Эрл Гарднер: The Case of the Buried Clock

“Who picked up his glasses?”

“I did. I put ’em in my pocket. There was just one big piece knocked out of his. I was afraid to give ’em to him, sort of afraid they might be evidence.”

“And you knew the gun was found later on?”

“Oh, sure. I read the papers about the trail and all that, and Martha’s told me stuff... How come Martha hasn’t told you this?”

“Where were you working?” Mason asked.

“Turret Construction Company — defense work. Been there for six months.”

“You read in the papers about Hardisty’s body being discovered in the cabin?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know whether he was in the cabin when you got back from the tunnel?”

“No I don’t. His car was gone — and I was getting an awful case of cold feet. You know, jabbing a man full of a drug—”

“I know. Where did Martha get this drug, do you know?”

“She told Mrs. Hardisty she wanted to get it. I don’t know what excuse it was she gave to Mrs. Hardisty, or what she said she wanted it for. I think she told Mrs. Hardisty the old man wanted it, or intended to use it, somehow... Anyhow, Mrs. Hardisty was friendly with a doctor, and she said she could get it. I don’t think Hardisty’s own wife even knew he was short. Martha found out about it listening to Blane talking on the long distance phone with the bank directors over at Roxbury.”

Mason said abruptly, “You haven’t told anyone anything about this?”

“No.”

“Not a soul?”

“Not a soul.”

Mason said, “Well, I think Martha Stevens will be home pretty quick. You can wait here, if you want.”

“Not me. I don’t like to come in the house unless Martha’s here. I don’t think the old man would like it. I saw the light up here and threw a little gravel against the window pane. That’s our signal... I’ll go out and wait around outside, until Martha gets here. You don’t think it will be long?”

“No, I don’t think it will be long,” Mason said.

Della Street closed her notebook, dropped it into her bag, screwed the cap on the fountain pen, glanced at Perry Mason. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

The three of them walked out of the house. Mason said, “Well, good night, Smiley.”

“Good night, sir.”

Mason helped Della Street into the automobile.

“Couldn’t you have used him somehow?” she asked in a low voice.

Mason said, “If he ever told that story in front of a jury, Mrs. Hardisty would be out of the frying pan and into the fire. This is one of those cases where they throw everything at you except the kitchen sink... You can begin to understand now why Milicent is keeping her mouth shut, why Dr. Macon doesn’t dare to say a word. Dr. Macon thinks she did it.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s a cinch,” Mason said. “Remember, she went to him for the scopolamine. Remember, she was a trained nurse before she was married. Dr. Macon thought she wanted to try this drug on Jack Hardisty. Evidently there’d been a magazine article on it... He probably thinks Milicent is lying to protect her father as well as herself.”

“But if they had Milicent’s gun, what gun was it that she threw away?”

Mason said, “It wasn’t what she threw away, it was what I threw away.”

“How do you mean?”

“The only point I had to argue to a jury,” Mason went on, “was that if Milicent Hardisty had thrown her gun down an embankment, that same gun couldn’t very well have been found beside the big granite rock... I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut. I had to take what seemed to be a minor discrepancy at the time, and use it to heckle Jameson. Now Jameson is up there searching for that gun, and if he finds it— Well, if he finds it, we’re not only licked, we’re crucified — unless I can figure out some way I can get that damned clock introduced in evidence.”

“Well, there’s one thing,” Della said. “You know what happened now.”

Mason’s eyes were thoughtful. “I’m not so certain that I do.”

“What do you mean by that? That Smiley was lying?”

Mason said, “One bit of evidence bothers me.”

“What?”

“Hardisty’s trousers. The red clay mud showed that he had been up at the tunnel — and someone took off his shoes, removed every bit of mud on the shoes, polished them, put them by the bed — and forgot to inspect the cuffs on his trousers.”

Della Street’s eyes were wide. “Then... then Smiley must have been lying?”

“Or telling the exact, unvarnished truth,” Mason said.

Thomas McNair seemed more debonair than ever as he took his seat in court the next morning. The crowded courtroom buzzed with whispered conversation. The jurors solemnly filed in and took their seats. And then, Hamilton Burger himself, a barrel-chested figure whose every movement suggested a bulldog tenacity, entered the courtroom and took his seat beside McNair.

Mason knew they were moving in for the kill. They’d rush the case to a quick, unexpected conclusion, and then toss it into his lap, let him try floundering around, searching for a weak link in the chain of circumstantial evidence which gripped the defendants.

Deputy sheriffs escorted the defendants into the courtroom. Dr. Macon, with his face set in a fixed mask to conceal his feelings, seated himself with motions that were stiff with self-discipline. Milicent Hardisty dropped into her chair, almost immediately propped an elbow on the arm of the chair, and rested her head against the upraised hand. Her attitude was that of tired dejection. She only wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

Judge Canfield emerged from his chambers. The people in the courtroom arose as with one motion. After the judge seated himself, a gavel pounded counsel and spectators back to their seats.

“People versus Macon and Hardisty,” Judge Canfield said with a crisp, businesslike efficiency. “Both defendants are in court, and the jurors are all present, gentlemen. Proceed with the case.”

McNair went nimbly ahead producing witnesses who identified the molds of tire tracks which had been found at the Blane cabin, then expert witnesses who testified as to the make of the tires which had made those tracks, testified to checking the molds against the tires on Dr. Macon’s car.

And then Hamilton Burger, the district attorney, took over with ponderous dignity, with the lumbering efficiency of a big-gunned battle wagon swinging into action. “We wish to recall William N. Jameson,” he said.

Jameson, looking slightly weary about the eyes, but full of spirit, took the stand.

“You have already been sworn,” the district attorney rumbled. “Now, Mr. Jameson, I am going to direct your attention to the fact that yesterday on cross-examination, counsel asked you if you had made any search of the spot near where the defendant, Milicent Hardisty, had been standing when she was seen by witnesses to throw a gun, or an object resembling a gun, into a canyon. And you testified, I believe, that you had made no such search.”

“That is correct.”

“Do you now wish to change that testimony?”

“Not the testimony. At the time I answered the question, my testimony was correct, but since then I’ve made a very careful and exhaustive search of the locality.”

“When was that search made?”

“Last night.”

“When did it start?”

“At about six o’clock.”

“When did it terminate?”

“At about two-thirty this morning.”

“Why did you terminate your search?”

“Because I found the object for which I was looking.”

“Did you indeed! And what was that object?”