Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Buried Clock

Mason went on after a moment, “There were traces of a similar clay on the bottoms of the trousers Jack Hardisty was wearing when his body was found here in the cabin.”

“You mean that clay might be a clue?” Burt Strague asked.

“It might be,” Mason said.

“Oh well, that’s different. I wasn’t going to say anything if your inquiry was just idle curiosity, or an attempt to involve my sister, but I can tell you where Rod must have got that clay mud.”

“Where?”

“Up at the mouth of the mining tunnel, back here in the mountains about half or three-quarters of a mile.”

“That mud is in the tunnel?” Mason asked.

“No. It’s on the trail about fifty or a hundred yards in front of the mining tunnel. It’s where some of the dirt from the dump is softened up by drainage water that seeps out of the tunnel. The upper trail goes directly through it.”

“I thought you said you were up there tonight,” Raymand said.

“I was. I went by the lower trail. There are two trails up to the mining tunnel. I think originally there were old mining shacks on these cabin sites around here, and the men cut roads up to the mine. Those roads have gradually disintegrated until now there are only trails left.”

“The upper trail goes from here to the tunnel?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“And the lower trail?”

“That’s more from the other side, over back of where Rodney Beaton has his cabin... I went up there tonight, looking for my sister. Beaton’s got cameras scattered around over all those trails. I touched off one of his flashguns tonight.”

Mason said, “I think I should like to see that tunnel and go over the trails. Could we do it tonight?”

Strague hesitated. “I don’t think Rodney would like it,” he said. “He has his cameras set to pick up some game pictures. He hates to have the game disturbed at night... However, if it’s important—”

Mason said, “It’s important. But under the circumstances, we’ll wait and ask Beaton how he feels about it when he returns.”

Myrna Payson said, “Oh bosh. Let’s not put off any investigations simply on account of some pictures — unless, of course, you want to talk with Mr. Beaton.”

Mason smiled. “I think we’ll put it off until Mr. Beaton returns. Here he comes now.”

In the moment of silence which followed, they could hear the sound of Rodney Beaton’s automobile coming back up the grade to the cabin, and a moment later, Beaton and Lola Strague rejoined the little group.

“They played that pretty slick,” Beaton said. “Had their car concealed down there, and kept the cabin under surveillance. They evidently knew when you and Adele came in, Myrna, but they didn’t want to close the trap just then. They were waiting for additional game to walk in. I think they had an idea Dr. Macon might show up and try to tamper with some of the evidence... Anyone know what actually happened in there?”

No one said anything.

“I gathered,” Beaton said, “that Adele came with you, Myrna; that when she heard us coming she hid in that back room. It was dark in there, and when Dr. Macon showed up, he slipped in through the window and tried to remove the evidence he’d left there... I presume that’s the so-called fatal bullet they caught him taking away.”

Lola Strague said, “Poor Adele. I don’t blame her for being frightened to death.”

Myrna Payson said nothing.

Mason said, “A matter came up while you were out, Beaton, that I think might well be discussed.”

“What?”

“A certain reddish clay soil on your shoes.”

Beaton looked at his shoes, said, “Yes. That’s from up by the tunnel.”

“I thought you said you weren’t up there,” Burt Strague said sharply.

Beaton regarded him for a moment with unwinking scrutiny, then said, “Not in the tunnel, youngster. As you probably know, that’s on the upper trail about a hundred yards from the mouth of the tunnel. We went past there to cut down to the other trail to change the films in that camera. Incidentally, that’s the one you tripped off when you walked through the trap.”

“Then why didn’t you meet me coming up the trail?” Burt Strague asked.

“Because we waited a while after the flash before we went down to the camera,” Lola Strague said sharply.

“And I do wish, Burt, you’d either snap out of it or go home! After all, I’m free, white and twenty-one. I certainly don’t need you to chaperone me, and I see no reason for airing these little grievances in front of—”

Mason said smoothly, “Well, as far as we’re concerned, that’s entirely outside the question. What we’re interested in is a patch of red clay that was on Jack Hardisty’s trousers when the body was found. Also there’s some indication that a deliberate attempt was made to remove all traces of that mud from his shoes. I had asked Harley Raymand to look around here and see if he could find a place where the trail was muddy. I felt that it must have been near a creek bed or a spring, because it hadn’t rained for a while, and—”

Beaton interrupted. “You should have asked me, Mr. Mason. Raymand isn’t entirely familiar with the back country. I could have told you in a minute. There’s only one place anywhere around here where there’s that type of mud; that’s on the upper trail to the tunnel.”

“Do you suppose,” Mason asked, “we could take a look at it?”

“Sure... But what would Jack Hardisty have been doing up there?”

As Mason made no answer, the significance of the situation apparently dawned on Rodney Beaton, and he gave a low whistle. “So that’s it. Anybody been in that tunnel recently?”

They exchanged glances and head shakes.

“There’s just a chance,” Beaton said, “we might find something there.”

Drake asked, “How about flashlights? Do we have plenty? I only have one, and—”

“I carry extra batteries and an extra bulb for mine,” Beaton said. “Being out in the mountains at night as much as I am, I can’t afford to take chances... How about it, are we all going?”

Harley Raymand was the only one who hesitated; then, as he reached for the knob on the gasoline lantern, he smiled and said dryly, “It looks as though we’re all going.”

The little group strung out along the mountain trail. Flashlights, sending forth beams of light, looked like some weird procession of fireflies twisting a tortuous way through the night.

Rodney Beaton in the lead said, “Here’s the place, Mr. Mason.”

Mason inspected the muddy stretch in the trail.

Beaton went on to state, “This peculiar red clay came from the inside of the tunnel. It was brought out here and dumped when the tunnel was being excavated. There’s a seepage of water that trickles down from the mouth of the tunnel. It keeps this patch of clay moist.”

“Can you tell anything about these tracks?” Mason asked.

“Not much. You can see my tracks and Miss Strague’s. Here are some deer tracks, and here’s where a coyote has crossed over, but there are a lot of older tracks in the trail. Tracks made prior to the time Miss Strague and I came over it.”

“Let’s take a look inside the tunnel,” Mason suggested.

They climbed a sharp incline to the mouth of the old tunnel.

“Know how deep this goes?” Mason asked.

“Only a couple of hundred feet,” Beaton said. “They drifted in along a vein, and then lost their vein.”

The inside of the tunnel was filled with musty, lifeless air. The smell of earth and rock had permeated the atmosphere.

“Gives me the creeps,” Myrna Payson said. “I never could stand the inside of a tunnel. If it’s all the same with you, I think I’ll wait outside.”