigned testator,

Mason opened the little drawer described in the will. The drawer contained only a small glass phial. A few fine flakes of gold still adhered to the bottom of this bottle. But the thing that arrested Mason’s attention was the only other thing in that bottle — a mosquito.

Even as the lawyer turned the bottle, the mosquito moved its legs slowly, gave a series of spasmodic kicks, then became motionless.

Mason unscrewed the top of the little phial, prodded the mosquito with the point of a pocket pencil.

The mosquito was dead.

Suddenly Mason’s thoughtful contemplation was disturbed by Della Street’s voice saying, “Oh, hello, Lieutenant Tragg! I was starting out to look for you. Can you tell me where Mr. Mason is?”

Mason heard Tragg say, “He’s in the downstairs bedroom at the northwest corner. You’ll find him there.”

For a moment only, Della Street hesitated, then, keeping her voice at the same high pitch, said, “Oh, so you and the sheriff weren’t looking for him , then?”

It was Sheriff Greggory who rose to the bait. “We’re going to take a look through Banning Clarke’s room,” he said. “We’re trying to find out the motive for his murder.”

Mason, working against time, prying at the heads of the tacks with his knife blade, heard Della Street say in a desperate attempt to get the men away from there, “Oh, but he’s not in that downstairs bedroom. I’ve looked there already. You don’t suppose anything could have happened to him?”

Sheriff Greggory seemed somewhat concerned. “You’re sure he’s not in the bedroom?”

“Why, yes. I looked down there about ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

Mason got the tacks out and into his pocket. He folded the will and thrust it into the inside pocket of his coat. He then pushed things back into the desk drawer striving desperately for speed, yet daring to make no sound. The little phial went into his vest pocket.

Outside he heard the conversation going on, Greggory saying, “After all, I suppose we should have... Oh well, he’s all right — probably out looking for evidence of some sort.”

“Without even coming up here to see how I was getting along?”

“Well, he may have looked in — or had a report from the nurse.”

“He’d have come up here,” Della Street asserted positively, “unless,” she added, “something has happened to him!”

The momentary silence which ensued indicated that there was a possibility Della might win a respite, but in the end it was Tragg who determined the matter. “We can just take a look in here, Sam. It’ll only take a minute. We can look up Mason later.”

“It would only take us a minute to look in on Mason.”

Tragg’s voice was weary. “For the last three years, Sam, I’ve been hoping I could get on a murder case where that guy was on the other side and at least have an even break. He’s always beating me to the punches. This time he’s laid up with a dose of poison and I intend to make my hay while the sun is shining. Come on, Sam, let’s take a look... right now.”

Mason replaced the desk drawer, settled back in the swivel chair, put his feet up on the desk, dropped his chin on his chest and remained motionless with his eyes closed, breathing deeply.

He heard the doorknob open, heard Sam Greggory say in surprise, “The light’s on here.” Then Tragg, “Well, for the love of Mike! Look who’s here!”

Mason kept his head on his chest, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and regular.

Greggory said to Della Street, “Well, here he is, Miss Street.”

Della’s exclamation of surprise was, Mason thought, superbly done.

Tragg said, “Well, here we go again. The same old run-around. I suppose that if there were any clues in the place he’s got them by this time.”

Greggory said, “He doesn’t get away with that in this county. If he’s so much as touched anything in this room he’ll find out he can’t pull that stuff in this county and get away with it.”

Mason kept his face absolutely devoid of expression, his lids closed, his breathing deep.

Tragg said, “It’s a good stall, Mason, but not good enough. You may as well go through with it, however. Put on the rest of the act. Go on, wake up in startled surprise, blink your eyes, rub them with your knuckles, ask, ‘What’s going on?’, pretend you don’t know where you are for a minute. I’ve seen it done often enough to know the whole routine... I’ve even tried it myself on occasion.”

Mason’s breathing did not vary in the slightest.

“I think you forget,” Della Street said with dignity, “that both of us have had hypodermics. I’m still groggy myself. I could hardly get awake.”

Sheriff Greggory said, “That’s right. You did have hypodermics, didn’t you? Are you feeling all right now?”

“Only groggy,” Della said. “I don’t dare close my eyes or I’d drop right off to sleep. I guess it’s all right for us to go now. The doctor didn’t say anything about how long we were to stay here.”

Mrs. Bradisson’s voice said from the doorway, “What is it, please? What’s going on here?”

“We were just looking around,” Greggory said. His voice held that deferential tone a county official reserves for an influential taxpayer.

“Well, I must say that’s rather an unusual way of doing things, isn’t it? To come walking right into my house and—”

“You see, we haven’t much time to waste,” Lieutenant Tragg interposed. “We’re doing this to protect you, Mrs. Bradisson. You and your son. We want to catch this murderer before he can strike again.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I can appreciate your point — yes.”

Mason heard Nell Sims’ voice coming from down the corridor. “What is it, another one?” she asked.

“It’s all right, Nell. You can go back to bed,” Mrs. Bradisson said.

Della Street reached forward, grabbed Mason’s shoulder and shook him. “Come on, Chief,” she said. “Snap out of it. Wake up.”

Mason mumbled indistinguishable words in a thick voice.

“It’s that hypodermic,” Della said, shaking him harder than ever. “Come on, Chief. Are you all right? Perhaps we’d better get that nurse. Oh, I hope he hasn’t had a relapse. He must have gotten that poison out of his system!”

Mason pushed his tongue into extra thickness against his teeth, made more sounds that could hardly be interpreted into words, then rolling his eyes toward the top of his head, raised his lids for a few brief flickers, closed them and slumped even lower in the chair.

Della Street kept shaking him, gently slapped his face. “Wake up, Chief,” she said. “Wake up. Tell me, are you all right?”

She dropped to her knees by his side, took his hand. Her voice was edged with anxiety. “Tell me, are you all right? — Are you all right? — Get that nurse someone, please. He’s sick.”

It was, Mason decided, a superb job of acting. Even he would have sworn there was almost a note of hysteria in the increasing anxiety manifested in Della Street’s voice.

He opened his eyes wider this time, gave Della Street a groggy smile, said thickly, “ ’S all right. Le’me sleep.”

She was on her feet at his side again now, shaking him. “Chief, you’ve got to wake up. You’ve got to snap out of it. You’ve—”