Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowning Duck

“You can’t trust her, as far as that boy is concerned. She’s simply crazy about him. If you let her in on anything that might hurt you, she’d betray you if she ever thought it would help him.”

“I know. But I had to rely on her because, in the first place, the dogs knew her, and in the second place, she knew her way around the ranch. You’d have got into trouble. I realize the risk of using her. It’s a big risk.”

“Where are we going now?”

Mason said, “We’ve got an errand to do in town. Then we’re going to overtake that midnight train. It hauls a sleeper up to the main line, and switches it off to wait for the through train to Los Angeles. I understand the car’s hooked up about three o’clock in the morning. That gives us less than an hour.”

“Did that blonde girl from the detective agency take the train?’

“Uh huh.”

“Anyone else?”

“Marvin Adams.”

“They’re on the train together?”

“Well, they’re both on the train.”

“Is that just a coincidence?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s the errand in town?”

“I want to see Alberta Cromwell. She has the apartment that adjoins Milter’s.”

“His common-law wife?”

“Widow.”

“Do you think she knows of the murder?”

“She must if she’s home.”

“Suppose she isn’t home?”

“That’s one of the things I want to find out.”

“Won’t the police still be in possession of Milter’s apartment?”

“Probably.”

“Will you take a chance on running into them?”

“No.”

“But won’t you have to, to find out if she’s home?”

Mason grinned. “There are two ways of finding out if a young lady isn’t home. One of them is to look in her home.”

“What’s the other?”

“To find her away from home.”

“Come on,” Della said. “Quit holding out. Where?”

Mason said, “There are also just two ways of leaving town, for a young woman who has no automobile. One is by the train. The other is by bus. The last train has gone. We’ll look in the bus station first.”

“Would you know her if you saw her?”

“I think so. In any event, I met a young woman who claims to occupy the apartment next to Milter and who gave her name as Cromwell.”

Della Street settled back in the seat. “Pumping you for information when you don’t want to loosen up is like trying to get water out of a dry well.”

Mason grinned. “I can’t very well give something I haven’t got.”

“No, but if you had, you wouldn’t. I’m going to snatch forty winks. I don’t suppose you want me to go into the Greyhound depot with you?”

“Definitely not.”

“Okay, just wake me up when you come out.”

She twisted her shoulders until she got her head in a comfortable position, and closed her eyes. Mason drove on at high speed until he reached the main street of El Templo. Then he slowed and drove to within half a block of the Greyhound bus depot. Apparently Della Street was still asleep as he slipped quietly out of the car, gently closed the door, and walked rapidly down the sidewalk.

There were four persons sitting on the wide benches, waiting for the three o’clock bus to Los Angeles. Alberta Cromwell was occupying an isolated corner, her elbow resting on the arm of the bench, her chin propped on the palm of her hand. She was staring with fixed, unseeing eyes at a rack of magazines in front of her.

As Mason sat down almost beside her, she turned her head just far enough to take in his feet and legs, then swung her eyes back toward the magazine rack.

Lurid covers, featuring various so-called authentic detective cases, were stacked in rows, one above the other. These covers for the most part showing well-curved young women engaged in a desperate struggle for life and, one would gather from the state of their clothing, for honor.

After several seconds had elapsed during which Alberta Cromwell remained motionless, Mason said calmly, “Rather depressing thinking about a murder against that background, isn’t it?”

She jerked her head around at the sound of his voice. As she recognized him, an involuntary nervous start betrayed her emotion, but after a moment, when she spoke, her voice was calm. “Are you, too, going to Los Angeles?” she asked.

Mason held his eyes steadily on her profile. “No.”

She turned once more to look at him then, and her eyes faltered. She turned quickly away.

Mason said, “Don’t you think it would be better to tell me about it?”

“There’s nothing to tell. About what?”

“Your reason for going to Los Angeles so suddenly.”

“I don’t think it’s sudden. I’ve been planning to go for some little time.”

“Let’s see,” Mason said. “You don’t seem to be carrying a suitcase. Not even an overnight bag.”

“Is that any business of yours?” she asked. “After all, I think you’re presuming entirely too much upon what was, merely a— a—”

“Yes,” Mason prompted. “Merely a what?”

“An attempt to be neighborly.”

“You told me that you only knew Leslie Milter slightly.”

“Well?”

“I suppose any wife could say as much of her husband,” Mason observed.

She tilted her chin upward, dropped her lashes, and made it quite plain that she didn’t care to continue the conversation.

Mason got up, walked over to the newsstand, and bought four or five of the magazines. He came back to the bench, seated himself beside her, and casually started turning pages. Abruptly he said, “Interesting thought here, that the criminal really does more to bring about his own capture than the police. Trying to cover up nearly always gives the police something definite on which to work — regardless of what clues might connect a person with the original crime.”

She said nothing.

“Now take your case, for instance,” Mason said, quite calmly, as though discussing the matter from a completely detached viewpoint. “Your absence won’t mean so much to the police tonight, but in the morning they’ll begin making investigations. At least, by noon, they’ll be looking for you. By afternoon, they’ll be searching for you. By midnight, you’ll be the prime suspect.”

“Of what?”

“Of murder.”

She whirled to stare with widening eyes and an expression which mirrored horror. “You mean... somebody... was killed?”

Mason said, “As though you didn’t know.”

“I don’t know.”

“You seemed in rather a hurry to leave the house about the time I was ringing the bell.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Nothing. Just a coincidence, that’s all. However, when the police start checking up on Milter, they...”

“Exactly what has Leslie Milter done now?” she asked.

Mason said, “He didn’t do it. It was done to him. He’s dead. Someone killed him.”

Mason could feel the bench move at her sudden start.

“Not so good,” the lawyer said.

“What?”

“The convulsive start. The first time when you saw me here, you did it naturally. This was rehearsed. There’s quite a difference between the two. You might have fooled me if I hadn’t seen that first jump.”

“Say,” she demanded, “who are you?”

“The name’s Mason. I’m a lawyer, from Los Angeles.”

“ Perry Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she said in a tone which was faint with dismay.

“How about a little talk?”

“I–I don’t think I have anything to say.”

“Oh, yes, you have. People sometimes underestimate their own powers of conversation. Think things over a little.”