Erle Gardner - The Case of the Postponed Murder

“The coast all clear?” Drake asked.

“Yes.”

Mason took a good look at the man’s face, then switched out the dome light as Drake introduced Della Street and the lawyer.

“Exactly what was it you wanted to know?” the man asked.

Mason said quietly, “I want to get in the house, MacGregor.”

There was a moment’s stiff, uncomfortable silence, then the operative said, “I’m afraid that’s going to be a pretty tough order.”

“How tough?” Mason asked.

“Plenty tough. Old Angus goes to bed early, but he always reads for an hour or two before he turns out the light. He’s a light sleeper.”

“Where does he sleep?”

“In a cottage down near the hangar.”

“You have a key to the gate?” Mason asked.

“Gosh, no. I’m just an assistant to the gardener. I sleep in a cubbyhole in the basement.”

“The door from the basement to the other part of the house unlocked?” Mason asked.

“I could get in. Of course, I’d be fired if I were caught. Then I could either produce my credentials and show I was a private detective on a job, or be sent to jail as a burglar.”

“Do you know how long they’re going to be gone?”

“The servants won’t be back until one or two o’clock. The chauffeur took them to see a picture show in town. God knows when Eversel will show up.”

“Doesn’t he usually send the servants away when he plans on spending the night elsewhere?”

“He didn’t the other night,” MacGregor said. “He sent them away to get rid of them.”

Mason grinned and said, “Well, let’s take a chance.”

“You can’t leave the car there,” MacGregor said, “and I can’t get it through the gates. You’ll have to drive it back down to the main road and park it.”

“I’ll take it down,” Drake said.

“And stay in it?” Mason asked.

Drake took a deep breath. “Hell, no, Perry,” he said. “I’ll stay with you. I don’t want to, but you may need my moral support.”

Mason glanced inquiringly at Della Street. By way of answer, she opened the door and slipped out of the car to stand by the driveway. “We’ll wait for you here, Paul,” she said.

Mason said, “Look here, Della. I don’t know just what I’m getting into. This may be embarrassing, and it may be dangerous.”

“I know,” she said quietly, in a tone which completely disposed of the discussion.

Drake slipped the car into reverse. Mason joined Della Street at the driveway, quietly closed the door. “Don’t make any more noise than necessary, Paul,” he said.

“It’s all right,” MacGregor told him. “Lots of cars come up here on moonlit nights — not an awful lot, but enough so Angus gets accustomed to hearing them turn back when they come to the locked gates.”

Abruptly Mason signalled Paul Drake, walked over to stand near the front left hand window of the car. “On second thought, Paul,” he said, “I think you’d better stay with the car, and you’d better take Della with you.”

Della Street quietly shook her head.

“Why not?” Mason asked.

“You may need a witness,” she said. “I’m going to stay with you.”

Mason said to Drake, “Go back to the main highway, drive about three hundred yards up the road, stop the car, turn out the lights, and wait until you hear from me. If things go all right, I’ll join you inside of half an hour. If, at the end of half an hour, you haven’t heard from me, beat it back to town.”

“If I can help, Perry,” the detective said, “I want to...”

“No,” Mason told him. “Go on. Beat it. I don’t know just what we’re getting into. MacGregor’s here. He can stand by if it comes to a showdown. You’d better keep on the sidelines, Paul, and get started. Time’s precious.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “thirty minutes,” and drove away.

Mason turned to MacGregor. “Let’s go,” he said.

“We’ll work through an opening in the hedge down here about twenty yards,” he said. “I’ll lead the way.”

Casting black, grotesque shadows in the moonlight, the three moved quietly along the hedge. MacGregor led the way through the opening. Inside the grounds, he paused to listen, then whispered, “Just where do you want to go?”

“The room that Eversel went to when he returned to the house,” Mason said. “Paul Drake told me it was a darkroom.”

“It is. It wasn’t built as a darkroom, but it’s been fixed over. He has a lot of equipment there, does quite a bit of amateur photography.”

“Let’s go,” Mason said.

“Do you want me to take you all the way up?”

“Yes.”

MacGregor said, “Be as quiet as possible. If we use flashlights, cover them with your hand and let as much light as you need work out through your spread fingers. Angus might see lights shining on the windows.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Let’s go.”

They crossed the moonlit yard, entered a basement door. MacGregor led the way across the cement floor to a flight of stairs. The door at the head of the stairs was unlocked. They entered a back hallway, passed through a kitchen, and reached a flight of stairs near the back of the house. MacGregor piloted them to an upper corridor and down the corridor to a door. “That,” he said, “is the room. Don’t turn on any lights.”

“We won’t,” Mason promised.

“Where,” MacGregor asked, “do you want me?”

“Someplace on the lower floor,” Mason said, “where you can keep watch but can manage to get back to your room in case anything happens. If anyone drives through the gate, slam the nearest door, and slam it hard, then go back to your room. Keep your ears open. If you hear any commotion, come running. Keep in the character of a servant who has been asleep, was wakened by the commotion, and is loyal to his employer, unless I give you a signal. In that case, come out in the open and take orders from me.”

“Okay,” MacGregor said quietly. “I’ll slam that kitchen door. You can hear that from here if you are listening.”

“We’ll listen,” Mason said.

MacGregor retraced his steps down the hallway. Mason turned the knob of the door and entered the room.

It had evidently been a small bedroom at one time. Now it had been completely done over. The windows were darkened. A battery of light switches led to safe lights, enlarging cameras, wired printing boxes, and electrical washers. Shelves were well filled with photographic supplies. A long sink ran the entire length of the room, divided into various tanks for developing, printing, and washing. A long shelf held graduates and photographic chemicals.

Mason said quietly, “I think we can turn on a light here, Della. The room is lightproof.” He experimented with the switches, finally located one which controlled a shielded white light.

“What,” she asked, “are you looking for, Chief?”

Mason said, “I think they came here to develop a photograph. After that photograph was developed, it was probably printed in an enlarging camera. We’ll look around and see what we can find.”

Della Street said, “Here is a file of negatives, Chief.”

“How are they listed?” Mason asked. “By dates or subjects?”

“Subjects,” she said, “alphabetical order.”

Mason said, “This room is too darned orderly to be a good darkroom. Look around for a wastebasket, Della. Hang it, it doesn’t look as though the place had been used for a month, and yet they must have developed a picture here.”

Della said, “You don’t think Eversel killed him, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said.

“I’ve been wondering about that Farr woman,” she said. “Do you believe her story, Chief?”

Mason said, “There’s no particular reason why I should. She first came to the office with a lie which she had ingeniously worked out — but she’s our client, Della. You can’t keep clients from lying, but that doesn’t relieve you of your responsibility to see they get a square deal.”