Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Buried Clock

“But if he walked in the reddish clay, why didn’t it stick to his shoes?”

“That’s exactly it. He either took off his shoes and socks, and walked in there barefooted, or else cleaned his shoes afterwards.”

“Good Heavens, why?”

Mason grinned and said, “Perhaps ninety thousand dollars in cash would be the answer.”

“Oh, I see... Do you want me to point that out to Mr. Raymand?”

“Definitely not.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Tell Raymand to make a search for that clock, keep listening for the sound of ticking. If he gets his hands on the clock again, have him bring it to me at once.”

“Okay,” Della Street said, “I’ll start Raymand out. Any—”

“Yes. Here’s something I want you to do with Paul Drake. It’s going to be tricky, but he can put it across.”

“What?”

“Under that section of the penal code, the jurisdiction lies in either Kern County or Los Angeles County. Now, if Paul Drake could get some newspaper reporter to put a bug in the ear of the district attorney of Kern County that this was going to be a spectacular case, with a chance for big notoriety and a possibility of political advancement for the district attorney who tries it — well, you know how it is. That’s the sort of thing that prosecutors in small counties eat up.”

“Then you want the case to be tried in Kern County?”

“No. I want each county to think the other is trying to steal the show.”

“I’ll tell Paul to fix it up. Anything else?”

“I think,” Mason told her, “that will be enough.”

Harley Raymand realized with some surprise that the events of the day had not dragged him down as much as he had anticipated. His sleep in the cool, crisp air at the mountain cabin had rested his nerves and given him the feeling that he was “over the hump.”

The sheriff’s office had been very thorough. The mattress and bedding had been removed from the bed and taken to Los Angeles for expert examination. Harley gathered there was quite a question in the minds of the authorities as to whether Hardisty had been shot while he was lying in the bed, or whether the body had been transferred to the bed within a short time after the murder had been committed... And now Harley was working with definite objectives in mind: to find moist, reddish-brown clay — to find the clock — to locate the spade which had been in Hardisty’s car, and, in general, to pick up any stray clues which might have been overlooked by the police — those things which a person actually living in a place might notice, but which would escape the attention of a more casual investigator.

Vincent Blane had asked him if it would make him nervous staying alone in a cabin where a murder had been committed... Harley smiled every time he thought of that; he who had been trained to carry on while comrades were shot down all around him; he who had become so familiar with death that it had ceased to inspire him even with healthy respect, let alone fear, being afraid to sleep in a cabin simply because a man had been shot in it!

The rays of afternoon sunlight were once more slanting across from ridge to ridge while the valleys cradled purple shadows. Harley strolled across the pine-scented, sloping flat where the clock had been buried. Whoever had removed that clock had made a very cunning and thoroughly workmanlike job of replacing dirt in the hole, tamping it down, cleaning up each particle of surplus earth, and spreading moss and pine needles over the place.

Not only was there no sign of the clock, but Harley was forced to admit that if he, himself, had not seen the buried box at this particular place, he would have doubted the word of anyone who told him a clock had been buried there.

The moss and pine needles were a cushion under his feet.

The tall, straight trees caught the golden sunlight, cast long shadows... Some sparkling object reflected the sun’s rays with scintillating brilliance and a rim of color.

Harley moved over toward the rock outcropping, with the realization that the object reflecting the sun’s rays must have come from a seam in the rock.

Upon approaching the rock, however, he could find nothing that could have caused the reflection. The seam in the rock held a threadlike line of pine needles which would furnish a background of dark green contrast to any metallic object which might have been there.

Puzzled, Harley retraced his steps to the point where he had first seen the shimmer of reflected sunlight, and moved back and forth, up and down, until suddenly he once more caught the glittering reflection. This time, he marked the place carefully and walked toward it without taking his eyes from it.

Just as he reached the rock, something urged him to turn.

Lola Strague was less than twenty feet behind him.

“Hello,” she said with a little laugh, “what are you zig-zagging back and forth about?”

Slightly irritated, Harley said, “And may I ask what you were stalking?”

“Was I stalking?”

“You were very quiet.”

“Perhaps your attention was concentrated on what you were doing, and you didn’t hear me.”

Harley became dignified. “Were you,” he asked, “looking for me?”

“Not definitely.”

“Then may I ask what you were looking for?”

She laughed. “I presume, when you come right down to it, I’m a trespasser, although the property lines aren’t very clearly marked around here. No fences, or signs, you know... And I found a gun here earlier in the day. That should give me the right to return.”

“I’m not worried about the trespassing,” he said, “but I had the distinct impression you were looking for something, and that you were being just a bit — well, furtive.”

“Did you, indeed! That interests me a lot. Do you trust the impressions you form that way, or do you find they are sometimes misleading? I’m collecting data for an article I intend to write on the subject.”

He said, “I trust my impressions. My first impression was that you were looking for something, just as my present impression is that you are stalling around, trying to avoid answering my question until you can think up just the right answer.”

She laughed. “I guess your impressions are all right, Mr. Raymand. I’ll be fair with you. I was looking for the clock.”

“And why so interested in it?”

“I don’t know. I’m always interested in the mysterious, in those things that aren’t explained... And now, since I’ve answered your question, I’ll ask you one. What are you looking for?”

“Health, rest, fresh air and relaxation,” he said.

Her eyes were laughing at him. “Go on.”

“And the clock,” he admitted.

“And why were you so interested in the clock?”

“Because I have an idea the police are half convinced that I’m lying about it.”

“You had a witness, didn’t you?”

“Adele Blane, yes.”

Lola Strague made her next question casual — perhaps just a little too casual. “Where is Adele Blane now?” she asked.

Harley frowned, said, “I presume she’s trying to get in contact with Milicent — Mrs. Hardisty, you know. That’s her sister.”

“I see,” Lola said, making the words sound quite unconvincing. “Wasn’t she up here last night?”

“She was up here with me yesterday afternoon.”

“And she came back afterwards?”

“I don’t know. I went to the hotel and slept.”

The tall, slender girl moved over to the outcropping, adjusting her pliable young body to the irregularities of the rock. Her eyes regarded Harley Raymand with disconcerting steadiness. “Are you going to join us up here, or are you just vacationing?”