Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Buried Clock

Mason said, “That astrological angle is interesting, but it’s nothing we can sell Judge Canfield.”

Drake said, “Don’t be too certain. I’ve just found out something about Mrs. Payson.”

“What about her?”

“She’s a student of astrology.”

Mason gave that matter frowning consideration.

“I’m going to tell you something else,” Drake said. “You’ll remember that when we got the oculist’s report on that sliver of broken spectacle lens, he said he thought it was from Jack Hardisty’s spectacles, the same as the other piece was. Well, I checked with another oculist, and he says you were right. Remember you weren’t at all certain that it was from the same—”

“Never mind that,” Mason interrupted. “What’s the latest?”

“It’s a pretty small sliver to check on, Perry. That first man was afraid to say it wasn’t Hardisty’s because the sheriff had the big chunk, and said it was... Well, anyway, I’ve stumbled onto an oculist who has made some very delicate and complete tests. He says this piece isn’t from Hardisty’s spectacles, but that the piece the sheriff has is made to Hardisty’s prescription. That means there were two broken spectacles.

“Now, according to this oculist, the normal eye has a certain power of adjustment, or what is known as accommodation. It’s really an ability to change the thickness of the lens of the eyeball, which has the effect of bringing objects into focus — just the same as you move the lens of a camera in and out, in order to focus it on some object.”

Mason nodded.

“That power is lost as a person becomes older. At the age of about forty, a person needs bifocals; at about sixty, he loses the power of accommodation altogether. Of course, some persons are more immune to the effects of age so far as the eye is concerned, but on a general average, an optician can tell the age of a person pretty well from the correction of his eyeglass. Now, this oculist tells me that just making a guess — not something he’d be willing to swear to under oath, but making a darned close guess — that the spectacle lens came from the glasses of a person just about thirty-six years old.

“Now, Jack Hardisty was thirty-two. Milicent Hardisty is twenty-seven, Adele is twenty-five. Harley Raymand is twenty-five, Vincent Blane is fifty-two, Rodney Beaton is about thirty-five, but he doesn’t wear any glasses. He’s one of those chaps who have perfect eyes... But here’s something you haven’t considered. Myrna Payson seems to be thirty or so, but she may be a lot older. She doesn’t ordinarily wear glasses, but she may wear ’em when she’s reading — or when she’s checking astronomical time in connection with a buried clock.”

Mason flung himself into his big creaking swivel chair. He melted back in the chair, rested his head against the cushioned back, closed his eyes, then said abruptly, “Done anything about it, Paul?”

Drake shook his head. “The idea just occurred to me. Somehow I hadn’t considered her in connection with those glasses and the clock.”

“Consider her now, then,” Mason said without opening his eyes.

“I’m going to,” Drake said, getting to his feet. “I’m starting right now. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing else,” Mason said. “Only we’ve got to tie up that sidereal time angle tight by tomorrow morning. I think McNair is going to throw the case into my lap sometime tomorrow. Then I’ll have to start putting on evidence. I haven’t any to put on. The only thing I can do is to use that clock to inject such an element of mystery into the case that McNair will have to take notice of it.”

“Can’t you do that anyway?” Drake asked.

“Not unless I can get the clock introduced into evidence.” Mason said, “and how I’m going to prove that sidereal time has anything to do with the murder of Jack Hardisty, is beyond me. The more I cudgel my mind on it, the more I find myself running around in circles.”

Drake started for the door. “Okay,” he said, “I’m going up and do a little snooping around Myrna Payson’s cattle ranch.”

“Watch out for her,” Della Street said, laughing. “She oozes sex appeal.”

Drake said, “Sex appeal means nothing to me.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Della Street observed.

Drake had reached the door when he paused, took a wallet from his pocket, opened it and said, “I’ve got something else here, Perry. I don’t think it has a darn thing to do with the case, but I found it out there by the rock, not over twenty-five yards from where the clock was first found... See what you make of it.”

Drake opened an envelope he took from the wallet, and handed Mason a small circular piece of black paper, not quite the size of a silver dollar.

Mason inspected it, a puzzled frown drawing his eyebrows together. “It seems to be a circle carefully cut from a piece of brand-new carbon paper.”

“That’s it,” Drake agreed, and “that’s all of it. You can’t make another darn thing out of it.”

Mason said, “The circle was carefully drawn. You can see where the point of a compass made a little hole here. Then the circle was drawn and cut with the greatest care. The carbon paper had evidently never been used, otherwise there’d be lines on it or the imprint of type.”

“Exactly,” Drake agreed. “Evidently someone wanted to make a tracing of something, but never used the circular bit of paper — it’s about the size of a small watch. It probably doesn’t mean a darn thing, Perry, but I found it lying there and thought I’d better bring it along.”

“Thanks, Paul. Glad you did. It may check up with something later.”

Paul Drake said, “Well, I’ll be on my way. Be seeing you.”

Mason remained tilted back in the swivel chair for nearly five minutes after Paul Drake had left, then he straightened himself, drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk for a few moments, then shook his head.

“What’s the matter?” Della Street asked.

“It doesn’t click,” Mason said. “It just doesn’t fit. The clock, the glasses, the stars, the—” Abruptly Mason broke off. He frowned, and half closed his right eye, staring fixedly at the far wall of the room.

“What is it?” Della Street asked.

“Martha Stevens,” Mason said slowly.

“What about her?”

“She’s thirty-eight.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Thirty-eight,” Mason said, “wears spectacles. A practical nurse, trained in the giving of hypodermics, because she gives Vincent Blane his insulin shots... Now, do you get it?”

“Heavens, yes!”

“And,” Mason went on, “the night after the murder when Adele Blane disappeared, she went to the San Venito Hotel and registered as Martha Stevens... We never found out why.”

“Do you know now?” Della asked breathlessly.

Mason said, “I know what might have been a reason.”

“What?”

“Martha Stevens had a date with someone at the San Venito Hotel. She couldn’t keep it. Adele went there and registered under the name of Martha Stevens, so she could meet whatever person was to call on Martha Stevens.”

“Who?” Della asked.

Mason hesitated for a moment, drumming with his fingers on the edge of the desk. Abruptly he picked up the telephone, and gave Vincent Blane’s number in Kenvale.

After a few minutes, he said, “Hello. Who is this speaking please? Oh, yes, Mrs. Stevens... Is anyone home except you?... I see. Well, Mr. Blane wanted you to take his hypodermic syringe — the one he uses on his insulin shots — to the office of the Drake Detective Agency. You can just leave it here. He wanted you to catch the first interurban bus and bring it in. Do you think you can do that?... Yes, right away... No, I don’t know, Mrs. Stevens. All I know is that’s what Mr. Blane asked me to notify you. He’s feeling rather upset — the strain of the trial and all — yes, I understand. Thank you. Good-by.”