Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

Sheriff Greggory said, “Small, I want you to answer this question fairly and frankly. Do you know anything about the endorsement on the shares of stock that—”

“Just a moment,” Mason interrupted. “I am going to suggest that any statements from any of these witnesses be made where the answers can be taken down in shorthand. You’ve asked other witnesses various questions in a manner that I don’t think was fair.”

“You don’t have anything to say about my questions,” Greggory interrupted angrily. “I am conducting this investigation.”

“Go right ahead, if you feel that way about it,” Mason retorted.

Paul Drake said, “But not in a drafty hallway, please.”

“What are you doing here?” Greggory asked.

“Waiting for a drink,” Paul told him. “The hospitality with which you greeted me, all but jerking the door off its hinges, seems a most favorable omen. But I find your attitude, my dear sir, sadly at variance with the initial cordiality with which you answered the bell.”

“Get this drunk out of here,” Greggory ordered.

“On the contrary,” Mason announced. “This man has come to talk with me on a business proposition — a matter which relates to the estate of Banning Clarke, deceased. And as the executor of Banning Clarke, I have the right...”

“You come with me,” Greggory said to the reluctant Hayward Small.

Mason handed Hayward Small a key. “Go on up to Banning Clarke’s room,” he said. “You and the District Attorney can conduct your investigation up there.”

“Very good,” Greggory grunted.

They were halfway up the stairs when Mason called, “Oh, Sheriff.”

“What?”

“There’s one thing I think you should know before you proceed with that questioning.”

“What is it?”

“Something that — May I speak with you and the District Attorney for a moment, please?”

Greggory hesitated. Mason started up the stairs, said, “Go right on up to Banning Clarke’s room, Small. I just want a word with the sheriff.”

Small went on up the stairs. Mason climbed to Sheriff Greggory’s side. “Look here, Sheriff,” he said in a low voice, “there’s no need for us to get at loggerheads over this. If you’ll calm down a bit, you’ll see that I’m working toward the same end that you are. I want to solve this murder case.”

The District Attorney said, “Gentlemen, can’t we get it over with without so much friction? After all, it seems to me that all we can hope to do now is to get preliminary statements and then adjourn.”

“I want to warn you,” Mason said, “that you’d better have your interview with Hayward Small reduced to writing; otherwise, you’ll regret it.”

“I haven’t a court reporter here,” Greggory said. “This is merely a preliminary.”

“My secretary can take it.”

The sheriff’s smile was skeptical.

“That’s better than nothing,” Mason said.

The sheriff turned angrily away. “I think not,” he said. “I am beginning now to sympathize with my brother-in-law.”

“Well,” Mason announced, “anything that I say will be taken down by my secretary.”

“I don’t give a damn what you say,” Greggory told him.

“Can’t we keep the questioning on a more dignified plane?” Topham protested wearily.

“Come on,” Greggory said, and started up the stairs.

Mason, descending the stairs, grinned at Della Street. “Now,” he announced, “we’ll find out whether Pete’s psychology actually works in practice.”

Drake said, “Perry, I’m comparatively sober. The long ride in the cool of the night has brushed cobwebs from my brain, but it has also given me something of a chill. Wouldn’t it be possible for you to scare me up a drink?”

“No drink,” Mason told him. “You’re going to need to have your wits about you.”

Drake sighed. “Well, there was no harm in trying.”

“Come on,” Mason said in a low voice. “Give me the low-down. What have you found out?”

“I assume,” Drake said with alcoholic verbosity, “that you wished me to pump the gentleman who accompanied me from Mojave — to turn him inside out, as it were.”

“I did.”

“Your wishes have been followed to the letter.”

“What did you find out?”

“Small has some hold over Bradisson.”

“How long has he had this hold?”

“That,” Drake admitted, “is something that also occurred to me. I realized that one could hardly expect the man to tell me the nature of his strangle hold on Bradisson, but that there might be other and more devious ways of getting the information. I therefore endeavored to ascertain the exact date when Small first became acquainted with Bradisson. Now, Small only met Bradisson in January of nineteen forty-two, and almost immediately moved right into the charmed circle.”

“January of nineteen forty-two, eh?” Mason said musingly.

“That’s right. He—”

A door opened explosively in the upper corridor. Pounding feet came toward the head of the stairs.

“Sounds like our impulsive sheriff,” Drake observed.

Greggory shouted, “Mason, come up here!”

“The summons is a bit peremptory,” Drake observed. “I’m afraid, Perry, you’ve been doing it again.”

Mason nodded to Della Street, then halfway up the stairs said, “You’d better come along, Paul. I may want a witness.”

“Your assignments,” Drake said, “range from the sublime to the ridiculous. How in hell can I climb stairs?”

As Mason entered the room, Greggory indignantly pointed at the typewriter. “What the devil is this?” he demanded.

“Why,” Mason said, “the notes of the investigation you made...”

“But I made no such investigation.”

Mason looked nonplused. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sheriff. Della Street certainly took down...”

Greggory’s face purpled. “Damn it, don’t try to pull that innocent stuff with me. You’ve interfered in this case too damn much. I’m conducting this investigation, and I’ll conduct it in my own way.”

“Yes, Sheriff. Certainly.”

“The idea of leaving that sheet of paper there in the typewriter. What are you trying to do?”

Mason turned to Della Street reproachfully. “Della, I thought the sheriff told you to get all of those papers cleaned out of this room and then lock it.”

Della’s eyelashes lowered demurely on her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Topham glanced from Mason to the sheriff. There was quiet reproach in his eyes.

Mason said, “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” as one apologizing for a justifiable oversight.

The sheriff’s anger made him all but inarticulate. “I tell you I didn’t conduct any investigation here. I merely had an informal inquiry before you got here, Topham.”

“Yes, of course,” Mason agreed hastily — too hastily, in fact. “You wouldn’t want to investigate without Mr. Topham.”

Harvey Small’s restless eyes moved from face to face, missing no flicker of expression, taking in every word that was said.

Mason nudged Della Street quite obviously.

Della said hastily, “That’s right, Mr. Topham. There wasn’t any investigation. I’m sorry.”

Mason ripped the page out of the typewriter, said to Small, “It’s a mistake. We’re sorry, Sheriff.”

Greggory glared at Mason. “You’ll pay for this. You’ll...”

“But I told you I was sorry. My secretary shouldn’t have left it here. We’ve apologized. We’ve told Small that there wasn’t any investigation. We’ve told Topham that. We’ve all agreed on it. You say there wasn’t any, and we say there wasn’t any. Now, what more do you want? The more you say now, the more suspicious you make your witness.”