Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Buried Clock

“Because it’s a fair inference that you met Milicent; that you went back up to the cabin with her because you knew Hardisty was up there; that you and she wanted to submit some proposition to Hardisty; that Hardisty was killed with a bullet from Milicent’s gun, fired either by you or by Milicent; that you then extracted the bullet from Hardisty’s body so it couldn’t be traced to Milicent’s gun.”

“Absurd!”

“Well, we’ll try another angle, then. Milicent Hardisty went up to the cabin. She met her husband up there. They had an argument. She accused him of a lot of things and insisted that he turn over to her the money and negotiable securities he had taken from the bank. He refused. She threatened him with the gun. There was a struggle for the possession of the gun. Jack Hardisty got shot, but death was not instantaneous. Milicent, in a frenzy, started running down the road from the cabin, hardly knowing what she was doing. Her sister, Adele, met her on the road. Milicent, in a panic, concealed her gun somewhere, or threw it away. Adele saw where this was... Jack Hardisty was badly wounded. Milicent and Adele put him to bed. They then telephoned a frantic appeal to you. You dashed up to the cabin, examined Hardisty and found that he was dead. He had died between the time he was put to bed and the time of your arrival. You then, swayed by your love for Milicent, proceeded to try to fix things up so that the murder was hopelessly obscured. You ran Hardisty’s car over the grade. You removed the fatal bullet with your surgical instruments and took care to see that it would never be found. Adele may or may not have been in on the whole business. She probably was. You intended to deny any knowledge of what had happened, or that you had any connection with it. But the fact that I traced you through those automobile tires gave you a terrific jolt... Now then, Doctor, let’s hear what you have to say to that.”

Dr. Macon shifted his position, said nothing.

At that moment, knuckles tapped gently on the door. The woman who had let Mason in opened the door and said apologetically, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Doctor, but a Mr. Jameson and Mr. McNair want to ask you some questions.”

Mason said to Mr. Macon, “There it is. Jameson’s the resident deputy at Kenvale, and Thomas L. McNair is a deputy from the district attorney’s office. So you see, Doctor, you didn’t have as much time as you thought you had... Now let me tell you something. If Milicent Hardisty fired the bullet that killed her husband, either accidentally or in self-defense, or because he was just a rat who needed killing, now’s the time for you to say so, and I’ll see that she gets a fair break. But if you’re trying to cover it up; if you think you can match wits with the law and come out on top, you’re going to wind up by getting her convicted of first-degree murder... Speak up.”

Dr. Macon said, “I am not afraid of the law, Mr. Mason.”

The lawyer studied him. “That’s the worst of you doctors. Your training makes you too self-reliant. Just because you can advise patients on diet, you think you know how to advise ’em on everything. A lawyer wouldn’t think he could snip out an appendix. But you’re taking it on yourself to think out Milicent’s defense to a charge of murder — and I think it’s a lousy defense.”

Dr. Macon said, with calm, professional dignity, “I have nothing to add to the story I have told you, Mr. Mason, and nothing to retract from it. Show the gentlemen in, Mable.”

“Just a minute,” Mason said. “Just a minute! Come in here, Mable, and close that door.”

She hesitated a moment, then obeyed.

Mason said, “If those two find me here, they’ll crucify you. The mere fact that I’m talking with you will make them think Milicent or Adele sent me to you. Is there any other way out?”

“Not out of this room. Where are they waiting, Mable?”

“In the hallway — and I don’t think they’ll wait long.”

Mason said, “Tell them the doctor is busy with an emergency patient; that he’ll see them just as soon as he completes the dressings.” Then he turned to Dr. Macon. “Bandage up my head, Doctor. Leave one eye so I can see and that’s all. Put my arm in a sling, spill on some disinfectants, and time things so they’ll pass me in the corridor on the way in.”

Dr. Macon nodded to the housekeeper, said to Mason, “Loosen your necktie and open your shirt.”

The physician’s hands moved with swift, deft skill. He wound bandage around Mason’s head, placed his left arm in a sling, ripped wide adhesive tape into narrow ribbons, anchored the bandage with strips of tape, and sprinkled on antiseptic.

“All ready?” he asked Mason.

Mason’s voice, coming from beneath the bandage, sounded strangely muffled. “Okay, Doctor. I’m warning you for the last time — don’t try to cover up. You can’t get away with it.”

Dr. Macon was crisply confident. “I can handle this situation very nicely,” he said. “One of the things you fail to take into consideration, Counselor, is that a doctor is trained to keep his wits in an emergency.”

Before Mason could reply, Dr. Macon threw open the door of the little den, said in a loud voice, “Show the gentlemen in, Mable.”

Mason, his hat in his hand, walked out of the office, stooping slightly so as to disguise his figure.

Jameson and McNair passed him on the way in, keeping well over to one side so as not to brush against Mason’s arm. Apparently they gave him no second glance.

Behind him, Mason heard Dr. Macon say, “Good evening, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

The housekeeper held the outer door open for Mason.

“Good night,” the lawyer muttered.

The woman made no answer, indignantly slammed the door as soon as Mason reached the porch.

Paul Drake was waiting for Mason in the lobby of the Kenvale Hotel. “We’ve located Adele Blane, Perry.”

“Where?”

“San Venito Hotel, Los Angeles... That is, she was there. We’ve located her, and lost her again.”

“How come?”

“The locating was easy,” Drake said, “just a matter of leg work. We covered all the garages here. Didn’t find anything. Didn’t expect to. We checked all the garages at Roxbury and found her car stored in the Acme Garage. The Acme Garage is near the bus depot. We checked on the time the car had been stored, and then started checking on the buses that left within an hour of that time. We found that a woman who answered Adele’s description had gone to Los Angeles, traveling without baggage. I put operatives on the job, covering all the hotels near the Los Angeles bus terminal. We had a good description, and acted on the assumption that she’d been checking in without baggage. My operative finally located her at this little hotel. It’s within about four blocks of the bus depot. She’s registered under the name of Martha Stevens.”

Mason knitted his brows. “That name’s familiar, that’s—”

“Housekeeper,” Drake interposed.

“That’s right... Why would Adele Blane register under the name of her father’s housekeeper?”

“Don’t know,” Drake said. “I can tell you one thing, Perry... Martha Stevens isn’t just any old housekeeper. She really rates, both with Vincent Blane and with the children. Incidentally, she gives Vincent Blane his hypodermics.”

“What hypodermics?”

“Insulin.”

“Is Blane diabetic?”

“Uh huh. Has to have an insulin shot twice a day. He can, of course, take them himself when he has to, but it’s a lot more convenient to have someone else do the jabbing... Martha does it.”

“She’s a nurse?”

“No. Milicent is, you know — or was. Milicent must have taught her how... What did you find out just now, anything?”