Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowning Duck

“If you’re right,” Drake said, “he won’t sue.”

“He won’t sue,” Mason remarked positively. “Come on, Della. We’re headed for El Templo.”

John L. Witherspoon, held temporarily in custody at the sheriff’s office, was permitted to talk with his lawyer privately in a witness room which opened off from the courtroom.

“The damnedest, most absurd thing you ever heard,” Witherspoon stormed. “And it all started with my identification of that damned duck.”

“Suppose you tell me about it,” Mason said.

“Well, I told the police about the duck. And I told them about Marvin having taken that duck from the ranch. The whole thing was as plain to me as the nose on my face. Hang it, it still is.”

“What did you tell the police?” Mason insisted.

“I told them that Marvin Adams had taken a duck from my place. I identified it as being my duck — the one that Marvin Adams had taken. That was all the police needed. They decided to grab Marvin Adams. They caught him as he got off the train in Los Angeles.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said.

“Apparently Adams told a pretty straightforward story. He said he’d taken a duck and put him in his automobile and that the duck had vanished, and that was all he knew about it. He admitted that he hadn’t searched the car completely, but felt sure the duck was gone. The police thought so, too. They got in touch with the police here, and they went out and searched the car Marvin was driving — and what do you think they found?”

“What did they find?” Mason asked.

“Found that damn duck over in the back of the car. The little son-of-a-gun had flopped over the back of the front seat somehow, got down on the floor and crawled under the foot rest.” Witherspoon cleared his throat, shifted his position uncomfortably in the chair. “A damnable combination of peculiar coincidences put me in something of a spot,” he said.

“How so?” Mason asked.

“Well, after you left the house last night, I wanted to catch up with you, just as I told you, but I didn’t tell you exactly what happened after that — that is, I told you but I didn’t tell it in its proper sequence.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said noncommittally.

“I chased in after you. I missed you when you were off by the side of the road changing a tire. I told you that I looked around uptown to try and find you, and thought I saw Mrs. Burr and went off on a tangent trying to find her. Well, that’s true. The thing that I didn’t tell you about was something that I thought might embarrass me personally.”

“What was it?”

“Immediately on reaching town, I drove to Milter’s apartment. I told you that I didn’t see your car parked near there, so I kept on going. That isn’t true. I didn’t pay any attention to cars. I was too steamed up. I slid my car into a parking place at the curb, got out, and went directly to Milter’s apartment, and rang the doorbell. Naturally, I thought you were up there. Not having overtaken you on the road, I thought you’d kept ahead of me.”

“You went to Milter’s apartment then?”

“Yes.”

“Immediately on reaching town?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do?”

“I rang the doorbell.”

“Then what?”

“No one answered, but I saw the door hadn’t been closed all the way. I pushed against it impatiently, and the door came open. The spring lock hadn’t clicked into place.”

“What did you do?” Mason asked.

“I walked part way up the stairs and someone heard me coming — a woman.”

“You saw her?”

“No, I didn’t, not her face, at least. I was halfway up the stairs when this woman came to the head of the stairs. I could see a leg and some underthings — felt embarrassed as the devil. She wanted to know what I was doing, breaking into the apartment. I said I wanted to see Mr. Mason, and she told me Mr. Mason wasn’t there and to get out. Naturally, under the circumstances, I turned around and went downstairs.”

“You didn’t tell me anything about this,” Mason said.

“No, I didn’t. I felt rather cheap about the whole business. I realized that a man in my position couldn’t afford to admit having broken in on something of that sort. I didn’t see the woman’s face, and she hadn’t seen mine. I thought no one knew who I was.”

“Did they?”

“Some woman who lived next door. She’d heard some talk, and evidently she’s one of those curious people who peek out through window shades, and pry into other persons’ business.”

“She saw you?”

“Not when I went in, but when I came out,” Witherspoon said. “She identified the car. She’d even jotted down the license number. Why, is more than I know, but she had.”

“Didn’t she give any reason for writing down the license number?”

“I don’t know. She tells the police that she thought a woman came in with me. Probably because she heard the voice of a woman in the apartment next to hers.”

“Did some woman go in there with you?”

“No,” Witherspoon said. “Of course not. I was alone.”

“Lois wasn’t with you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Nor Mrs. Burr?”

Witherspoon shifted his eyes. “I want to talk with you about Mrs. Burr in a minute. That’s another one of those damnable things.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Tell it in your own way. It’s your funeral. You may as well make the oration.”

“Well, that woman next door reported my license number to the police. Naturally, if that duck in the goldfish bowl was my duck, and it came from my place, and Marvin Adams hadn’t brought it, the police thought perhaps I had .”

“Rather a natural assumption,” Mason commented dryly.

“I tell you it’s the damnedest combination of coincidences,” Witherspoon stormed angrily. “I get angry every time I think of it.”

“Suppose you tell me about Burr.”

“Well, this morning, of course, I told Mrs. Burr about the excitement in El Templo and about how Milter had been murdered. Roland Burr was feeling better, and he wanted to see me, so I went in and had a talk with him.”

“And you told him about it?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, he was curious — the way anyone would be.”

“Did you tell him anything about Milter?” Mason asked.

“Well, a little something, not much. I’ve grown rather fond of Roland Burr. I felt that I could trust him.”

“He knew I was at the house?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know why?”

“Well — well, I think some of those things were discussed in a rather general way.”

“Then what?”

“This morning Roland Burr asked me to bring him his favorite fishing rod. I told him that I would as soon as I could get to it.”

“Where was it?”

“He said he’d left it in my den. I believe I told you that I’m particular about that den of mine. There’s a lock on the door, and I have the only key to it. I never let the servants go in there except when I unlock the door and stand around watching them. I keep quite a stock of liquor in there, and that’s one thing about these Mexicans. You can’t trust them around tequila.”

“And Burr had left his fishing rod in there?” Mason asked.

“Apparently so — that is, he said he had. I don’t remember that he did, but he must have.”

“When?”

“He was in there with me, chatting. That was the day he broke his leg, and he’d had his fishing rod with him. But I can’t remember that he left it there. I can’t remember that he didn’t. Well, anyway, he asked me to get it for him, said there was no particular hurry about it, but he’d like to have it to sort of play around with it. He’s a regular nut about fishing rods, likes to feel them, whip them in his hands, and all that sort of thing. Plays with them the way a man will play with some favorite gun, or camera, or other toy.”