Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

“Sounds as though she could be dangerous,” Della commented.

“I think she is.”

“Okay, I’ll get Paul Drake working on the Milfield case. Carol Burbank’s waiting in the outer office.”

Della Street ran down the long corridor, her feet echoing against the Saturday-afternoon silence of the business building. Mason went through the law library and into the reception office.

Carol Burbank was sitting very rigid, her knees pressed tightly together, her face a hard white mask, her mouth a garish red streak against make-up which refused to blend with the pale skin.

The convulsive start which shook her as the door latch clicked showed the state of her nerves. Big eyes turned to Mason.

There was no panic in those eyes, perhaps a trace of fear, but a resolute determination. She was a young woman who was trying desperately to keep control of herself and to keep her mind clear.

“Mr. Mason?”

“Yes.”

“I believe you handled an automobile accident case yesterday — a Mr. Bickler who collided with a truck of the Skinner Hills Karakul Company?”

“That’s right.”

“My father thought you handled it very adroitly.”

“Thank you.”

“He mentioned that in case we ever had any trouble, it would be a good idea to get you on our side instead of having you on the other side.”

“Your father is connected with the Karakul Sheep Company?” Mason asked.

“Indirectly.”

“His name?”

“Roger Burbank.”

“And I take it there’s now been some trouble?”

She said, “Mr. Milfield, an associate of my father’s, has been murdered — aboard my father’s yacht.”

“Indeed. What did you want me to do?”

“My father is in a very peculiar — a very precarious position. I want you to help him.”

“He was aboard the yacht at the time the murder was committed?”

“Heavens no! That’s the trouble. He wanted people to think he was aboard the yacht, but actually he wasn’t there at all .”

“Where is he?”

“I’m not certain that I know.”

Mason said cautiously, “Before you say anything, Miss Burbank, I’d better tell you I’m afraid I can’t represent your father.”

“Why not?”

“I have an adverse interest.”

“In what way?”

“Adelaide Kingman is the record owner of eighty acres that...”

“Frank Palermo really owns that property,” she interrupted.

“I’m sorry, you’re wrong.”

“He’s in possession.”

“Under a contract of sale.”

“But the contract isn’t any good. He’s been in possession for more than five years.”

“Under that contract.”

She hesitated a moment. “How much do you want?” she asked.

“Plenty.”

“As sheep property, Mr. Mason, that’s...”

“Virtually valueless,” Mason interrupted. “As oil property it’s valuable.”

“Who said anything about oil?”

“I did.”

Her eyes were searching and steady. “I’m afraid I don’t get the connection.”

“Adelaide Kingman,” Mason said, “wants one hundred thousand dollars for that property in cash.”

“That’s absolutely absurd, Mr. Mason, that’s outrageous.”

“And that,” Mason finished, “is why I’m afraid I can’t represent your father.”

She bit her lip. “That price is absolutely out of all reason, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said cheerfully, “I’m sorry. Now you wanted an attorney to represent you, and it’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m afraid you’ll have some trouble finding...”

“We want you, Mr. Mason.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t ethically represent you as long as I have an adverse...”

“Look here,” she said, “we’ll let that ride. If you’ll represent Father you can continue to handle the Kingman property and when you meet Father, drive the best bargain you can.”

“It’s going to be a hard bargain,” Mason warned.

“I expect that — now.”

“You have the right to speak for your father?”

“Yes, in an emergency of this kind, I do. I know I do.”

Mason said, “I wouldn’t want to have any misunderstanding about that.”

“There won’t be.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to go to my father with me. We’ve simply got to find him.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s working on something so vitally important that it’s absolutely essential he has complete secrecy. No one would have been permitted to know where he was or what he was doing. — Don’t you see the position in which that leaves him?”

“On account of the murder?”

“Yes. Fred Milfield was murdered on his yacht. Dad usually goes out every Friday night on his yacht and anchors in the estuary. It’s his method of letting down, of getting away from business. This Friday he took the yacht out and anchored it as usual, but he didn’t stay there. He’s working on a thing that’s so big and so important that — well, he’d never admit to anyone what he was doing.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I have a general idea. I hope I can find him. And we’ve got to get there before the police do. We simply have to get there before the police do, Mr. Mason, Do you understand?”

“Why?”

“So we can tell him what’s happened.”

“The police will tell him.”

“They’ll trap him into certain declarations first.”

“Such as what?”

“Don’t you see, Mr. Mason? Father’s working on something that’s so vitally important he would walk right into a trap in the event the police started questioning him.”

“You mean he’d swear he was aboard the yacht at the time it will turn out the murder was committed?”

“Yes.”

“And if we get to him in time?” Mason asked.

“Then we could explain things to him.”

“And then what?”

“Then he’d have a chance to think up what he really wanted to tell the police.”

“Some good lie?”

“Of course not. He’d tell them as much of the truth as he dared.”

“I think I’ll have to know a little more than that. What’s he doing?”

“It has something to do with a political situation. I think they’re gunning for some of the political big-shots in the oil industry, and Dad was getting some of the groundwork done. It would be absolutely suicidal to let that stuff get out before all the plans have been made in detail.”

“I see.”

“So we’ve got to find him.”

Mason’s fingertips drummed on the desk. “You have a lot more to work on than I have. Just what is my status, anyway?”

“I want to retain you.”

“For what?”

“To protect my father’s interests.”

“Anyone else?”

“Well — you might say to act as a family attorney — sort of a general assignment.”

“Just what are we going to do?”

“We’ll go places.”

“Where?”

“That’s so confidential I won’t even tell you in advance. You take your hat and your overcoat, and we walk out of the office, starting now.” Once more she glanced swiftly at her watch.

“When do I get back?”

“After we’ve found Father.”

Mason led the way back to his private office, opened the door of the hat closet, took his overcoat and hat, turned to Carol Burbank, “Are you ready?”

For the third time, she looked at her watch, started to say something, then changed her mind, said instead, “Yes. All ready.”

As they passed the door of the Drake Detective Agency, Mason opened the door, called, “Della!”

Della Street emerged from one of the inner offices.

Mason closed his left eye. “I’m going out,” he said. “You go get some eats. Don’t wait for me.”