Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

Without another word, Karr lowered his hands to the rubber tires of the wheelchair. But quick as he was, Gow Loong was the first to apply the pressure against the wheelchair which sent it into motion toward the rear of the house.

Doris Wickford said to Mason, “Apparently I’m to camp on your doorstep until this is cleaned up.”

Rodney Wenston shook his head. “I know the guv’nor pretty well,” he said. “Don’t rush him. He won’t do a thing if you crowd him.”

Lieutenant Tragg said to Mason without any more expression in his voice than if he had been commenting on an unusual spell of weather, “Certainly is strange the number of coincidences there are in this case. And every time I come here I find you here.”

Mason laughed. “I think of it as being the other way around. Every time I come to talk with my client, you manage to drop in. I was thinking that perhaps I was being followed.”

“It might not be a bad idea at that.”

Tragg started toward the stairway, then paused as he was near the first step, and beckoned Mason over to him.

“I see nothing for it but to arrest young Arthur Gentrie and charge him with murder.”

“Whose murder?” Mason asked.

Tragg smiled amicably. “Thought you’d catch me on that one, didn’t you? Well, just to put your mind at rest, when we discovered the body of Mrs. Perlin, we made a complete search of the premises. We went through everything, even cleaning out the ashes in the furnace, and in those ashes we found some interesting things, a few bits of charred cloth, some buttons, the remnants of a pair of shoes. On the portions that hadn’t been completely destroyed by fire, we found dark stains. An analysis shows they were made by human blood. You might think that over, Mason. And now if you’ll pardon me, I’ll run along. I want to talk with young Gentrie as soon as he gets back from the hardware store.”

Mason got Della Street on the telephone a few minutes after five o’clock.

“Closing up?” he asked.

“I was waiting for you. How’s everything going?”

“Oh, so-so. Want to take a trip?”

“Where?”

“San Francisco.”

“How?”

“Reservations on the six o’clock plane. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

Della Street said, “A dab of powder on my nose, and I’m headed for the elevator.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “make it snappy. I’ll be aboard the plane. There’ll be a ticket for you at the ticket window. Just pick it up and climb aboard.”

“Be seeing you,” she promised, and hung up.

The late afternoon rush was on at the airport. Speeding cars came dashing in or went roaring out. People milled around in little groups, saying farewells or greeting arriving passengers. The loud speaker blared forth the fact that the six P.M. plane for San Francisco was ready for departure, and Mason, giving one last look around, was starting for the gate when Della Street came sprinting through the door. She gave him a friendly wave of her hand, then ran over to the ticket window to pick up her transportation. She joined him as he was getting on the plane.

“Skin of my eyeteeth,” she said. “A lot of traffic. Been here long?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes. Anything new at the office?”

“No. Drake’s got a lot of men out and is picking up a few details. That must have been vile whiskey. He was taking his third Bromo-Seltzer when I ran in to tell him I was checking out for the night.”

“Didn’t tell him where you were going?”

“No.”

They settled themselves in the comfortable reclining seats of the plane. A few moments later the sign flashed on requesting that passengers cease smoking, that seat belts be fastened, and then the motors, which had been clicking away at idling speed, roared into a deep-throated song of power. The plane taxied down the field, turned into the wind. The pilot applied brakes, tested first the port, then the starboard motor, then sent the plane skimming along the smooth runway.

“Always like to watch them take off,” Mason said, looking out of the window at the ground speeding past.

“They do it so smoothly now you hardly know you’ve left the ground,” she said.

Mason made no reply. He was watching the ground as it suddenly seemed to drop away. The plane was up in the air, smoothly gliding over the roofs of houses, across a railroad track, over a busy street congested with thousands of automobiles fighting their way foot by foot through the rush hour of traffic.

The sun had just set, turning a few streamers of western cloud into long bars of ruddy gold. Down below, lights on automobiles were being turned on. Neon signs began to gleam. Then suddenly all traces of civilization dropped behind. The plane was flying over mountains covered with chaparral and mesquite. The dark shadows of the valleys and canyons were in sharp contrast with the diffused gleam of sunset light which clung to the tops of the high mountains.

Far below, an automobile road wound and twisted its devious way up the mountains. Abruptly it drifted behind. There was a stretch of sagebrush-covered mesa, then more high mountains, this time crested with great pines. Slowly, twilight drew a curtain over the landscape, and lights within the plane blotted out what little view remained.

Mason settled back in his seat, said to Della, “I always like this trip.”

“What’s it all about?” she asked.

Mason said, “After I left you, I ran into Tragg. We had a talk, and then I went out and bought some San Francisco papers.”

“What happened up at Karr’s place?” Della Street asked curiously. “Did the girl make a good impression?”

“Apparently so. At least, on everyone except the Chinese houseboy.”

“What about him?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “You can’t exactly place him. Chinese are rather inscrutable at times.”

“Did you find out anything of what it was all about?”

Mason said, “Evidently this man who was going under the name of Dow Tucker and Elston Karr had a partnership sometime in 1920 and 1921. In the latter part of 1920 a third partner was taken in. He betrayed the outfit. Tucker was evidently captured, either executed or murdered. Karr managed to escape, and evidently he had a portion of the partnership funds with him.”

“Who was the third partner?” she asked. “Anyone important?”

“Robindale E. Hocksley.”

Della Street stared at Mason in surprise. “Surely Karr didn’t admit that, did he?”

“Yes.”

“But, good heavens, if that’s the case — why, Karr’s on the spot. They’ll make him logical suspect number one.”

“Don’t overlook those fingerprints on the telephone,” Mason said. “They’re young Gentrie’s fingerprints all right. Lieutenant Tragg’s in something of a quandary.”

“And this trip is to steal a march on him?” she asked.

Mason said, “Not exactly.”

“What is it for?”

“Oh, just to look up a certain party,” Mason said.

“I suppose that means I’m not to try to worm a more definite answer out of you?”

“Don’t crowd me,” he said, smiling. “If I’m right, I want to do something spectacular. If I’m wrong, I don’t want to lose my reputation.”

“How’s Lieutenant Tragg coming?”

“Right on my tail. I’m not certain but what he may even be a couple of jumps ahead of me by morning, unless I take a short cut.”

“And this is the short cut?”

“Yes.”

Mason settled his head back against the chair cushions and closed his eyes. Della Street studied his profile for a few moments. Then she, too, settled back in her chair. Mason’s hand came over to fold over hers. “Good girl,” he said, and drifted off into dozing slumber.