Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowning Duck

Mason repeated her words slowly. “Terminated everything between us.”

Once again she was angry; then she caught herself and said, “You do have the most unpleasant manner of prying into a person’s mind. All right, if you want it that way, the answer is yes.”

Mason said, “You left El Templo before the papers came out this morning?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Just why did you come here ?”

“I told you it was my conscience that sent me here. I know something that I didn’t ever tell anyone about.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t a witness at that old trial, so nobody asked me. I didn’t volunteer this information.”

“And what was the information?”

“Horace Adams and David had a fight.”

“You mean an argument?”

“No, I mean a fist fight.”

“What was it about?”

“I don’t know.”

“When?”

“The day David was murdered.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said. “Let’s have it all.”

She said, “David and Horace had a fight. I think David got the worst of it. He came home and was terribly angry. He went to the bathroom and put some cold towels on his face; then he fooled around in the bedroom for a while and went out. It wasn’t until sometime afterwards that I began to wonder what he’d been doing in the bedroom. I remember having heard a bureau drawer open and close. As soon as I thought of that, I ran to the bureau and opened the drawer where David always kept his gun. The gun was gone.”

“Whom have you told about this?” Mason asked.

“Not a soul on earth except you. Not even my husband.”

There was a long silence in the office while Mason turned her statement over in his mind; then he glanced over at Della Street to make certain Della had taken it all down in shorthand.

Della nodded almost imperceptibly.

The silence made Mrs. Dangerfield uneasy. She started pointing out the obvious. “You see, Mr. Mason, what that would mean. If Horace’s lawyer had said frankly that they’d been fighting, if it had appeared that David had pulled a gun and Horace had struck him over the head — who knows? It might have been self-defense, and he’d have gone free. In any event, it wasn’t the kind of murder they hang men for.”

“And what did you intend to do?” Mason asked.

She said, “Understand one thing, Mr. Mason. I’m not going to make a howling spectacle of myself. I’m not going to have people pointing the finger of shame at me. But I thought that I might sign an affidavit, and give it to you, to hold in strict confidence. Then, if this business about the old case should begin to ruin Marvin Adams’ life, you could go to the girl’s father — in strict confidence, of course — and show him this affidavit, tell him of your talk with me, and Marvin could — well, you know, live happily ever after.”

She laughed nervously.

Mason said, “That’s very interesting. Twenty-four hours ago it would have been a simple solution. Now it may not be such a simple solution.”

“Why?”

“Because now the record of that old case may come out in public, in spite of anything we can do.”

“Why? What’s happened within the last twenty-four hours? Has Mr. Witherspoon...”

“It was something that happened to this detective, Leslie L. Milter.”

“What?”

“He was murdered.”

For a moment she didn’t grasp the full significance of Mason’s words. She said mechanically, “But I’m telling you that if his lawyer had...” She caught herself in the middle of the sentence, straightened in her chair. “Who was murdered?”

“Milter.”

“You mean someone killed him ?”

“Yes.”

“Who — who did it?”

Mason once more picked up a pencil from his desk, slowly slid his fingers up and down the polished shaft of wood. He said, “That is quite apt to be a question which will become increasingly important as time goes on — a question which will have very important bearing upon the lives of several persons.”

Mrs. Dangerfield seemed for a moment almost dazed, then abruptly she said, “I must call my husband at once.”

Mason glanced at Della Street. “You can put through a call from here.”

Mrs. Dangerfield got to her feet, said, “No. I–I have some other things I want to do.”

Mason said, “There are one or two more questions I’d like to ask you, Mrs. Dangerfield.”

She shook her head with sudden firm decision. “No. I’ve said everything I care to, Mr. Mason. My husband didn’t know I was coming. I left a note for him that I was going to be away today. I didn’t tell him where I was going I... I took the car... I think I’d better let him know where I am immediately.”

“You can use this phone,” Mason said. “We can get a call through in just a few minutes.”

“No,” she announced definitely, and looked around the office somewhat as an animal might look at some new cage. “This the way out?” she asked, pointing toward the door into the hall.

“Yes,” Mason said, “but...”

“I’ll talk with you later, Mr. Mason. I’m leaving right now.”

She swept out through the door.

Mason said to Della Street, “Quick, Della. Drake!”

But Della Street’s fingers were already whirring the dial on the telephone. She said, “Drake’s office? A woman just left this office, a Mrs. Dangerfield. Fifty, looks forty, brunette, dark eyes, dark blue coat. She’s at the elevator. Get a tail on her right away. Follow her. See where she goes and what she does. Quick!... That’s right.”

She hung up and said, “They’ll pick her up right away.”

“Good work, Della.”

Della said, “I’d give a hundred dollars to know what she says over the wire to her husband.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “What she’s most interested in is finding out where he was last night — when Milter was murdered. Rush me through a call to the chief of police at El Templo.”

Della Street put through the call, explaining to the operator that it was an emergency, and within less than a minute, Mason had the police officer at El Templo on the line.

Mason said, “This is Perry Mason, the lawyer, in Los Angeles. A Mrs. Dangerfield has just left my office. Her husband is there in El Templo. She’s going to put through a telephone call to him. If you can listen in on that telephone call, I think you’ll get some interesting information that...”

“You’re Mason?” the voice interrupted.

“Yes.”

“What’s this woman’s name?”

“Dangerfield.”

“Spell it.”

Mason spelled it.

“She’s putting through that call?”

“Yes. Right away.”

The voice said, “Hold the line a minute. There’s someone here wants to talk with you, but I’ll get busy on this first.”

Mason held the line, said to Della Street, holding his palm cupped over the transmitter, “At least we’re getting some intelligent co-operation down there. They’ll probably never tell us what’s said, and they may not admit they listened in on the conversation, but I’ll bet they manipulate things so they’re put in on the call.”

The man’s voice came over the wire again. “Hello. Hello. This Mr. Perry Mason?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Mr. Witherspoon wants to talk with you.”

Witherspoon’s voice was no longer the carefully controlled voice of a man who is accustomed to issuing orders and dominating every situation in which he finds himself placed. There was something almost pathetic in the eagerness of his voice as he said, “Is this you, Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Come down here. Come down at once!”

“What is the matter?” Mason asked.