Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

“ I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Mason said. “What’s all the commotion about?”

“Surely, Mr. Mason, you understand that, entirely apart from the statute making it a crime to alter or deface an instrument of such a nature, the law provides that an instrument is property; that the taking of such an instrument constitutes larceny; that because the degree of the larceny is determined by the value of the property to be distributed by the instrument—”

“Now listen,” Mason interrupted. “I didn’t spring this before because I didn’t want to have to produce the will at this time and explain the terms of it; but I’ll tell you this: It is my position that this is a genuine will made by Banning Clarke in his handwriting, and dated the day prior to his death. I am named executor of that last will and testament. As such, it was my duty to take that will into my custody. In fact, if any other person had discovered that will — even you yourself — I could have demanded that you turn it over to me as the person named as the executor, or that you turn it over to the clerk of the probate court. Now then, try and find some flaw in the legality of that reasoning.”

Topham ran long bony fingers over his high forehead, glanced at the sheriff, twisted his position in the chair which had apparently learned to squeak a protest against the constant fidgeting of its occupant. “You are named as executor?”

“The sheriff’s own witness admits that.”

“May I see that will?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I will produce it at the proper time. I believe that under the law, although I haven’t looked it up, I have thirty days.”

The swivel chair squeaked again, this time a high-pitched drawn out sque-e-e-e-ak. The district attorney faced the sheriff. “If that’s the truth, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“No matter if he entered the house and surreptitiously removed this from the desk?” the sheriff insisted.

Mason smiled as the chair gave forth a whole series of short, sharp squeaks.

“You see,” Topham explained, “if he is executor, then he is entitled to take charge of all of the property of the deceased. It was not only his right, but his duty, to go through the effects of the decedent, and I believe that he is absolutely correct in regard to the provision of the law that the will must be surrendered either to the executor or to the county clerk.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Greggory demanded of Mason.

“You didn’t ask me.”

“Well, you weren’t dumb, were you?”

Mason said apologetically, “Sometimes when I’m embarrassed, Sheriff, I find myself a little tongue-tied. You’ll remember, Sheriff, you have threatened me with drastic action on several occasions. That embarrassed me. I became a little diffident.”

The sheriff flushed. “You’re not a damn bit diffident now,” he said angrily.

Mason smiled at the district attorney. “Because I am not a damned bit embarrassed, Sheriff.”

Mason found Della Street parked in his automobile in front of the courthouse.

“How did you come out?” she asked anxiously.

“I squeezed out,” Mason said, “through the front door, and it was a close squeak.”

“The legal wolf is chained?” she asked.

“Not chained — roped. Because the sheriff thought he had a cinch case against me on taking that will, he went after me on that. I made him so mad he forgot all about the stock certificate. But it won’t take long for him to start off on that as a new angle of approach. Hang it, at the time endorsing that stock certificate so that Moffgat couldn’t trap my client seemed the only logical thing to do. Now it seems a terrible blunder to have made.”

“How long a period of grace do you suppose we have, Chief?”

“Half an hour perhaps.”

“Then let’s start for Salty’s camp.”

“Not right away,” Mason said. “You see, Della, in that half hour we’ve got to find out who killed Banning Clarke, all about the poison and who was prowling around in the grounds the night Velma heard the drowsy mosquito. When the sheriff finally starts looking for us, we’ll be in the one place he’ll least expect to find us.”

“Banning Clarke’s house?” she asked.

Mason nodded.

“Hop in,” she said, “and hang on.”

Mrs. Sims answered the bell. “Oh, hello,” she chirped. “You’re back just in time. Long Distance is trying to get you from Castaic. I didn’t think they’d hold you long.”

Mason flashed Della Street a significant glance, entered the house and went at once to the telephone. A few moments later, he heard Paul Drake’s voice on the wire. “Hello, Perry. Are you sober?”

“Yes,” Mason said shortly.

“All right,” Drake said. “Remember, I asked you first. Now listen, Perry, I’m a little foggy, but I think a fish is nibbling at your bait.”

“Go ahead.”

“Man by the name of Hayward Small, a spindly chap with a gift of gab. Has a way of trying to look right through you. Know him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he the fish you want?”

“If he’s taking the bait, he is.”

“Someone,” Drake said, “has leaned on him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Against his left eye. It’s a beauty.”

“A shiner?”

“A mouse, a shanty.”

“What’s his proposition?”

“Says he knows that the mine I’ve discovered is on the property of the Come-Back Mining Syndicate, that he has a pull with the company; if I’ll take him into partnership on a fifty-fifty basis he’ll guarantee to get us a thirty-three percent interest as our share, and I’ll cut with him.”

“If you accept the proposition, what does he want to do?”

“I don’t know, but he’s taking me to San Roberto with him if it’s a deal. I’m on my road to Los Angeles with Harvey Brady. What do I do?”

“Does he know you’re telephoning?”

“Thinks I’m telephoning a girl in Los Angeles. It’s a booth in a restaurant. I’ve ridden this far with him.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Accept the proposition and come on down.”

“What do I do when he wants the information?”

Mason said, “Tell him you’ll draw him a map and give him the exact location when you get to San Roberto.”

“And not before?” Drake asked.

“Not unless you want to get poisoned,” Mason said and hung up.

Mrs. Sims said, “Mr. Moffgat telephoned. Seems like the company wants to settle that case. He says he can’t make a proposition directly to me because it wouldn’t be ethical, but he says we can settle.”

“Yes,” Mason announced, smiling, “I feel quite certain he wants to settle it. Where’s your husband?”

“He’s in the kitchen.”

Mason went out to where Pete Sims was sitting slumped dejectedly in a kitchen chair.

“Oh, it’s you,” Pete said.

Mason nodded. “I want to talk with you, Pete.”

“What about?”

“About Bob.”

Pete squirmed. “Bob don’t ever cause me nothing but trouble.”

Mason said, “Come with me. You haven’t seen anything yet. Bring your typewriter and brief case, Della.”

And Mason led the worried, sheepish man up the back stairs and into the room Banning Clarke had used in his lifetime.

“Sit down, Pete.”

Pete sat down. “What do you want?”

“I want to know something about claim salting.”

“What about it? I ain’t ever done any, but I know how it’s done.”

“You load a shotgun shell with little nuggets of gold?” Mason asked, “and then fire it into a ledge of quartz, and...”

Pete Sims shuddered.

“What’s the matter?” Mason asked.