Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowning Duck

The rear of the car gave a wide swing.

Mason took his foot off the throttle, was careful not to use the brakes, swung over to the side of the road. Just before he reached the shoulder, he heard the unmistakable thump-ker-thumpety-thump, thump-ker-thumpety-thump of a flat tire.

It was the right rear tire. Mason looked at it ruefully, took off his coat, folded it, and tossed it on the back of the front seat. He rolled up his sleeves, removed the ignition key from the lock, took a flashlight from the glove compartment, and walked to the rear of the car, where he unlocked and opened the trunk. His suitcases, as well as those of Della Street, were in the trunk. He had to remove them, and then rummage around, finding the tools with which to make the tire change. With the aid of his flashlight, he assembled the bumper jack, got it into place, and started jacking the car up.

He saw headlights in the distance behind him, headlights that came swooping down the long, straight stretch of road at high speed.

As Mason raised the car so the flat tire was clearing the ground, he heard the whine of the tires on the other car, the sound of the motor; then, with a roar, the car swept on past, the current of wind created by its passage causing the jacked-up car to sway slightly on its springs. Mason watched the tail light vanishing into the distance at a rate of speed which he estimated must have been around eighty.

Mason got out the lug wrench, pried off the hub cap, got off the flat tire, and dragged the spare tire out from the trunk.

He rolled the wheel into position, lifted it, got it fitted on the lugs, and completed the chore of carefully tightening them and put the hub cap back into position. Then he released the jack, got the tools back into the trunk, and then had to replace the various bags and suitcases before he could get under way once more.

He found the address he wanted without much difficulty. Milter had not even bothered to assume an alias, but a printed section torn from a business card and placed in the little holder over the doorbell said simply, “Leslie L. Milter.”

Mason rang the doorbell twice. There was no response. He pounded on the door.

He heard the sound of steps on the stairs to his left. The door opened. A young, attractive brunette in a rakish hat and glossy fur coat started across the porch, saw him standing there, hesitated a moment, then turned for a frankly curious appraisal.

The lawyer smiled and raised his hat.

She answered his smile. “I don’t think he’s in.”

“You haven’t any idea where I might find him?”

“No. I haven’t.” She laughed slightly and said, “I hardly know him. I have the apartment which adjoins his. Several people have been in to see him tonight — quite a procession. You weren’t — didn’t have an appointment?”

Mason reached a prompt decision. “If he isn’t home,” he said, “there’s no use of my waiting.” He peered at the name card on her doorbell. “You must be Miss Alberta Cromwell — if, as you say, you live in the adjoining apartment. I have a car here, Miss Cromwell, perhaps I can drop you somewhere?”

“No, thanks. It’s only a block to the main street.”

Mason said, “I rather expected Mr. Milter to be home. I understood he was expecting someone to call, that he had an appointment.”

Her eyes flashed a quick glance at him. “A young lady?”

Mason said cautiously, “I wouldn’t know. I only understood that he had an appointment and that I would find him at home.”

“I think there was a young woman called, and I saw a man leaving the house shortly before you came up. I thought at first the man had rung my bell. I was in the kitchen with some water running, and I certainly thought I heard my bell ring.”

She laughed, an embarrassed little laugh which showed how nervous she was.

“I pressed the buzzer for my visitor to come up. Nothing happened, and then I heard steps on the stairs which went to Mr. Milter’s apartment, so I guess it wasn’t my bell at all.”

“Long ago?”

“No. Within the last fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Do you know how long this visitor stayed?”

She laughed and said, “My, you talk as though you were a detective — or a lawyer. You don’t know who this girl was, do you?”

“I just happen to be very interested in Mr. Milter.”

“Why?”

“Do you know anything about him?”

She waited for a perceptible interval before answering that question. “Not very much.”

“I understand he used to be a detective.”

“Oh, did he?”

“I wanted to talk with him about a case on which he’d worked.”

“Oh.”

The young woman hesitated. “Something he’d been working on recently?” she asked.

Mason met her eyes. “Yes.”

She laughed suddenly and said, “Well, I’ve got to be getting on up to town. Sorry I can’t help you. Good night.”

Mason raised his hat and watched her walk away.

From a telephone booth in a drugstore Mason called Witherspoon’s house and asked for Della Street. When he had her on the line, he said, “Anything new from Paul Drake, Della?”

“Yes. Drake’s operative telephoned.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the bus had got in right on time, that the girl had got off and gone directly to Milter’s apartment. She had a key.”

“Oh-oh!” Mason said. “What happened then?”

“She went upstairs, and wasn’t gone very long. That’s one thing the detective is kicking himself about. He doesn’t know just how long.”

“Why not?”

“He presumed, of course, she’d be up there some time, and he went across the street, and about halfway down the block, to a restaurant to telephone. He telephoned Drake, and made his report. Drake had told him to telephone you here. He put through the call to me here, and while I was talking with him, he happened to see the blonde walking past. So he hung up and dashed out after her. About five minutes later, he called up from the depot, says she’s sitting there waiting for the midnight train to Los Angeles, and that she’s been crying.”

“Where’s the detective?”

“Still at the depot. He’s keeping her shadowed. That train is a chug-chug that carries a Pullman up to the main line, where it lays over four hours, gets picked up by a main-line train, and gets into Los Angeles about eight in the morning.”

“This detective can’t tell exactly how long she was up in the apartment?”

“No. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. It might have been less. According to what he says, he thought it was a good chance to put through a telephone call and report. Naturally, he expected her to be up there for some little time... You know, when a girl has keys to a man’s apartment... the detective assumed... that he’d have lots of time to telephone.”

Mason looked at his watch, said, “I may have time to talk with her. I’ll go down to the depot and see if I can accomplish anything.”

“Did you see Milter?”

“Not yet.”

“A car drove away right after you left — within two or three minutes. I think it was Witherspoon. He’s probably trying to locate Lois.”

“Try to find out definitely, will you?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll beat it down to the depot. G’by.”

Mason drove directly to the depot. He heard a train whistle when he was three blocks away. As he parked his car, the train was just pulling into the depot.

Mason walked around the station platform just in time to see the blond girl whom he had last seen in Allgood’s office stepping aboard the car. For a moment, the light from the station fell full on her face, and there was no mistaking her identity, nor that she had been crying.