Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

Mason said, “You don’t know what hold it is that Small has over Jim Bradisson, do you?”

“No, sir, I don’t, but it’s a hold all right. You can take it from me, Jim Bradisson is afraid of Hayward Small. It’s some sort of blackmail.”

“You don’t really think Small is a proper person to be Dorina’s husband, do you?”

“I’ll say he ain’t. If I’d been here, he’d never have had the nerve to go to Nevada with her.”

“But they didn’t get married?”

“The way I get the story,” Sims said with a grin, “that soldier boy that’s been sort of sweet on Dorina got himself a twenty-four-hour leave and was sort of hanging around Las Vegas — and I guess when the soldier got done with him, Hayward Small decided he wasn’t going to marry anybody. He didn’t feel like a bridegroom. He’s still got quite an eye on him.”

Mason said, “Well, I guess that covers it, Pete. Thanks a lot.”

Pete got eagerly to his feet. “Mr. Mason, I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to me to talk right frank with someone that can really understand. If you’ve ever got any desert property you want to get rid of at a fancy price — No, you wouldn’t have; but if there’s ever anything I can do, you just call on me.”

When he had gone, Mason grinned over at Della Street.

“We’re going to use some of Pete’s psychology,” he said. “Feed some stationery in your portable typewriter. Put it up on that desk — right under the light.”

“How many copies?” Della asked.

“One,” Mason said.

“What is it,” she asked, “a document for someone to sign, a letter, or...”

“It’s a piece of claim salting,” Mason announced, “and we’re going to let the sucker discover it. Our interview with Pete Sims is going to be highly productive.”

Della Street ratcheted the paper into the machine, held her fingers poised over the keyboard.

Mason said, “We’ll start this in the middle of a sentence up near the top of the page. Put a page number on it — make it page twenty-two, and then put just below that, ‘Transcript of statements made to Sheriff Greggory!’”

Della Street’s fingers rippled the keyboard into a swift staccato of noise. When she paused, Mason said, “Just down below that, write Continuation of statement of James Bradisson . — All right, now let’s start the top of the page in the middle of a sentence, say, ‘that is, to the best of my knowledge and belief.’ — Now then, make a paragraph and put Question by sheriff: ‘Then you are prepared to swear, Mr. Bradisson, that you saw Hayward Small tampering with the sugar bowl?’ Answer: ‘I did. Yes, sir.’ Paragraph. Question: ‘You not only saw him put the note under the sugar bowl, but you are willing to swear you saw him raise the lid of the sugar bowl?’ Paragraph. Answer: ‘I did. Yes, sir. But T want you to remember that there are certain reasons why I must not be called as a witness until the time of trial. Once you get him before a jury, I’ll be the surprise witness that will get a conviction. I can afford to go on the stand when you’ve already made a case against him, but you’ll have to make up a case against him based on other testimony than mine.’ Paragraph. Statement by Sheriff Greggory: ‘I understand that, Mr. Bradisson. I’ve told you that we would try to respect your confidence. However, I can’t promise definitely. Now, about the arsenic. You say that Pete Sims had told him about having a supply of arsenic on hand?’ Answer: ‘That’s right. Sims wanted to use it in connection with some gold treatment, but Small told him not to use it, that he could get some of the black gold Sims wanted elsewhere.’ Paragraph. Question: ‘Who told you that?’ Paragraph. Answer: ‘Sims.’ Paragraph. Question: ‘Hayward Small never confirmed that?’ Paragraph. Answer: ‘Not in so many words, no.’ ”

“Getting down to the end of the page?” Mason asked Della Street.

“Right at the end,” she said.

“All right,” Mason said. “Leave that in the typewriter. Leave the light on. Take your brief case with you. Now, wait a minute. We’ll want to plant some cigarette stubs around here as though the room had been used for a conference. Tear some cigarettes in two. We’ll light them and leave stubs around.

“It’s touch-and-go, Della. If the sheriff ever thinks to question Dorina about whether she knows anything about the signing of the endorsement on that stock certificate, the fat’s in the fire.”

Della Street looked at him curiously. “Did Hayward Small poison the sugar?” she asked.

Mason smiled. “Ask Mrs. Sims what the proverb is about the goose that lays the golden eggs coming home to roost.”

“Then why are you putting that in the written statement?”

Mason’s face was suddenly serious. “To the best of my ability,” he said, “I am carrying out the wishes of a dead client.”

Sheriff Greggory plunged ahead with his midnight investigation with the bulldog tenacity of a man who has both rugged health and stubborn determination. District Attorney Topham, on the other hand, plainly felt that the matter could well have waited until Monday morning. He hadn’t the physical stamina to waste energy arguing the matter, however, and showed his disapproval only by the passive resignation of his countenance and the manner in which he kept himself in the psychological background.

Sheriff Greggory looked at his watch. “It shouldn’t be long, now,” he said. “I’m going to get at the bottom of certain phases of this matter before leaving here.”

Mason stretched his hands high above his head. He yawned, smiled at the District Attorney, and said, “Personally, I see no reason for such nocturnal haste.”

The District Attorney lowered and raised his eyelids with slow deliberation. “I think we should place a limit on it.”

“The limit,” Greggory said, “will be when we find out what’s been going on around here. There’s evidence that the signature on those stock certificates is not the signature of Banning Clarke.” He glowered at Mason.

Once more Mason yawned. “If you ask me,” he said, “the place fairly reeks with mysteries. If Banning Clarke was dying with poison and had only a few gasps left in his system, why did someone have to hurry it along with a .38 caliber automatic? What could Clarke have done with those last few breaths that would have been so devastating to the one who fired the shot?

“And what are you going to do if you do find the poisoner? He’ll claim the murderer was the man who fired the gun. And how about that person? He’ll claim the victim was suffering from a fatal dose of poison. On the whole, gentlemen, you have a tough nut to crack.”

The chimes at the front door tinkled into noise.

“I’ll open it,” Mason said.

Greggory pushed past him, jerked the door back.

An inebriated Paul Drake elevated a long forefinger, then brought it down on a level with the surprised sheriff’s coat lapel.

“ Never jerk a door open like that,” Paul reproached. “If your guests should fall in, flat on their faces, they could bring suit.”

“Who are you?” the sheriff demanded. “Oh yes — I know now. You’re the man who found the mine.”

“ ‘Discovered’ is a better word, Sheriff. Finding implies an element of luck. Discovery denotes planning and—”

“Oh, there’s Small. Come on in, Small. I want to question you.”

Small extended his hand. “How are you, Sheriff? I hardly expected to find you here. How are you?” he greeted. “And Mr. Mason. Good evening, Mr. Mason. I brought a friend with me.”