Erle Gardner: The Case of the Drowning Duck

Mason shook his head. “I’m not going to stay here. We leave in the morning.”

“Just why did you come down here?” she asked curiously.

“I wanted to see a little more of those kids — together. And to size up Witherspoon in his own back yard. Met the other guests, Della?”

“One of them,” she said. “Mrs. Burr. We can’t meet Mr. Burr.”

“Why not?”

“He lost an argument with a horse shortly after you came in and buried yourself in that transcript.”

Mason showed quick interest. “Tell me about the horse, and the argument.”

“I didn’t see it. I heard about it. It seems he’s quite an enthusiast on fly-casting and on color photography. That’s the way Witherspoon met him — at a camera store in El Templo. They got talking, found out they had a lot of interests in common, and Witherspoon invited him out for a couple of weeks... I understand Witherspoon does things that way — likes to show off his big house here. He claims he either takes to a man at first sight, or never likes him at all.”

“A dangerous habit,” the lawyer commented. “When’s Burr’s two weeks up?”

“I think it was up a couple of days ago, but Witherspoon suggested he stay on a little longer. It seems Burr is going to open up a business here in the valley. He found he needed more additional capital and sent East for it. It’s supposed to be here tomorrow or next day — but he’ll stay put for a while now.”

“On account of the horse?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“It seems Burr wanted to take a color photograph of one of the mares. A Mexican vaquero was backing her out of the stable to take her over to the spot Burr had designated. She was nervous and high-strung. The Mexican jerked at her head. Burr was standing beside her. The doctor left about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Take him to the hospital?”

“No. He’s staying here in the house. The doctor brought out a trained nurse and left her in charge, temporarily. He’s going to send a regular nurse out from town.”

Mason grinned. “Witherspoon must feel he’s like the host in that play where the man broke a hip and...”

“Witherspoon was the one who absolutely insisted on his staying here.” she said. “Burr wanted to go to a hospital. Witherspoon simply wouldn’t listen to it.”

“You certainly do get around and keep your ears open,” Mason said. “How about Mrs. Burr?”

“Mrs. Burr is a knockout.”

“What sort?”

“Light reddish hair; large, slate-colored eyes; a perfectly wonderful complexion, and...”

“No, no,” Mason interrupted, grinning. “I meant what sort of a knockout.”

Della Street’s eyes twinkled. “I guess it’s what they call a technical knockout. She hits below the belt. She...”

The door opened. Paul Drake came breezing into the room.

“Well, well,” Drake said, shaking hands, “you sure do go places, Perry! What’s it all about?”

Before Mason could answer, the door opened again, and a soft-footed Mexican servant glided into the room, carrying a tray on which was a cocktail shaker, and three filled glasses.

“Dinner is in thirty minutes,” he said in faultless English as he passed the tray. “Mr. Witherspoon said please do not dress.”

“Tell him I won’t,” Mason said, grinning. “I never do.”

They clicked the rims of their glasses as the servant withdrew.

“Here’s to crime,” Mason said.

They sipped their cocktails, making something of a ceremony of it.

“You certainly pick swell places, Perry,” Drake commented.

“It depresses me,” Mason told him.

“Why? It looks like the guy who owned it had invented a way of beating the income tax.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but there’s something about it I don’t like — an atmosphere of being cooped up.”

Della Street said, “He doesn’t like it because there isn’t any excitement, Paul. When he works on a case, he wants to go out and drag in the facts. He can’t stand to stay put, waiting for the facts to come to him.”

“What’s the case?” Drake asked.

“It isn’t a case. It’s a post-mortem.”

“Who’s your client?”

“Witherspoon, the man who owns the place.”

“I know, but who are you trying to prove didn’t commit the murder?”

Mason said gravely, “A man who was hanged seventeen years ago.”

Drake made no effort to conceal his disgust. “I presume he was executed a year or so after the crime was committed. That would make the clues at least eighteen years old.”

Mason nodded.

“And you think he was innocent?”

“He may have been.”

Drake said, “Well, it’s okay with me, just so I get paid for it. Gosh, Perry, who’s the acetylene torch?”

“Torch?” Mason asked, his mind still on the murder case.

“The straw-headed lass in the seductive white outfit that fits her like the skin on a sausage. You can take one look at that and know she hasn’t anything underneath it except a pleasing personality.”

Della Street said, “She’s married, Paul. But don’t let that cramp your style. Her husband got mixed up with a horse this afternoon. I understand he’s now filled full of morphine and his leg’s wrapped in a plaster of Paris cast, and a weight is dangling from...”

“She’s married!”

“Yes. Why so startled? Good-looking women do get married, you know.”

“Then she must be related to the big-chested chap with the paunch and the air of ownership — what the devil’s his name?”

“No. That’s Witherspoon. She’s Mrs. Roland Burr. They became acquainted a couple of weeks ago in El Templo. Burr and Witherspoon are fly-fishing cronies and camera fiends. I’ve picked up all the gossip already, you see.”

Drake whistled.

“Why, Paul. What’s the matter?”

Drake said, “When I stepped out of my room into the corridor just now, I opened the door rather quietly, and this baby in white was leaning up against the big guy. She tilted her lips up. The last I saw, as I silently eased back into my room and waited for the coast to clear, was the paunchy party getting ready for a smear of lipstick. My entrance was delayed by a good thirty seconds.”

“After all, Paul,” Della Street pointed out, “a kiss doesn’t mean a lot, these days.”

Drake said, “I’ll bet this one meant something. It would have to me. If she...”

There was a knock on the door. Mason nodded to Della Street. She opened it.

Lois Witherspoon came marching into the room. Marvin Adams, looking somewhat embarrassed, hung a pace or two behind her.

“Come on in, Marvin,” Lois said, and, looking at Paul Drake, said, “I’m Lois Witherspoon. This is Marvin Adams. You’re the detective, aren’t you?”

Drake glanced obliquely at Mason, seemed almost taken aback for a moment, then said in his slow drawl, “Why? Did I drop a magnifying glass or did you notice some false whiskers clinging to my chin?”

Lois Witherspoon stood in the center of the floor. She had that reckless defiance, that utter disregard of consequences which is a part of youth. She spoke with hot-headed rapidity. “I bet you’ve heard the whole story, so don’t you try to stall! You can’t cover up. Your automobile is sitting out in front. The registration is ‘Drake Detective Agency.’”

Drake kept his voice on a note of light banter. “One should never take a car registration seriously. Now suppose I had...”

“It’s all right, Paul,” Mason interrupted. “Let her finish. What is it you want, Miss Witherspoon?”

She said, “I want things carried on fair and above board. I don’t want to have you pretending this is an old friend of the family or someone who brought you down some papers. Let’s be adult and civilized about this. My father thinks he should dig into the past. I know just exactly how the bugs in my biology class must have felt when they were dissected under a microscope. But if we’re going to be bugs, let’s be frank about it.”