Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Buried Clock

“I think it would be a good idea.”

“To the sheriff’s office?”

“Yes. Jameson, the resident deputy, is a pretty decent sort. You might get in touch with him. You can tell him about the piece you found. I’ll tell him about the one I found.”

Lola Strague smiled. “Much as I would like to hang around and wear my welcome out, I think I’d better be getting back. And, since I didn’t find anything, I won’t say anything to anyone.”

Mason watched her walking down the trail, a slight smile twinkling at his eye corners. Then he turned to Harley Raymand, said, “I want to look around a little, and I’d better do it before sundown... Where do cars customarily park up here?”

“Just about any place, I believe,” Raymand replied. “I’m a little out of touch with things, but before I left, and when they’d have parties up here, people parked their cars wherever they found shade. There’s eighty acres in the tract, which makes for quite a bit of individuality in parking automobiles.”

Mason digested that information. “When I was here this morning, I noticed the deputy sheriff’s car was parked under that tree. Did it stay in that one place?”

“Yes. Later on, when the Los Angeles men arrived during the first part of the afternoon and took the body away, they parked their cars right close to the porch on that side.”

Mason strolled over to look at the tracks along the road, then walked leisurely to the back of the cabin. “This seems to be a fairly level place—”

“It’s reserved for barbecues,” Raymand said. “At least it was the last time I was a regular visitor here.”

“Nevertheless,” Mason observed, “a car seems to have swung around here, a car which left very distinct tire prints.”

“That’s right,” Raymand agreed. “Those prints of two wheels certainly are distinct.”

“The rear wheels,” Mason pointed out. “You can see where they crossed over the tracks of the other wheels... You don’t know when those tracks were made, do you, Raymand?”

“No sir, I don’t. I got up here quite a bit after dark last night, and — wait a minute. I know they weren’t here yesterday afternoon, because I walked around back of the house to go to the spring. I’m quite certain I’d have noticed it if these car tracks had been here then.”

Mason half closed his eyes in thoughtful contemplation. “Oh well, I guess the police have covered the ground... Just ran by to see how you were making it, Raymand. I’ll be at the hotel in case anything turns up.”

Myrna Payson’s ranch was some two miles beyond the point where the road turned off to the Blane cabin. Here the country changed to a rolling plateau, with little tree-filled valleys and several small lakes. In the distance, the peaks of mountains that bordered the plateau lifted crests that were some eight thousand feet above sea level.

Up here on the plateau, away from the shadows of the mountains, there was still enough sunlight, when Mason turned his car into the gate marked “M Bar P,” to turn the winding graveled road to a ribbon of reddish gold. An old-fashioned picket fence cast long, barred shadows. A sagging gate that hung disconsolately from one hinge reminded Mason somehow of a weary pack horse standing with its weight on three legs.

The house was a roomy, old-fashioned structure, weathered and paintless.

Mason parked his car, climbed three steps to a somewhat rickety porch, and, seeing no doorbell, knocked loudly.

He heard motion on the inside. Then the door was opened, and an attractive woman in the early thirties was sizing him up with curious eyes.

“Miss Payson?” Mason asked.

“Mrs. Payson. I’m a widow,” she corrected. “Won’t you come in?”

She had taken care of her figure, her skin, her hands and her dark hair. Her nose was perhaps a bit too upturned. Her mouth required makeup to keep the lips from seeming a shade too full. Her eyes looked out on life with a quizzical, slightly humorous expression, and she was quite evidently interested in people and things.

It was, Mason decided as he accepted her invitation and entered the house, an interest which would make this woman very fascinating. This was not the eager curiosity of the youngster, nor the exploitation of the adventuress, but rather the appraisal of one who has acquired a perspective, has lost all fear that events may get out of hand, and is quite frankly curious to see what new experiences life has to offer.

Mason said, “Aren’t you a little afraid, being out here alone like this?”

“Of what?”

“Of strangers.”

She laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid of anything or anyone in my life... And I’m not alone.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “There’s a bunkhouse out here about fifty yards. I have three of the toughest bowlegged cowpunchers you ever saw. And you have, perhaps, overlooked the dog under the table.”

Mason took a second look. What was apparently a patch of black shadows proved on closer inspection to be a shaggy substance that was taking in everything that was happening with watchful, unwinking eyes.

Mason laughed. “I will amend my statement about your being alone.”

“ ‘Spooks’ doesn’t look formidable,” she said, “but he’s a living example of still water running deep. He never growls, never barks, but believe me, Mr. Mason, I have only to give him a signal and he’d come out of there like a steel spring.”

“You know who I am, then?” Mason asked.

“Yes. I’ve seen your photograph in the papers, had you pointed out to me once or twice in night clubs... I presume you want to ask me about what I saw when Rod and I went to town last night.”

Mason nodded.

She smiled. “I’m afraid it won’t do any good to ask.”

“Why not?”

“In the first place,” she said, slowly and distinctly, “I sympathize with that woman. I sympathize with her very, very much. In the second place, I wasn’t interested in what she had in her hand. I was fascinated by what I saw on her face.”

“What did you see on her face?” Mason asked.

She smiled. “And I know enough to realize that’s not proper evidence, Mr. Mason. I don’t think a court would let me testify to that, would it? Doesn’t it call that opinion evidence, or a conclusion, or something of the sort?”

Mason smiled. “You’re not in court, and I am very much interested in what you saw on her face. I don’t know but what I’d be even more interested in that than in what she had in her hand.”

Myrna Payson narrowed her eyes, as though trying to recall some vague memory into sharp focus. Abruptly she said, “But I haven’t offered you a drink. How inhospitable of me!”

“No drink,” Mason said, “not now, thanks. I’m very much interested in what you saw in Milicent Hardisty’s face.”

“Or a cigarette?”

“I have my own, thank you.”

“Well now, let’s see,” Mrs. Payson said thoughtfully, “just how I can describe it... It was a fascinating expression, the expression of a woman who has found herself, who has reached a decision and made a renunciation.”

“That sounds rather definite and deliberate.”

“Well?”

“The story, as I gathered it, is that Mrs. Hardisty was completely hysterical and emotionally upset.”

Mrs. Payson shook her head. “Definitely not.”

“You’re certain?”

“Well, of course, Mr. Mason, when it comes to reading facial expressions, we all have our own ideas, but I’ve been interested in faces and in emotions. I have a very definite idea about Mrs. Hardisty from what I saw. And it’s not anything I’m going to tell in court”