Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Buried Clock

Mason said, “Fat’s being poured into the fire.”

“How come?”

“The name on the paper Della handed me just before I went out was that of Dr. Jefferson Macon, who lives at Roxbury.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed. “Milicent’s physician?”

“Yes.”

Drake snapped his fingers in exasperation. “I should have thought of that. What gave you the lead, Perry?”

“Tracks of new tires up at the cabin.”

“Oh, oh!”

Mason said, “He’s one of those calm, competent physicians and surgeons. He’s been in love with Milicent for some time. Evidently knows pretty much about what’s going on... He got a tip that Hardisty was up at the cabin, and Milicent was going up, so he started out after Milicent, claims he met her on the outskirts of Kenvale. The evidence substantiates that part of it. What I’m afraid of is that he went back to the cabin with Milicent. The thing that bothers me most is that there must have been a note from Milicent to him, and there’s just a chance that note may not have been destroyed.”

“What gives you the idea of the note?” Drake asked.

“The time element. If Milicent had telephoned him that she was going to the cabin, Dr. Macon would have dropped everything and dashed up there after her, arriving a few minutes after she did. The way things look at this time, and from where I stand, Milicent must have written Dr. Macon a note. Someone delivered it — perhaps Martha Stevens... Where’s Della?”

“Upstairs.”

Mason strode over to the room telephones, got Della Street on the line and said, “Just back, and going out. You haven’t heard anything from Adele Blane?”

“No.”

“Stick around. If she calls, have her keep under cover until I can get in touch with her. There’s another angle to this thing. It doesn’t look so good.”

“See the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll wait right here.”

Mason hung up the telephone, walked back to Drake. “How did your man happen to lose her once he’d found her?” he asked.

“Adele?”

“Yes.”

Drake said, “It’s just one of those things, Perry. My man doesn’t think that she was wise to him, but she may have been. She walked out of the hotel, evidently looking for a taxi, although there was nothing to tip off my operative that that was what she was doing. He tagged along fifty or seventy-five feet behind her. She was headed toward a taxi stand, as it turned out. Then, just as she was crossing a street, a taxi drew up, she flagged it, the signal changed, and they were gone. My man jumped on the running board of a private car, told the driver to follow the taxi. It just happened the driver didn’t see things that way. He pulled over to the curb and started to argue. My man jumped off and tried to grab another cab and this motorist claimed it was a holdup, and let out a squawk for the police. By the time the thing got straightened around, there was no chance of finding Adele Blane... Those things happen in this business... We’re keeping the hotel covered, of course. She hasn’t checked out. She’ll be back.”

Mason said, “That Martha Stevens business is the thing I can’t understand. It worries me.”

Drake said, “Want to go find this housekeeper and shake her down?”

Mason nodded. “My car’s outside. Let’s go, Paul.”

Perry Mason slid his car to a gentle stop in front of the Blane residence.

“Looks dark,” Drake said.

“The lights may be shielded,” Mason observed, putting on the emergency brake. “Let’s take a chance.”

They walked up the echoing cement, pounded up the stairs to the porch. The sound of the doorbell was a sepulchral echo from the interior of the house.

Mason and Drake exchanged glances.

They rang twice more before giving up.

“Perhaps it’s her night off,” Drake said.

“Uh huh, we’ll talk with Vincent Blane about her.”

“Where are you going to find him?”

Mason said, “Ten to one there’s a directors’ meeting at that bank in Roxbury, and Blane is sitting there at the directors’ table, very affably and suavely discussing ways and means and alibis.”

“Want to bust in on him?” Drake asked.

“Why not?”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

While they were driving along at a thirty-five-mile-an-hour pace that seemed as awkward as the three-legged gait of a crippled greyhound, Drake said, “I can’t get over Adele registering under the name of Martha Stevens. Why the devil didn’t she think up a name?”

“Two reasons,” Mason said.

“You’re two ahead of me. I can’t even think of one.”

“One of them is that just in case anything ever came up Adele might have fixed it up with Martha Stevens to swear that she was the one who occupied the room.”

Drake said, “Well, it’s an idea, but I don’t get enthusiastic over it.”

“The other one,” Mason pointed out, “is that someone was going to meet Martha Stevens at the San Venito Hotel. Adele knew about the rendezvous, and decided to double for Martha Stevens... Or else she’s a stand-in to hold things in line until Martha can get there.”

Drake shifted his position nervously. “Now you’ve got something, Perry. That last sounds more like it. I’ll bet Martha Stevens is on her way to that hotel right now.”

Mason said, “On a hunch, Paul, let’s telephone your office from Roxbury. Send down a couple of operatives to check on the hotel, give them a description of Martha Stevens. Tell them to stick around and see what happens.”

Drake said, “Step on it. It’s going to take a little while to get men on the job. You can’t pick up good operatives these days just by asking for them.”

Entering the outskirts of Roxbury, Mason said, “While we’re about it, we may as well drive by Hardisty’s house. I want to see what the place looks like... You know where it is?”

“I have the address,” Drake said, pulling a memorandum book out of his pocket. “I haven’t covered it personally. I’ve been busy on this other stuff.”

“Okay. Let’s hunt the place up. What’s the address?”

“453 D Street.”

Mason said, “Let’s see how the streets run. Probably the letter streets are either north and south or east and west... What street is this?”

Drake craned his neck out the car, said, “I can’t tell. The sign is right next to the street light.”

“There’s a spotlight in the glove compartment. I’ll slow down so you can take a look at the next one.”

Drake gave vent to his feelings. “A detective’s nightmare, these ornamental lamp posts with brackets for street names. You can’t possible read these signs at night. You’re looking at a black object silhouetted against a bright light. Cities have been buying those things for the last twenty-five years. What good does it do to advertise that it’s a friendly city, thank you for your patronage and ask you to call again, when they’re storing up ill will by sticking signs where strangers can’t see ’em?”

“Why don’t you go before a luncheon club and make a speech?”

“Some day I’m going to. It’ll be some speech!”

“In the meantime take a look at this one,” Mason observed slowing the car.

Drake tried to shield his eyes, said, “It’s no use.” He took the spotlight Mason pushed into his hand, directed the beam against the sign and said, “This is Jefferson Street.”

“Okay. We’ll turn to the right and see if we pick up the lettered streets.”

The next street was A Street. Mason ran swiftly across B and C Streets to D, and turned left. Drake, with the aid of Mason’s flashlight, began picking up numbers.