Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Fenced-In Woman

She got to her feet, smoothed her dress down and moved toward the door.

“Did you,” Mason asked, “know that Loring Carson had been murdered when you left Los Angeles?”

She stopped midstride as he threw the question at her, and whirled, her eyes becoming large, her jaw sagging.

“Murdered!” she said after a tense moment.

“That’s right,” Mason told her.

“Oh, my God,” she said. She walked back to the chair in which she had been sitting and dropped into it as though her knees had lost all their strength. Her eyes, wide and dark with expression, searched the lawyer’s face.

“When?” she asked.

“I don’t think they know the exact time; probably sometime late this morning or early in the afternoon.”

“Where?”

“Out at the house he had built for Morley Eden.”

“Who... Who did it?”

“They don’t know,” Mason said. “The body was found against the barbed-wire fence on the Eden side of the house.”

“How was he killed?”

“He was stabbed with a butcher knife that may have been taken from the knife rack in the Vivian Carson side of the house. What makes it interesting is that there is some evidence indicating he had removed a large sum of cash from a place of concealment by the swimming pool, and the person who murdered him had taken that cash.”

She sat looking at him, her manner indicating either that she was having trouble getting the full import of his disclosure or that she was mentally dazed.

Mason said, “I may not have very much time to talk with you, Nadine, because the police are making a frantic effort to find you.”

“The police! Why should they want me? ”

“Because,” Mason said, “there is some evidence indicating that the person who committed the murder picked up the knife on one side of the house, then got to the other side through the barbed-wire fence by means of the swimming pool.

“You’ll remember that when I got to your apartment I found you with your hair wet. You were in a negligee. You said you had been taking a shower. Wasn’t that rather an unusual time of day for you to be taking a shower?”

“Not for me it wasn’t. What are you getting at?”

“And,” Mason said, “I asked you for a cigarette. You told me to look in your purse. I looked in there and found a package of cigarettes. I took out one. It was soaked. I couldn’t get it to light.

“You came dashing out of the bedroom, trailing your negligee behind you, careless of how much you were exposing because you were in such frantic haste to get at that purse. You grabbed it, whirled around, pretended to take the pack of cigarettes from the purse and handed it to me.

“Those cigarettes were quite dry. I think you had them in your hand when you came out of the bedroom,”

“Indeed,” she said sarcastically, “and what does all this mean, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“It means,” Mason said, “that you wanted to get from one side of the house to the other; that you stripped off your dress and dove in, clothed only in panties, bra and stockings; that afterward you swam back, squeezed the water out of your undergarments, put them in the purse, put on your dress, went home, and were just changing when I rang the bell.”

“Meaning that I killed Loring Carson?” she asked.

“Meaning,” Mason said, “that the police are going to regard all of these things as highly suspicious circumstances. Now then, when you got in the car with me I mentioned something about Loring Carson’s girlfriend, Genevieve Hyde, who is a hostess over here in Las Vegas. The minute you heard that name you suddenly got the idea you wanted to get out of my car and into a taxicab.

“I thought at the time it was because I had let a cat out of the bag; that you didn’t know the name of Carson’s girlfriend and as soon as you found it out you decided you wanted to see her.

“Now I have another idea.”

“And what’s your other idea?” she asked.

“Now,” Mason said, “I have a feeling that you may have suddenly acquired a bunch of cash; that you were wondering how to account for all that cash being in your possession, and when I mentioned Las Vegas it gave you a great idea. You decided you’d come over here, be seen plunging at first one gambling table and then another, and then later on you could say that you had been a heavy winner.”

“Indeed!” she said. “But it happens that I was a heavy winner. You were standing there long enough to see that. You saw the chips I cashed in.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “The fact that you came over here with the idea of camouflaging your sudden acquisition of wealth doesn’t mean that you couldn’t have run into a winning streak.”

She looked at him speculatively for a few minutes.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“You’re the one who’s all wet, Mr. Perry Mason,” she said. “I don’t know anything about a wet pack of cigarettes. I didn’t slip off my dress and go swimming in my underthings. I come over here to Las Vegas every so often in order to gamble. I love to gamble. Sometimes I’m very, very good at it. Usually I like to have a gentleman friend with me but I will admit that when you mentioned Las Vegas it rang a bell in my mind and I suddenly had the feeling that I was hotter than a stove lid; that if I could get over here I’d run right into a big winning streak.

“When I have a hunch like that I play it. Sometimes it’s something that someone says that gives me a hunch on a horse running in a race; then I dash out and make a bet on that horse. I like to play my hunches.”

“And this was a hunch?”

“This was a hunch.”

“Rather a rapid reaction,” Mason commented.

“All of my reactions are rapid,” Nadine said. “Where in the world did Loring Carson have all of this stuff hidden at the Eden residence?”

“It was an ingenious hiding place,” Mason said. “He had evidently built it purposely while he was building the house. By pulling on a ring that was cleverly concealed behind the cement steps in the swimming pool, a hinged tile was elevated and that disclosed a steel-lined receptacle.

“When I left the place the police were planning to test the edge of this tile and the inside of the receptacle for fingerprints.”

Despite herself, the expression on her face altered.

“Fingerprints!”

“Fingerprints,” Mason repeated.

“You wouldn’t... wouldn’t leave fingerprints on a smooth surface like that?”

“On the contrary,” Mason said, “the tape that cushioned the inside lip of the hinged tile would be an excellent place to leave fingerprints and it is very, very possible that the smooth surface on the interior of the steel-lined receptacle would take and hold a fingerprint.”

“Mr. Mason,” she said, “I... I want to tell you something.”

“Now wait a minute,” Mason warned, “I’m here trying to get information. I’m a lawyer but you’re not my client. I have a client. If you tell me anything I can’t keep it in confidence.”

“You mean you’ll have to tell the police?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m not going to tell you anything,” she said abruptly.

“All right, don’t,” Mason told her. “But remember this: If — and mind you, I say ‘if’ — there should be anything that would be damaging to you in the evidence that the police are going to uncover, you don’t have to make any statements to them.

“If you were out there, if you picked up that money or any part of it, the best thing for you to do is to tell a lawyer of your own choosing.”

She was silent for several seconds.

“Well?” Mason asked.

She said, “I was out there.”

“At the pool?”

“No. I wasn’t at the house at all. I had driven my car up to the point above the house. There are some lots up there that are for sale. I had been out there before and I saw that one could see this house, the patio and the swimming pool from that point.”