Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowning Duck

“I’ll bite. What?”

“She was ringing up the Pacific Greyhound stages to make a reservation on a five-thirty stage for El Templo.”

Mason’s eyes sparkled. “I want her tailed, Paul.”

“Don’t worry. My operative got a reservation on the same bus. What is this?”

“Looks like a blackmail clipping. Read it.”

Drake read it, then puckered his lips in a whistle. “That’s Milter, all right.”

“I don’t get it,” Mason said.

“What do you mean, you don’t get it?”

“I just don’t understand it, that’s all.”

Drake said, “Gosh, Perry, it’s simple as A.B.C. The Allgood Agency is just so-so. It hires any old tramp that knows the ropes, and will do the work. Milter had his palm out. When Witherspoon asked for daily reports by telephone, he tipped his hand. Milter decided to move in on the blackmail racket.”

“Blackmailing him for what?” Mason asked.

“To keep the dope about that case from becoming public.”

Mason shook his head. “Witherspoon wouldn’t pay out money to keep that hushed up.”

“He would if his daughter was going to marry the guy.”

Mason thought that over for a few minutes, then shook his head. “He wouldn’t pay to hush it up — not before the marriage.”

“Then that’s what Milter’s waiting for,” Drake said. “For the marriage to take place. He’s down there marking time.”

Mason said, “That’s logical, but if that’s the case, why would he have given out that information to this scandal sheet?”

Paul said, “Milter must have got paid for the tip-off.”

“How much?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know,” Drake said. “This is an outfit that’s started up in Hollywood within the last four or five months. It dishes out authentic bits of scandal. The guy who’s running the thing has a good nose for news, but he isn’t trying to blackmail the individual. He’s trying to blackmail the industry. That’s why it’s impossible to get anything on him.”

“You mean he wants to make them buy him out?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. He goes ahead and publishes things about the big shots in Hollywood without ever giving them a tip-off or trying to make a shakedown. In that way, they can’t get anything on him. He’s let it be known that his paper and its good will are for sale. The price, of course, is about a thousand times what it’s worth, except to put a muzzle on it.”

Mason glanced at his wrist watch, said, “Ring Witherspoon in El Templo, Della, and tell him he’s going to have guests tonight.”

“Me too?” Drake asked.

Mason shook his head. ‘You stay here and keep on the job, trying to find out something about Miss X. Hang it, I can’t get the slant on Milter.”

“You don’t think he’s simply sitting down there waiting for the wedding to take place, and then moving in on Witherspoon?”

Mason tapped the clipping. “This must have come from a leak from Allgood’s office. That leak seems to have been traced definitely to Milter. Milter is in El Templo. If he’s there to blackmail Witherspoon after the wedding, why should he jeopardize his entire position by selling something like this for pin money to a Hollywood blackmail sheet? That’s calculated to stop the wedding.”

Drake thought that over for a moment, then said, “When you put it that way, there’s only one logical solution.”

“What’s that?”

“Milter is down there marking time, waiting for the wedding to take place so he can put the screws on Witherspoon. That accounts for Milter. This scandal-sheet business is something else. It’s an entirely separate angle.”

Mason said, “It’s someone who’s darn close to the home plate, Paul. He knows about Witherspoon having retained me. He knows about the drowning duck. That’s something Witherspoon doesn’t even know about.”

“I don’t even know about it myself,” Drake said. “What is it, a gag?”

“No. A scientific experiment. Marvin Adams performed it a few nights ago in front of Witherspoon’s guests. Witherspoon wasn’t there.”

“How did he make the duck drown?” Paul asked. “Hold him under water?”

“No. He didn’t touch him.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. It’s on the level.”

Drake said abruptly, “You’re going to El Templo tonight. Are you going to bust in on Milter?”

Mason gave the question thoughtful consideration. “I think I am.”

“He may be a tough customer,” Drake warned.

Mason said, “I might be tough myself. If you get anything on that Miss X business, give me a ring. I’ll be down at Witherspoon’s.”

“How late do you want me to call you?”

“Whenever you get the information,” Mason said, “call me. Now matter how late it is. And tell your shadow who’s following that blond from Allgood’s office to call me direct at Witherspoon’s house and let me know where she goes when she gets there. That’ll save time. Otherwise, he’d have to call the office and report to you, and then you’d have to call me.”

“It’ll only mean a matter of minutes,” Drake said.

“Minutes may be precious. Let your operative report directly to me.”

Drake grinned. “That’s the mistake Witherspoon made.”

Mason picked up some papers, pushed them into a brief case, and strapped the brief case closed.

“It may turn out to have been Milter’s mistake,” he said. “See if you can get a line on this Hollywood scandal sheet, Paul. It’s important to find out if this information came through Milter.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do and let you know. I think I know someone who can give me the real low-down on that.”

Mason said, “I can promise you one thing. If Milter sold that information to the scandal sheet, the whole thing is cockeyed. It just doesn’t add up to give the correct answer.”

Drake stood frowning down at the special-delivery envelope. “By gosh,” he admitted, “it doesn’t!”

Mason jingled the bell on the huge iron gate. The deep-throated barking of big dogs drowned out the sound of the bell. A moment later, the dogs were at the gate, fangs bared, eyes gleaming yellow reflections of car headlights.

A light clicked on the porch. A Mexican came hurrying across the flagged walk, said, “Who is it, please?” and then recognized Mason and Della Street.

“Oh, yes. Uno momento. Wait, please.”

He turned and darted back into the house.

The dogs withdrew some four or five feet, watchful yellow eyes staring at the pair.

Witherspoon himself came hurrying out of the house. “Well, well, I’m glad to see you. I certainly am! Get back, King. Get back, Prince. Tie them up, Manuel.”

“We haven’t time for that,” Mason said. “Just open the gate. They know we’re all right.”

Witherspoon looked at the dogs dubiously.

“They won’t hurt us,” Mason insisted. “Open up.”

Witherspoon nodded to the Mexican, who fitted a big key to the huge iron lock in the gate, shot back the bolt, and pulled the gate open.

The dogs came rushing forward.

Mason pushed through the gate, calmly ignoring the dogs, and shook hands with Witherspoon.

The dogs meanwhile moved back to sniff stiffly at Della Street. She extended the tips of her fingers with careless unconcern.

Witherspoon was nervously apprehensive. “Come on,” he said. “Come on in. Let’s not stay out here. These dogs are savage.”

They started toward the house, the dogs falling in behind.

Witherspoon held the door open. “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he said.

“What?”

“The dogs. They should have chewed you up. They don’t make friends that quickly.”