Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowning Duck

Mason returned to his automobile and had proceeded three or four blocks from the depot when he heard the sound of a siren. On the cross street a block away, a police car swept past the intersection.

At the intersection, Mason found the car had turned in the direction of Milter’s apartment. Mason followed along behind, saw the police car swing over to the curb, and come to an abrupt stop.

Mason parked his own car directly behind the police car. An officer jumped out and hurried across the cement walk to the door which led to Milter’s apartment. Mason was right behind him.

The officer pressed a broad thumb against the bell, then turned and saw Mason.

Mason returned the officer’s stare for a moment, then turned sheepishly, and started down the steps.

“Hey, you!” the officer called.

Mason stopped.

“What did you want?” the officer asked.

“I wanted to call on someone.”

“Who?”

Mason hesitated.

“Go ahead, let’s have it.”

“Mr. Milter.”

“You know him?”

Mason, choosing his words carefully, said, “I have never met him.”

“You want in, huh?”

“Yes. I wanted to see him.”

“You been here before?”

Mason waited once more for just the right interval before saying, “Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“What did you do?”

“Rang the bell.”

“What happened?”

“I didn’t get any answer.”

The officer pressed the bell again, said, “Stick around. I think I’m going to want to talk with you.”

He crossed over to an apartment marked MANAGER, and pressed the bell.

A light in one of the lower rooms came on. They could hear the sound of bare feet on the floor; then after a few moments, the shuffle of slippered feet coming down the corridor. The door opened a crack, and a woman somewhere in the forties with a dressing gown wrapped around her frowned at Mason with cold inhospitality. Then seeing the light glinting from the shield and brass buttons on the officer’s uniform, she became instantly cordial.

“Was there something I could do for you?” she asked.

“You got a man here named Milter?”

“Yes. He’s in the apartment over...”

“I know where he is. I want to get in.”

“Have you tried his bell?”

“Yes.”

“I... if he’s home...”

“I want in,” the officer repeated. “Give me a pass key.”

She seemed undecided for only a moment, then said, “Just a minute.”

She vanished into the dark interior of the house. The officer said to Mason, “What did you want to see him about?”

“I wanted to ask him a few questions.”

A radio playing somewhere in the lower floor gave forth four quick bursts of static. The officer said, “Do you live here?”

Mason gave him one of his cards. “I’m a lawyer from Los Angeles.”

The officer twisted around, held the card so the light from the interior of the hallway fell on it, and said, “Oh, you’re Perry Mason, the lawyer, huh? I’ve read about some of your cases. What are you doing down here?”

“Taking a trip,” Mason said.

“You come to call on Milter?”

Mason managed to give his laugh just the right shade of expression. “I hardly came all the way down here just to see Milter.”

“Hey, you,” the officer called down the corridor to the manager, “we can’t wait all night for that key.”

“Just a minute. I’m trying to find it.”

During the short period of silence which followed, Mason heard the metallic click of a telephone receiver being dropped into its cradle. “Considering the noise made on the radio when she dialed Milter’s telephone,” Mason chuckled, “she’s going to a lot of trouble to keep us from knowing what she’s doing.”

“Hey,” the officer shouted, “cut out that phoning. Get me the key, or I’m coming after it.”

They heard the slippered feet again, shuffling rapidly along the corridor. “I had a hard time finding it,” the manager lied. “Would you let me have your name, please — just in case there’s any trouble.”

“Haggerty,” the officer said, taking the key.

Mason walked across the porch, waiting while the officer fitted the key to the door, then said, “Well, I won’t go up with you. The matter I wanted to see him about wasn’t important.”

He turned and started away. The officer let him take two steps before he called, “Hey, wait a minute! I’m not so certain about that.”

“About what?”

“That what you wanted to see him about wasn’t important.”

“I don’t get you?”

“Why do you suppose I’m getting this pass key?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“A little while ago some jane telephoned the desk and said that something was wrong up here. Know anything about that?”

“No.”

“Know who that woman might have been who telephoned?”

“No.”

“You just come along, anyway,” the officer said. “Stick along with me for a minute. I want to take a gander up here, and maybe that’s all there’ll be to it. Maybe you’ll have some questions to answer.”

He led the way up the stairs, Mason following docilely along behind.

They entered a combined living room and bedroom. A wide, mirrored section of the wall was arranged to pivot so as to conceal a wall bed. The furniture was plain, somewhat faded. A door at the far end of the room was closed. A plain table in the center of the room held some magazines. Over at the far side was a big round goldfish bowl. In the bottom of the bowl was a little castle and some sort of green water grass. Some colored shells were strewn along the bottom of the tank. A couple of goldfish swam lazily about. In the tank, so far submerged that only the top of its head and part of its beak were protruding upward, a duck was struggling feebly.

The officer followed Mason’s eyes, saw the tank, turned away, then stopped.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong with that duck?”

Mason glanced at the duck, said quickly, “I suppose this door leads to another room.”

“We’ll take a chance,” the officer said.

He knocked on the door, received no answer, and opened the door. He turned back to look at the fish tank. “Funny about that duck,” he said. “He’s sick.”

A peculiar odor seeped into the room which the officer had just entered, a very faint acrid odor. The room itself was evidently intended to be used as a dining room. There was a big table in the center, a pine sideboard, and chairs of the conventional dining-room type.

Mason said, “Let’s open these windows. I don’t like this smell. What brought you up here? Specifically, what did that woman say?”

“Said there was something wrong up here. Let’s take a look in this other room.”

The officer opened the door which led to a bathroom. It was empty. Mason crossed the room and flung the windows wide open while the officer opened another door which apparently led to the kitchen.

Mason, watching his chance, doubled back quickly to the living room, and reached his hand down into the goldfish tank.

The little duck had quit struggling. Mason lifted him out, a soggy, almost inert bundle of wet feathers.

The lawyer whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the bird dry, squeezing the water out of the feathers. The little duck made feeble motions with his feet.

Heavy steps sounded on the floor. Mason thrust the duck into his coat pocket. The officer, his face gray, came staggering toward Mason. “Kitchen... dead man... some kind of gas. I tried...” The officer stumbled, then collapsed into a chair.

Mason, glancing toward the kitchen, could see a partially opened door, the sprawled figure of a man on the floor.