Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Buried Clock

“Shucks, that’s George Crane,” one of the men said.

“We’d better get him up off that floor,” Mason said, “and see what can be done for him. Who’s George Crane?”

“Merchant patrol, deputy constable. A good sort, does a little private work on the side.”

Mason said, “We could lift him up on that couch.”

“Okay. Let’s do it... Wait a minute; who’s this man with you?”

“Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency.”

“We’ll take a look at his credentials first,” the officer said.

Drake extracted a leather wallet from his pocket, passed it over. The men opened it, turned the cellophane-faced compartments, one at a time, looking at the cards. The leader said, “I guess you’re okay,” and handed the wallet back to Drake. They holstered their guns, snapped flashlights to their belts, then bent over the unconscious man on the floor. Mason and Drake helped them lift him to the couch. Almost immediately the eyelids fluttered, the tempo of the breathing changed, the muscles of the arm twitched.

Mason said, “Looks as though he’s coming around. Find the bathroom, Paul; get towels soaked in cold water, and—”

“Just a minute,” the officer in charge said. “You boys are staying right here with me, both of you. Frank, you get that wet towel.”

The officer prowled around, found the bathroom. They heard the sound of running water, then he was back with cold towels.

George Crane opened his eyes, stared groggily, then suddenly flung himself to a sitting position and started flailing about him with his arms.

The officers said, “Take it easy, George. Take it easy. You’re okay.”

Recognition came into the man’s eyes.

“You’re all right,” the officer repeated soothingly.

“Where is she?” George Crane asked.

“Who?”

“The woman who slugged me.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

The officer looked questioningly at Mason, who shook his head.

The officer turned back to Crane. “There wasn’t any woman, George, not when we got here. What happened?”

Crane raised a hand to his sore head, pulled down the wet towel, felt with exploring fingers along the line of the bruise on his temple, said, “The deputy sheriffs left me in charge until they could get a key to that writing desk, or a warrant to bust in, one or the other.”

“Who has the key?” Mason asked.

“Mrs. Hardisty, I guess, but Mr. Blane said he thought her sister might also have a key. She has a key to the house.”

“What happened?” the officer asked.

Crane pressed the towel back against his bruised head, said, “I left the place dark. Sort of thought someone might start prowling around and I could do a little good for myself by catching them red-handed. Nothing happened. I was sitting out here on the porch — and all of a sudden I knew someone was on the inside. I peeked through the window, cautious-like. I could see a woman standing in front of that desk with a little flashlight playing on the stuff in the pigeonholes.

“The front door was locked. I figured she must have got in through the back door. If I tried to come in through the front, she’d put out the flashlight and make a run for it — so I sneaked around real quiet to the back... Sure enough, the back door was open. I started pussyfooting through the house, heading for the front of the place. I must have tipped my hand. First thing I knew she was right in front of me. I had my gun in my right hand. I tried to grab her with my left, and she hit me on the right arm with a blackjack. I had the gun half raised when she cracked down. The jerk that came with the blow pulled the trigger on the gun — and that’s all I remember.”

“Did you hit her?”

“I don’t know... I don’t think so. I wasn’t aiming, just had the gun half up.”

“Why didn’t you use your flashlight?”

“I’m telling you I wanted to catch her red-handed. I thought she was still in the front room. I was pussyfooting through, not making no noise.”

The officer said, “The trouble with you, George, is that you’re half deaf. You thought you weren’t making any noise, but—”

“Now that will do! I don’t have to take any criticism from you!” George Crane interrupted angrily. “You ain’t so smart. How about the time you were after the two burglars in the hardware store, and—”

The officer interrupted hastily, “Keep your shirt on, George. No one’s criticizing you. We were just trying to find out how it happened. What time was this?”

“I don’t know, rightly. Right around nine o’clock, I guess. What time is it now?”

“About fifteen or twenty minutes past nine.”

“I guess it was right around nine, then.”

“Someone telephoned in they heard a shot. Wouldn’t leave a name. You don’t know who that was, do you, George?”

Crane said irritably, “From the time I was halfway through the house, I don’t know anything.”

“You were over by the front door when we found you,” Mason said. “Do you have any idea how you got there?”

Crane looked at him suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“We’re the persons who found you,” Mason said, smiling.

“Milicent Hardisty’s lawyer,” the officer explained.

Instant suspicion appeared in Crane’s eyes. “What were you doing here?”

“We called to see if Mrs. Hardisty was home.”

Crane started to say something, then apparently changed his mind, glanced significantly at the officers.

The officer in charge said, “I guess that’s all. We know where we can get you two if we need you... How about it, George, can you describe this woman?”

George Crane said pointedly, “Not while these guys are here.”

The officer smiled. “I reckon he’s right at that, boys.”

Drake needed no second invitation. “Come on, Perry.”

They walked out of the house, across the front porch, and down to where Mason had left his car parked. Drake said in an undertone, “Feel like running before they start shooting? It’s an even-money bet they’ll grab us before we get to the car.”

Mason laughed, said, “We’re okay, Paul. Something else is bothering me.”

“What?”

“I’d just like to know if Adele Blane’s car is still at the Acme Garage.”

Drake said. “We can soon find out. That garage is just one block over from the main drag. My man says you can’t miss it.”

Mason, starting the motor, said, “I’m suspicious of the things you can’t miss... Wonder who it was that telephoned in about that revolver shot.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t suppose they’re going to give us any information in case they do find out... Swing to the left at the next corner, Perry, and then turn to the right.”

Drake said, “Better let me go in, Perry. Two of us will make him suspicious. There’s a way of handling these things.”

Drake entered the garage, was gone for about five minutes, came back, jerked open the door of Mason’s car, slid in beside the lawyer and slumped down on the seat.

“Well?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “Adele Blane took her car out exactly forty-five minutes ago.”

Mason slammed the car into gear.

Drake, slumping dejectedly over against the corner of the seat, said, “One thing about a guy who works on your cases, Perry, he never needs to get bored... Where are we going now?”

Mason, putting the car rapidly through the gears, said, “This time I’m going to try to get an interview before the police do.”

“With Adele?” Drake asked.

“With Adele,” Mason said, pushing the throttle down to the floorboard.