Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Buried Clock

Mason followed her back down the corridor, through the door and into a small, book-lined room, near the center of which, in a huge black leather chair, Dr. Jefferson Macon was stretched out, completely relaxed.

“Good evening,” he said. “Please be seated. Pardon me for not getting up. The exigencies of my profession are such that I must ruin my own health safeguarding the health of others. If I had a patient who lived the life I do, I’d say he was committing suicide. As it is, I have been forced to make it a rule to relax for half an hour after each meal... Kindly state what it is you wish. Be brief. Don’t be disappointed if I show no reaction whatever. I’m training myself to relax completely and shut out all extraneous affairs.”

Mason said, “That’s fine. Go ahead and relax all you want. Did Milicent Hardisty spend all the night here last night, or just part of it?”

Dr. Macon jerked himself into a rigid sitting posture. “What — what’s that?”

He was, Mason saw, a man approaching fifty, firm-fleshed, steady-eyed, slender. Yet there was in the man’s face that grayish look of fatigue which comes to those who are near the point of physical exhaustion from the strain of overwork.

Mason said, “I wanted to know whether Milicent Hardisty spent the entire night here or only part of it.”

“That’s presumptuous. That’s a dastardly insinuation! That—”

“Can you answer the question?” Mason interrupted.

“Yes, of course. I can answer it.”

“Then what’s the answer?”

“I see no reason for giving you any answer.”

Mason said, “She’s been arrested.”

“Milicent — arrested? You mean the authorities think — why, that’s shocking!”

“You knew nothing of it?” Mason asked.

“I certainly did not. I had no idea the police would be so stupid as to do anything of the sort.”

Mason said, “There’s some circumstantial evidence against her.”

“Then the evidence has been misinterpreted.”

“Go right ahead,” Mason said, motioning toward the deep cushions of the chair. “Lie right back and relax. I’ll just ask questions. You keep on relaxing.”

Dr. Macon continued to sit bolt upright.

Mason said, “Everyone’s acted on the assumption that Hardisty’s death occurred early in the evening. Quite possibly ten or fifteen minutes before deep dusk. A report’s just come in from the autopsy surgeon. They held it up until they could make a double check, because it didn’t agree with what the police thought were the facts.”

Dr. Macon stroked the tips of his fingers across his cheek. “May I ask what the report indicated?”

“Death between seven and ten-thirty,” Mason said. “Probably, around nine.”

“Did I understand you to say probably around nine o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Then that — then Milicent couldn’t possibly have been connected with it.”

“Why?”

“She was... she was home at that time, wasn’t she?”

“How do you know?”

Dr. Macon caught himself quickly and said, “I don’t. I was only asking.”

“What time were you up there?”

“Where?”

“Up at the Blane cabin.”

“You mean that I went up there?”

Mason nodded.

Dr. Macon said somewhat scornfully, “I’m afraid I don’t appreciate your connection with the case, Mr. Mason. I know who are are, of course. I would like to meet you under more favorable — and I may say, more friendly — circumstances; but I am afraid you are definitely barking up the wrong tree. I am, of course, enough of a psychologist to appreciate the technique of a cross-examination in which startling questions are propounded without warning to an unsuspecting witness and—”

Mason interrupted him to say, apparently without feeling, “I may be mistaken.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so.”

“Whether I am or not,” Mason said, “depends on the tires on your automobile.”

“What do you mean?”

“An automobile left tracks up at the Blane cabin. I don’t think the significance of those tracks has occurred to the police — as yet. The Los Angeles deputies took it for granted the tracks were made by the local authorities. It evidently hasn’t occurred to the local authorities to check up on them.”

“What about them?”

“They were the tracks of new tires.”

“What if they were?”

Mason smiled. “Perhaps in your position, Doctor, you haven’t as yet appreciated the seriousness of tire rationing, and therefore have dismissed it from your mind.”

“I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Oh, yes you do. You’re stalling for time, Doctor. You recently had two new tires put on the back wheels of your automobile. Undoubtedly you had to get those tires through the tire rationing board. There’s a complete record of installation, application for purchase, and all that. As soon as I saw the new tire marks, it occurred to me that I was dealing with a police car. When I found out it couldn’t have been a police car, I simply started running down the other angles. It isn’t everyone who could possibly have two brand-new tires on his automobile, you know.”

“And that investigation brought you to me?”

Mason nodded.

“I suppose you realize,” Dr. Macon said, with frigid formality, “that you are making a most serious charge.”

“I haven’t made any charge yet but I’m going to make one in a minute — as soon as you quit stalling around.”

“Really, Mr. Mason, I think this is uncalled for.”

“So do I. I’m trying to help my client.”

“And who is your client, may I ask?”

“Milicent Hardisty.”

“She has retained you?”

“Her father did.”

“She is — you say she is charged with—”

“Murder.”

“I can’t believe it possible.”

Mason looked at his watch. “You’ve got to start seeing people at nine o’clock, Doctor. Time’s limited. I took a short cut getting here. I saw the tracks of two new tires and jumped at conclusions. The officers will go at it more methodically. They can’t afford to play hunches. They’ll probably make a cast of the tire marks, check with the tire rationing board on all permits for new tires, check with dealers for sales, and eventually they’ll get here. I’m simply leading the procession.”

Dr. Macon shifted his position uneasily. “I take it that anything I may say to you will be entirely confidential, Counselor.”

“Guess again.”

“You mean it won’t?”

“That’s right.”

“But I thought you said you were representing Milicent Hardisty.”

“I am.”

“I—”

“I’m representing her, and no one else. Anything she tells me is confidential; anything you tell me is something I use or don’t use, depending on her best interests.”

“If she has an alibi for — well, from seven o’clock on until midnight, that would absolve her from any connection with the crime?”

“Probably.”

“I—” Dr. Macon’s voice dissolved into a somewhat dubious silence.

“Make up your mind,” Mason said.

Dr. Macon said, “I want to tell you a little story.”

“I’d rather you’d answer a little question.”

He shook his head impatiently. “You have to understand the preliminaries, the steps by which this thing came into existence.”

“Tell me about the thing that came into existence, and we’ll talk about the steps later.”

“No. I can’t do that. I must go about it in my own way, Mr. Mason. I insist.”

Once more Mason looked at his watch.

Dr. Macon said, “I will be brief. The modem physician, in order to serve his patients, must know something of their emotional natures, something of their backgrounds, something of the problems which confront them — the emotional crises, the—”