Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

The light in the branch police station consisted of a single electric globe screwed into a porcelain reflector in the ceiling. It was a harsh, trying light that beat down upon tired eyes, yet furnished an insufficient illumination to show objects in the room clearly.

Perry Mason, his face bearing traces of strain and weariness, tilted back in his chair, put his feet on the corner of the battered table and looked at his watch. “Damn it,” he said, “ I can take it. But you’re going to get some sleep, Della.”

She said, “There doesn’t seem to be anything we can do.”

“We’ll give them five minutes more and then we’re going to do plenty,” Mason said. “I...”

The door opened. The officer who had taken Mason into custody stood to one side while Lieutenant Tragg entered the room, then followed the Lieutenant in and closed the door.

“Now then,” the officer said, “suppose you tell the Lieutenant what actually happened. You...”

“I’ll do the talking, Medford,” Lieutenant Tragg interrupted, and turning to Mason asked, “What happened?”

Mason nodded toward the officer whom Tragg had addressed as Medford. “Your skeptical friend let the murderer slip through his fingers.”

“Tell me about it,” Tragg invited.

Mason, told about going to the yacht, about the visit of the rowboat and the explosion.

“What did you want aboard the yacht?” Tragg asked.

Mason said frankly, “I wanted to study the effects of the tide.”

“What about it?”

“I wanted to lie flat on the floor and see just how long after high tide the boat took enough of a tilt so I’d roll down to the lower side of the cabin.”

“What did you find out?” Tragg asked, his voice showing his interest.

“Four hours and one minute after high tide the yacht settled over enough so I rolled down to the starboard side.”

“How long after high tide?” Tragg asked incredulously.

“Four hours and one minute exactly,” Mason repeated and yawned. “It will be necessary to co-ordinate that time with the tidal differences in feet and inches. And now, my dear Lieutenant, Della Street and I are either going home, or someone’s going to have to swear out a warrant for us. Make up your mind.”

Tragg said, “That’s all, Medford. You may go now.”

The officer hesitated. “You could tell they were guilty the way they acted, Lieutenant. I wish you could have seen their faces when I picked them up.”

“I wish I could have. But that’s all, Medford.”

Reluctantly, Medford left the room.

Tragg turned to Mason, said thoughtfully, “That would make the time of the murder right around nine-forty.”

“Subject to adjustments,” Mason amended. “But remember the prosecution fixes the time at around five thirty or six o’clock.”

“No more it doesn’t,” Tragg admitted promptly, “not after the stuff you brought out about the tide and what the doctor testified to about hemorrhage.”

“I’m afraid Hamilton Burger doesn’t agree with you.”

“I wouldn’t want to be quoted on that, but I could tell you something.”

“What?”

“Judge Newark agrees with you. The judge is going to do a little arithmetic in court tomorrow — I’m not violating any confidence when I’m telling you that your friend, Hamilton Burger, is a badly puzzled man. You should have heard him interviewing Douglas Burwell.”

“Oh, you found him, did you?” Mason asked.

“Sure we found him.”

“What did he say?”

“That story about coming down Friday night on the Lark was the bunk. He came down on a plane Friday afternoon. Mrs. Milfield telephoned him that she’d intended to run away with him, but after getting as far as the airport, she’d decided it never would work and she was going back home. He rushed to the airport, managed to get a canceled plane reservation and flew down to Los Angeles to talk with her. They talked for a while. Daphne Milfield was terribly nervous. She finally said her husband was aboard Burbank’s yacht, and that she’d talk with her husband; that she wasn’t going to just sneak away. She suggested that Burwell go down to the yacht club, rent a rowboat and then pick her up down at the point. There’s a little rickety landing down there.”

“Why didn’t she go with him to rent the boat?” Mason asked.

“She told him that the man at the yacht club knew her and she didn’t want to be seen with Burwell.”

“Go on, let’s hear the rest of it.”

“He rowed down to the point. Mrs. Milfield was there on the landing. He isn’t much of a hand with a boat. She’s an expert. She rowed him out to the yacht, left him in the rowboat, went aboard, lit a candle and stayed aboard for some twenty minutes while her shivering boy friend hung around the rowboat. The yacht was then heeled pretty well over. Burwell didn’t hear any voices. He didn’t hear any struggle. Mrs. Milfield came back and told him that she thought things were going to be all right; that her husband was going to make a sensible property settlement and she’d be free to leave as soon as the papers were drawn up. Burwell was to go to the hotel and wait.”

“Did Burwell ask any questions?”

“Don’t be silly. The guy’s in love. He swallowed everything she told him. Along about eleven o’clock the next morning, Mrs. Milfield rang him up and told him her husband was dead; that Burwell was to swear he came down on the Lark and had arrived that morning that he wasn’t, under any circumstances, to to and see her or to mention anything about the trip to the yacht.”

“What does Mrs. Milfield say?” Mason asked.

“Mrs. Milfield breaks down with a complete admission. She says Burwell is telling the truth; that she went out to the yacht to see her husband; that when she got out there, she found him lying on the floor dead.”

“Where?” Mason asked.

“That,” Tragg said, “is the point. She says he was lying on the port side of the yacht with his head within an inch or two of the brass-covered threshold. She says the yacht had begun to tilt, but hadn’t tilted way over; that you could walk around in it all right by hanging onto things; that a candle had been left on the table and had burned itself completely out. There was nothing left but a blob of wax. She says the wax was still warm and soft. She lit a fresh candle and stuck it in the wax. She put it in so that it was straight up and down. She says she softened up the wax just a little with the flame of the candle and then put this fresh candle in the pool of wax. She’s frank enough to admit that her husband didn’t mean a damn thing to her except by way of being a meal ticket. He had an interest in these oil properties and she decided it would be poor business to walk out on him just before he became a millionaire. She decided she wanted a property settlement. When she saw she was going to be a rich widow, she thought she’d like to play it that way.”

“Why does she say she changed her mind about going to San Francisco?”

“A friend of her husband caught up with her, told her it wouldn’t work. She knew he was right. She’d have ducked out on the whole business then — if Burwell hadn’t hopped a plane and flown down.”

“How does Burger feel about all this?” Mason asked.

“Burger feels like hell,” Tragg said. “He wouldn’t like it if he knew I’d told you all this. I’m telling you for one reason.”

“What’s the reason?” Mason asked.

“So you can tell me what’s on your mind and then sleep late in the morning.”

Mason laughed. “I’ll sleep late anyway. I won’t even go near the damn court. I’ll send Jackson down. I know darn well Burger will be yelling for a continuance.”