Erle Gardner - The Case of the Postponed Murder

“What do you want me to do?”

Mason said, “You have Della Street’s telephone number.”

“No. We called the office and...”

“It’s all the same,” Mason said. “There’s a day number and a night number. The night number is Della Street’s apartment. I have an unlisted telephone. She’s the only one who has my number. You drive on back to town. Go to the Palmcrest Rooms and go to bed just as though nothing had happened. If anyone drags you out of bed and starts asking questions, don’t answer. Don’t say a word. Don’t admit, don’t deny, and don’t explain. Insist that you be allowed to call me. I’ll do all the talking.”

“And if... well, suppose no one does say anything?”

Mason said, “Get up, have breakfast, and get in touch with me in the morning. And for God’s sake, keep out of trouble between now and then.”

“What do you mean?”

Mason said, “Lay off of Harold Anders. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.”

She placed her hand on his. “Thank you so much, Mr. Mason,” she said. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

“That also can keep,” Mason said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Mason.”

The lawyer turned and his wet feet pumped water with every step back to the automobile.

Della opened the car door for him. “Find it?” she asked.

Mason shook his head.

Mae Farr started her car, pulled around them, sounded her horn in two quick blasts by way of farewell, and accelerated down the black ribbon of road.

Della Street opened her purse and took out a small flask of whiskey.

“Where did this come from?” Mason asked.

“Out of my private cellar,” Della said. “I figured you might need it. Gosh, Chief, you’re soaking wet.”

Mason offered her the flask. She shook her head and said, “You need it more than I do, Chief. Drink it down.”

Mason tilted the flask to his lips, then handed it back.

“Better take some, Della.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine. You certainly were out there long enough.”

“I wanted to find that gun,” Mason said.

“Think she remembered just where it was?”

“She should have. That hot dog stand was her landmark.”

“It’s hard to find anything like that in the dark.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but I made a pretty thorough search, covered an area seventy-five paces wide by seventy-five long, and what I mean is, I covered it, darn near every inch of it.”

“Gosh, you certainly are sopping.”

Mason started the car and threw it into gear. “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”

“Make anything of it?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “not yet. That whiskey certainly was a lifesaver, Della.”

“Where do we go now?”

“To a telephone,” Mason said, “and call Hal Anders at the Fairview Hotel.”

They drove for miles in silence. The rain became a drizzle, then finally stopped. They found a telephone in an all night restaurant on the outskirts of the city, and Mason called the Fairview Hotel. “I know it’s rather late,” he said, “but I’d like to have you ring Mr. Anders. I believe he’s in room three nineteen.”

“Was he expecting a call?” the clerk asked.

“It will be quite all right if you ring him,” Mason said. “It’s a matter of business.”

There was an interval of silence, and then the clerk said, “I’m very sorry, but Mr. Anders doesn’t answer.”

“Perhaps he’s in the lobby,” Mason said. “You might have him paged.”

“No, he isn’t here. There’s no one in the lobby. I haven’t seen Mr. Anders since early this evening.”

“You know him?”

“Yes. I didn’t think he was in, but I rang his room to make sure.”

“Is his key there?”

“No.”

“Ring the room again, will you, please? Push down hard on the bell button. He may be asleep.”

Again there was an interval of silence. Then the clerk said, “No, sir, he doesn’t answer. I’ve called repeatedly.”

Mason said, “Thanks.”

He hung up as the clerk started to say, “Any message?”

Mason beckoned Della Street from the automobile. They had a cup of hot coffee at the lunch counter. “Any luck?” she asked.

“None whatever,” Mason said. “He wasn’t in.”

“Wasn’t in?”

“No.”

“But you told him particularly...”

“I know,” Mason said grimly. “He wasn’t in. I think I’ll have some ham and eggs, Della. How about it?”

“Sold,” she said.

Mason ordered the ham and eggs. While they were waiting for their order, they sat side by side in silence, sipping coffee. Della Street’s eyes were frankly troubled. Mason’s profile showed patience, grim determination, and thoughtful concentration.

Mason entered his office to find Paul Drake and Della Street in conference.

“Hello, gang,” he said, scaling his hat onto the bust of Blackstone by the door. “Why the gloom?”

Drake, looking at the lawyer with eyes that were expressionless, said, “Wentworth is dead.”

“The deuce he is,” Mason observed cheerfully. “Well, that would seem to simplify matters as far as Mae Farr is concerned.”

“Or complicate them,” the detective said.

Mason walked over to his desk, sat down on the swivel chair, flashed a swift glance at Della, and received by way of reply a cautious wink.

“Well,” Mason said, “let’s take a look through the mail. Anything important, Della?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

Mason riffled through the stack of letters and shoved them to one side of his desk. “Well, Paul,” he said, “what’s the dope? How did Wentworth die?”

“Brain haemorrhage,” Drake said.

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“Caused,” Drake continued, “by a bullet that went into the right side of the head, struck some of the blood vessels so that there was profuse bleeding, and apparently caused a slow haemorrhage into the substance of the brain, which was the cause of death.”

“Death instantaneous?” Mason asked.

“Apparently not.”

“Who did it?”

“No one knows.”

“When?”

“Sometime last night. They haven’t established the exact time.”

Mason turned to Della Street so that his face was partially concealed from the detective. “Did you notify our client?” he asked.

“I gave her a ring,” Della said. “She wasn’t available.”

“Where is she?”

“No one knows. She doesn’t answer the telephone at her apartment.”

“Now that,” Mason said slowly, “is something .”

“You don’t know the half of it yet,” Della said significantly, with a slight gesture of her head toward Paul Drake.

“Okay, Paul,” Mason said, “let’s have the other half. You do all the talking for a while, and after I have all the facts I’ll do a little thinking.”

Drake coiled himself up in the big leather chair and fed three sticks of chewing gum into his mouth. His eyes remained veiled and expressionless. The rapid motion of his jaws as he chewed the gum into a wad furnished the only indication of any nervousness.

“Wentworth,” he said, “has a yacht, the Pennwent. It’s around fifty feet, rather an elaborate affair, with lots of gadgets, including an Iron Mike. In case you don’t know about an Iron Mike, Perry, it’s a device by which the skipper of a boat can link the steering mechanism up with the compass. It enables the ship to be placed on a certain compass course and kept on that course with a very small margin of deviation. The manufacturers claim that a boat is steered by that mechanism a lot more accurately than is possible when there’s a man at the wheel.”