Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowning Duck

“May I — may I ask what is your interest in the matter?”

“Witherspoon’s my client.”

“Oh.”

“There’s been a leak,” Mason went on. “I don’t want any more leaks, and I want to find out about this one.”

“Are you quite certain you’re not mistaken?”

“Quite.”

Again the chair creaked.

Mason gave the other no respite from the accusation of his steady eyes.

Allgood cleared his throat, said, “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Mason. I had a man in my employ, a Leslie Milter. Something may have come from him.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I’ve discharged him.”

“Why did you discharge him?”

“He... didn’t perform his work satisfactorily.”

“After he’d completed the Witherspoon investigation?”

“Yes.”

“He made a good job of that, didn’t he?”

“So far as I know.”

“And what happened afterwards?”

“He simply wasn’t satisfactory, Mr. Mason.”

Mason seemed to settle himself more firmly in the chair. “Why did you fire him, Allgood?”

“He talked.”

“What about?”

“The Witherspoon case.”

“To whom?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t my fault. Witherspoon confided in him too much. A man who uses a detective agency is foolish to tell the men who are working just what he’s after. It’s better for him to have his dealings with the manager and let the manager pass on the instructions.”

“Witherspoon didn’t do that?”

“No. Witherspoon was too anxious. He wanted to get daily reports. He arranged with Milter to ring him up on long distance every night around eight o’clock, and tell him generally what had been discovered. That’s characteristic of Witherspoon. He’s had his own way too much. He gets too impatient. He can’t wait. He wants everything right now.”

“Did Milter make any money out of talking?” Mason asked.

“I’m hanged if I can tell you, Mr. Mason.”

“What’s your best guess?”

Allgood tried to get away from Mason’s eyes, and failed. He squirmed around in the squeaking chair, said, “I think he — may be trying to. Damn him!”

“What’s his address?”

“The last address I had was the Wiltmere Apartments.”

“Married or single?”

“Single, but... well, in a way, attached.”

“How old?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Good-looking?”

“Women think so.”

“Likes to play around?”

Allgood nodded.

Mason jerked his head in the outer office. “How about the girl at the desk?”

Allgood said hastily, “Oh, I’m certain there’s nothing there, nothing at all.”

“Can you trust her?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“She’s been with you for some time?”

“A couple of years.”

Mason said, “What can you do to keep Milter quiet?”

“I’d like to know myself.”

Mason got up and said, “You’re a hell of a detective.”

“After all,” Allgood said, “you can’t sew a man’s lips shut — not after you’ve fired him.”

“A really clever detective could.”

“Well, I... I’d never thought of it that way.”

“Think of it that way now, then.”

Allgood cleared his throat. The chair gave a final loud squeak as he pushed it back and got to his feet. “I take it Mr. Witherspoon would be willing to compensate me...”

“You’re doing this for your protection,” Mason told him. “It doesn’t look good to have a leak come through a detective agency.”

“Well, really, Mr. Mason, there’s very little one can do. These things happen. You know how some of these men are. They’re here today and gone tomorrow. As I say, Witherspoon shouldn’t have confided in the man.”

“He was in your employ,” Mason said. “Witherspoon hired you. You hired Milter. It’s your funeral.”

“I don’t see any corpse,” Allgood said with a show of feeling.

“You might find one in your closet when you apply for a renewal of your license.”

“I’ll see what can be done, Mr. Mason.”

“Right away,” Mason told him.

“I’ll get right at it, yes.”

“Immediately,” Mason pointed out.

“Well, I... er... yes.”

Mason said, “A Mrs. Dangerfield is going to show up and ask you questions. Let her worm it out of you that I employed you. Don’t mention Witherspoon’s name.”

“You can trust me absolutely on anything like that. I’ll handle her personally. You want her referred to you?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m to let her worm the information out of me?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

“Keep her away from Milter.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Do you talk business matters over with the girl in your outer office?”

“Sometimes. She keeps the books.”

“Does she ever do any work for you — on cases?”

“No.”

Mason said, “Don’t tell her anything about me.”

He picked up his hat, looked at his wrist watch, said, “Don’t wait until afternoon to get Milter shut up. Start on it now.”

Allgood said, “I’ll try to get something on him. I know a woman... an Alberta Cromwell. She claims to be his wife. She might — yes, I’ll try... Perhaps I can... There’s an angle there.” His hand moved toward the lever of the interoffice communicating system.

Mason left the office. The girl at the desk smiled sweetly at him, said, “Good morning, Mr. Mason,” in a cooing voice. Mason stopped at a phone booth in the lobby of the building, and called the Drake Detective Agency.

“Mason talking, Paul. There’s a blonde working out at Allgood’s Detective Agency at the desk. You won’t have any trouble spotting her; about twenty-five, the sort that people tell it’s a shame she isn’t on the screen. A dead-pan baby with big eyes, red lips and curves. Get on her tail as she leaves the Allgood office. Stay on her. Put a man on Leslie Milter at the Wiltmere Apartments.”

“What does Milter do?” Drake asked.

“He’s a detective.”

“He won’t be easy to tail.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll get wise the minute we put a shadow on him.”

“Let him get wise,” Mason said. “What do we care, just so we sew him up. Put two shadows on him. As far as I’m concerned, give him the works.”

“I’ll get some men on it right away,” Drake said.

“The blonde comes first,” Mason told him, “and if she goes out to the Wiltmere Apartments, I want to know it.”

“Okay, where will you be?”

“I’ll keep in touch with the office. You pass any news on to Della. You’ve got men on that old case?”

“Yes. I put them on the job by wire from Indio.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “The more I think of it, the less I like the way that case was handled. All this chivalry about keeping the name of the woman out of the case and referring to her as Miss X–I want the dope on Miss X. I want everything, name, address, love life, past and present. Then I’ll predict her future.”

“We’re working on it,” Drake said.

“Here’s something else, Paul.”

“What?”

“Bribe some Los Angeles reporter into sending a telegraphic tip to the Winterburg papers. Think you can fix it up?”

“Okay. I think so. What’s the tip?”

“Get your stenographer on an extension line to take it down as I dictate.”

He heard Drake say, “Oh, Ruth, get on the extension. Take down what’s said... Yeah, it’s Mason. You all set?... Okay, Perry, go ahead. Don’t talk too fast.”

Mason said, “It’ll run something like this: ‘With the employment of Leslie L. Milter, a high-priced Los Angeles detective, to investigate a murder case which centered in Winterburg some twenty years ago, an old mystery bids fair to be cleaned up. It has long been a question in the minds of some persons as to whether the guilt of Horace Legg Adams, who was executed for the murder of David Latwell, was clearly established at the time of his trial... Recently new evidence has been discovered which throws an entirely different light upon some of the testimony given at the trial. That influential persons still believe in the innocence of Horace Adams is attested by the fact that one of the highest-priced and most efficient detective agencies in the country sent its ace man to Winterburg to make a complete investigation. This detective has now returned to the coast with a brief case filled with facts which are, according to those who know, startling. It is quite possible that the old case will be opened up, in a determined attempt to vindicate the memory of the man who was convicted almost twenty years ago. Lawyers are not agreed as to the procedure by which this might be brought about, but the consensus of opinion seems to be that a way might be found.’... Got that down, Paul?”