Erie Gardner - The Case of the Crying Swallow

“Tell me more about that burglary and why you didn’t report it to the police.”

“How did you know we didn’t report it to the police?”

“Your facial expression,” Mason said dryly.

“That was purely on account of the fact that my mother... well, you know, the newspaper notoriety and...”

“Tell me about the burglary,” Mason said.

Major Winnett spoke with the rhythm of a man who is carefully choosing his words. “I am a sound sleeper, Mr. Mason. My wife is not. On Tuesday night I was awakened by the sound of my wife’s scream.”

“What time?”

“I didn’t look at my watch at the time but I did look at it a few minutes later, and as nearly as I can place the time, it was around quarter to one.”

“How long had you been in bed?”

“We retired about eleven.”

“And you slept until your wife screamed?”

“Well, I have, in the back of my consciousness, a vague recollection of a swallow crying.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“You are, of course, familiar,” Major Winnett went on hastily, “with the famed swallows of the Mission of San Juan Capistrano?”

Mason nodded.

“The nesting place of those swallows is not confined to the Mission. They get more publicity at the Mission because they leave on a certain day and return on a certain day. I believe that the time of their return can be predicted almost to the hour. A very unusual sense of keeping a calendar. How they are able to return year after year...”

“And you have some of those swallows at your house?” Mason interrupted.

“Yes. They are a nuisance. Their nests are built out of mud and are fastened to the eaves. Our gardener knocks them down as soon as he detects the birds building, but in case one of them eludes his vigilance and the nest is built, then we don’t disturb it, because the birds lay eggs very soon after the nests are built.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“Well, this particular swallow’s nest was located in a very unfortunate place. The main residence at Vista del Mar is a large Spanish-type house with the tile roofs and a white exterior. Our bedroom is on the second floor with a projecting balcony. The tile projects out over that balcony, and the birds had made their nest in such a place that if a man climbed over the balcony rail, he’d be within a few feet of the nest.”

“And a man did climb over that rail?”

“Evidently that is what happened. We found a ladder that had been placed against the side of the house. The intruder had climbed up the ladder. In doing so, he disturbed the swallows. When they’re disturbed, they have a peculiar throaty chirp.”

“And you heard that?”

“I either heard it or dreamed that I did. My wife doesn’t remember it, and she is a much lighter sleeper than I am, but I don’t think I was mistaken.”

“Then you went back to sleep?”

“Apparently I did. I remember hearing the protestations of the swallows but, although I was aroused from a sound slumber, I didn’t thoroughly waken. I dozed off again and was soon in a deep sleep from which I was awakened by my wife’s scream.”

“She saw the burglar?”

“She was aroused by some noise in the room. She saw this man standing at her dresser. At first she thought I had gone to the dresser for some purpose and she started to speak to me. Then she looked over and saw that I was in my bed...”

“There was enough light for that?”

“Yes. A late moon was giving some light.”

“What happened?”

“The man heard the motion — some sound of the bedsprings, I guess. He darted out to the balcony. My wife screamed and that wakened me, but it took me a few seconds to get oriented, to realize where I was and what was happening. By that time the man had made his escape.”

“And you think the swallows were crying because the man disturbed them?”

“That’s right. When he entered the building, he must have climbed over the balcony rail and touched the nest.”

“When did your wife cancel the insurance?”

“Monday afternoon.”

Mason toyed with his lead pencil, then asked abruptly, “What happened Monday morning?”

“We all four breakfasted together.”

“Who’s the fourth?”

“Helen Custer, my mother’s nurse.”

“Your mother isn’t well?”

“She has a bad heart. Her physician feels it’s advisable to have a nurse in the house.”

“She’s been with you long?”

“For three years. We consider her very much one of the family.”

“You breakfasted and then what?”

“I wrote letters. My mother... I don’t know exactly where she did go. Marcia went riding.”

“Where?”

“Heavens, I don’t know. One of our bridle paths.”

Mason said, “I believe it rained Sunday night, didn’t it?”

Major Winnett looked at him curiously. “What,” he asked, “does that have to do with it?... I mean, what is the significance?”

“Skip it,” Mason interrupted. “What happened next?”

“Nothing. My wife returned about eleven.”

“When did she tell you she was going to cancel the insurance?”

“That was just before lunch. She telephoned to the insurance company, and then she wrote them a letter confirming her action.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in your wife’s manner?”

“Nothing,” Major Winnett said so swiftly that it seemed the answer had been poised on his tongue, waiting merely for Mason’s question.

Mason said, “Well, it’s ten-thirty. I want to get Paul Drake of the Drake Detective Agency. We’ll make a start out at your place and go on from there. I’ll leave here about eleven. Does your mother know your wife has left?”

Major Winnett cleared his throat. “I told her my wife was visiting friends.”

“How will you account for us?” Mason asked.

“How many will there be?”

“My secretary, Miss Street, Paul Drake, the detective, myself, and perhaps one of Mr. Drake’s assistants.”

Major Winnett said, “I’m working on a mining deal. I can explain to my mother that you’re giving me some advice in connection with that. Your detective wouldn’t mind posing as a mining expert?”

“Not at all.”

“You’ll come to the house and... will you want to stay there?”

Mason nodded. “I think we’d better. And I’ll want photographs and a description of your wife.”

Major Winnett took an envelope from his inside pocket and extracted nearly a dozen photographs. “I brought these along. They’re snapshots. She’s twenty-five, redheaded, bluish-gray eyes, five feet two, a hundred and fifteen, and as nearly as I can tell from checking the clothes that are left in the closet, she’s wearing a checkered suit, sort of a gray plaid. It’s the one that she’s wearing in this picture.”

Mason studied the photographs, then reached for the envelope. “All right,” he said, “we’ll be out. You can go on ahead and see that all necessary arrangements are made.”

The city of Silver Strand Beach lay in a sheltered cove on the lee side of a peninsula. The Winnett estate dominated this peninsula, its wire fences with forbidding no-trespassing signs stretching for some two and a half miles. The Spanish-type house, perched on the summit some five hundred feet above the ocean, commanded a view in all directions.

Mason’s car swept around the last curve in the graveled driveway and came to a stop in front of the imposing house as he said to Paul Drake, “I think the cancellation of that insurance policy is, perhaps, the first indication of what she had in mind, Paul. And I think that may have some connection with the horseback ride she took Monday morning.”