Erle Gardner - Case of the Silent Partner

“Then you think she came back to the house?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“About when?”

“I don’t know. I left there about quarter to one. That’s why I was a little late getting to your office for the one o’clock appointment. I arrived about twenty minutes to one, and wasted a good five minutes looking around and trying to find what had happened. Then I decided to rush to your office. Then you told me about Esther Dilmeyer being drugged and — and you said you were going out to see Lynk, and I thought — well, I tried to persuade myself it was all right.”

“Then you had an idea Lynk was dead before I went out there?”

“Well, I didn’t know. I knew the gun had been used.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because I looked at it, and found an empty shell in it.”

“Then,” Mason said, “you got your fingerprints all over the gun?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“And slipped it in the pocket of your coat?”

“Yes.”

“Now you say you think Bob killed him?”

“That’s right.”

“And that Carla knew about it?”

“Yes.”

“And that Carla came home and packed up some things and left?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think Bob came back with her?”

“No. I think Bob must have just kept right on going. You know, I don’t think Bob would have nerve enough to face anything like that. I think he’d kill a man and then run away.”

“Then,” Mason said dryly, “if we are to follow your reasoning to its logical conclusion, after Bob killed him, Carlotta got the gun with which the murder was committed.”

She bit her lip and turned away so that he couldn’t see her face.

“Is that right?” Mason asked.

She said, “I g-g-guess so.”

“That isn’t logical,” Mason said. “You know it.”

“Well, what is logical?”

“I don’t know, but I want to find out where I stand. You want me to represent your sister?”

“That’s right.”

“But not you?”

“No. I can take care of myself.”

Mason said, “Don’t be too sure. If that’s the murder weapon, it’s in your possession. It has your fingerprints on it.”

“I tell you I can take care of myself. They can’t pin anything on me. I’m strong and healthy. They can question me, and it won’t hurt me. They can’t prove a thing.”

“Where were you at midnight?”

“I was... I was at my store in the office trying to figure things out so I could see just how much money I could raise in case we had to buy that stock.”

“And you want me to represent your sister?”

“Yes, please. I want you to stand back of her.”

Mason said, “No one needs to know anything about her having gone out. If her husband killed him, that won’t involve her.”

“You don’t understand. If you knew about her condition, if you could see her. This must have been a terrible strain. If they should start questioning her, or the newspaper men should get after her and ask her questions about Bob and about where she was, and about how she got the gun and those things — well, it would undo all the good that her treatment has accomplished. She’d either die, or her heart would be so bad it never would get better.”

Mason said, “Who’s going to pay me for representing her?”

“I am.”

“If I’m representing her, I’ll be representing her alone.”

“Of course.”

“Her interests would come first.”

“That’s what I want.”

“If yours get in the way, you’d be in the position of an adverse party. I’d smash you just as quickly as I would a total stranger.”

“That’s the way I want you to do.”

“Did you ever hear of the paraffin test?” Mason asked abruptly.

“The paraffin test? What are you talking about?”

“For telling whether a person has fired a gun recently?”

“What’s paraffin got to do with that?”

“Whenever a gun’s fired, an invisible spray of powder particles backfire, and imbed themselves in the skin of a person’s hand. They’re microscopic particles, invisible to the naked eye, but they always fly back and are imbedded in the skin.

“The Scientific Crime Detection Bureau has worked out a new technique for telling whether a person has fired a gun. They pour melted paraffin over the suspect’s hands, reinforce it with a thin layer of cotton, and then cover it with wax. After the paraffin has just about set, the whole thing is rolled back from the hand. The little bits of powder which buried themselves in the skin of the hand are caught by the paraffin and adhere to it when the mold is taken from the hand. A chemical reagent is poured on the paraffin. That reacts on the nitrates in the powder so that it brings about a chemical change that makes the specks visible to the naked eye.”

“I see,” she said, her voice holding a slight quaver.

Mason said, “If Carlotta didn’t fire that gun, it would be a lot better for her to go to the police right now and tell them her story, whatever it is. Then, before it’s too late, the police could subject her hands to a paraffin test and prove that she didn’t fire the gun. That would clear her.”

“But... but... suppose she did?”

“In that event,” Mason said, “with one shot fired out of the gun, with the police able to prove that the gun had been in her possession, with a paraffin test showing that she had recently fired the gun, and with the ballistics experts showing that the bullet which killed Harvey Lynk came from that gun, your sister would be headed for the gas chamber at San Quentin.

“And,” Mason went on dryly, “the fact that Harvey J. Lynk was shot in the back isn’t going to help a self-defense plea any.”

Mildreth Faulkner slowly walked across to where the gun reposed on the taboret by Mason’s chair. “I suppose I shouldn’t have got my fingerprints on it.”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “Couldn’t we wipe them off?”

“ I couldn’t.”

She grabbed up the gun, crossed over to her purse, took out a handkerchief, and started scrubbing vigorously away at the metal.

Mason sat calmly at ease, sipping his Scotch and soda, watching her frantic motions.

“Careful with that gun,” he warned. “You have your finger inside the trigger guard.”

A siren sounded close at hand, rising to a scream, then fading to a low, moaning sound as a car pulled up at the curb outside.

Mason said, “Unless I’m greatly mistaken, that will be Lieutenant Arthur Tragg of the Homicide Squad, and when he finds that gun absolutely devoid of fingerprints, he’ll...”

“Look out...”

Mason jumped up from the chair, lunged toward her, grabbed for her wrist — and was too late.

The revolver roared into noise. The bullet, sailing through a plate-glass window, sent tinkling fragments of glass dropping to the cement porch.

In the interval of startled silence which followed, the doorbell rang insistently. Knuckles pounded on the panels. Lieutenant Tragg called, “This is the police. Open up, or I’ll smash the door in.”

“That,” Mason said calmly, “is the pay-off.” He walked back to his chair, settled down in the cushions, picked up the drink, and lit a fresh cigarette. “It’s your party now.”

Mildreth Faulkner stood staring at the gun. “Good Heavens! I had no idea it was going off. My handkerchief caught on the hammer and pulled it back. My finger was on the trigger, and...”

“Better let Lieutenant Tragg in,” Mason interrupted. “I think he’s getting ready to smash in a window.”

She stooped and slid the gun along the floor under a davenport at the corner of the room.

Mason tolerantly shook his head at her. “Naughty, naughty! Lieutenant Tragg won’t like that.”