The Case of the Buried Clock

Chapter 13

Perry Mason slid his car to a gentle stop in front of the Blane residence.

“Looks dark,” Drake said.

“The lights may be shielded,” Mason observed, putting on the emergency brake. “Let’s take a chance.”

They walked up the echoing cement, pounded up the stairs to the porch. The sound of the doorbell was a sepulchral echo from the interior of the house.

Mason and Drake exchanged glances.

They rang twice more before giving up.

“Perhaps it’s her night off,” Drake said.

“Uh huh, we’ll talk with Vincent Blane about her.”

“Where are you going to find him?”

Mason said, “Ten to one there’s a directors’ meeting at that bank in Roxbury, and Blane is sitting there at the directors’ table, very affably and suavely discussing ways and means and alibis.”

“Want to bust in on him?” Drake asked.

“Why not?”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

While they were driving along at a thirty-five-mile-an-hour pace that seemed as awkward as the three-legged gait of a crippled greyhound, Drake said, “I can’t get over Adele registering under the name of Martha Stevens. Why the devil didn’t she think up a name?”

“Two reasons,” Mason said.

“You’re two ahead of me. I can’t even think of one.”

“One of them is that just in case anything ever came up Adele might have fixed it up with Martha Stevens to swear that she was the one who occupied the room.”

Drake said, “Well, it’s an idea, but I don’t get enthusiastic over it.”

“The other one,” Mason pointed out, “is that someone was going to meet Martha Stevens at the San Venito Hotel. Adele knew about the rendezvous, and decided to double for Martha Stevens... Or else she’s a stand-in to hold things in line until Martha can get there.”

Drake shifted his position nervously. “Now you’ve got something, Perry. That last sounds more like it. I’ll bet Martha Stevens is on her way to that hotel right now.”

Mason said, “On a hunch, Paul, let’s telephone your office from Roxbury. Send down a couple of operatives to check on the hotel, give them a description of Martha Stevens. Tell them to stick around and see what happens.”

Drake said, “Step on it. It’s going to take a little while to get men on the job. You can’t pick up good operatives these days just by asking for them.”

Entering the outskirts of Roxbury, Mason said, “While we’re about it, we may as well drive by Hardisty’s house. I want to see what the place looks like... You know where it is?”

“I have the address,” Drake said, pulling a memorandum book out of his pocket. “I haven’t covered it personally. I’ve been busy on this other stuff.”

“Okay. Let’s hunt the place up. What’s the address?”

“453 D Street.”

Mason said, “Let’s see how the streets run. Probably the letter streets are either north and south or east and west... What street is this?”

Drake craned his neck out the car, said, “I can’t tell. The sign is right next to the street light.”

“There’s a spotlight in the glove compartment. I’ll slow down so you can take a look at the next one.”

Drake gave vent to his feelings. “A detective’s nightmare, these ornamental lamp posts with brackets for street names. You can’t possible read these signs at night. You’re looking at a black object silhouetted against a bright light. Cities have been buying those things for the last twenty-five years. What good does it do to advertise that it’s a friendly city, thank you for your patronage and ask you to call again, when they’re storing up ill will by sticking signs where strangers can’t see ’em?”

“Why don’t you go before a luncheon club and make a speech?”

“Some day I’m going to. It’ll be some speech!”

“In the meantime take a look at this one,” Mason observed slowing the car.

Drake tried to shield his eyes, said, “It’s no use.” He took the spotlight Mason pushed into his hand, directed the beam against the sign and said, “This is Jefferson Street.”

“Okay. We’ll turn to the right and see if we pick up the lettered streets.”

The next street was A Street. Mason ran swiftly across B and C Streets to D, and turned left. Drake, with the aid of Mason’s flashlight, began picking up numbers.

“This is the six-hundred block, two blocks more. About the middle of the block on the right-hand side... Okay, Perry, take it easy now... That looks like the place right ahead. There are lights in the windows.”

Mason slowed the car to a scant fifteen miles an hour, crept past the lighted house, turned the corner to the right.

“Circling the block?” Drake asked.

“Yes. I want to take another look at it. What do you make of it, Paul?”

“Darned if I know. Lights are on and the shades are up. You can look right into the place, but there doesn’t seem to be any sign of life.”

Mason kept the car at the fifteen-mile-an-hour pace as he circled the block. “It may be a trap, Paul.”

Drake said, “If no one’s home, let’s not go prowling around.”

“On the other hand,” Mason observed, “it might be that Adele Blane is in there. It’s not apt to be Milicent Hardisty; it can’t be Jack Hardisty... Oh well, let’s go see.”

“Promise me you won’t go in,” Drake pleaded. “If no one’s in there, and lights are on and perhaps the door unlocked, let’s not stick our necks in a noose.”

Mason said, “We’ll see what it looks like.”

They swung around the corner, back into D Street. Mason shifted into neutral and coasted up to the curb. He switched off the motor and lights and for a moment the two men sat in the car looking at the house.

“Front door’s open a crack,” Mason said. “You can see light around the edges.”

“Uh huh.”

“Of course, Paul, it may be that Vincent Blane has just stopped by. He may have a key.”

“I tell you, Perry, it’s a trap of some sort.”

“Well, let’s go up on the porch.”

“Promise you won’t go in?”

“Why all the holding back, Paul?”

“Because they’d accuse you of trying to find evidence and planning to conceal it. After all, Perry, we’re playing this whole thing pretty much in the dark.”

“I’ll say we are,” Mason agreed as they walked up the steps to the porch.

“Front door is open, all right,” Mason said pressing a thumb against the bell button.

The jangling sound of the bell came from the interior of the house, but there was no other sign of life or motion.

Drake, looking through the front window, said suddenly, “Oh, Perry! Take a look here, will you?”

Mason moved over to his side. Through the open window could be seen a massive, antique, mahogany writing desk. A slanting door dropped down to form an apron for writing, back of it were a series of pigeonholes.

The splintered lock on the writing desk told its own story. Papers, strewn about the floor, had apparently been pulled out from the pigeonholes, hastily unfolded, read and discarded in a helter-skelter of confusion.

Drake said, “That settles it, Perry. Let’s get out while the getting’s good.”

Mason hesitated a moment, standing in front of the window, then said with evident reluctance, “I guess that’s the only sensible thing to do. If we notify the police, they’ll always be suspicious we pulled the job, and then notified them after we had found and concealed what we wanted.”

Drake turned and started eagerly for the stairs on the porch. Mason paused long enough to push against the front door.

“Don’t do it, Perry,” Drake pleaded.

Mason said, “Wait a minute, Paul. Something’s wrong here. There’s something behind the door. Something that yields just a little yet blocks the door — it’s a man! I can see his feet!”

Drake, standing at the edge of the porch said, “All right, Perry, there’s nothing we can do. Telephone the cops if you feel that way about it. We just won’t give our names when we phone, that’s all. Let them come and see what it’s all about.”

Mason hesitated for a moment, then squeezed through into the room.

Drake said with angry sarcasm, “Sure, go ahead! Stick your neck in! Leave a few fingerprints! You aren’t in bad enough already. It won’t hurt you to discover a couple more corpses, and when I try to renew my license another black mark more or less won’t make any difference.”

Mason said, “Perhaps there’s something we can do, Paul,” and peered around at the object behind the door.

The man who lay sprawled on the floor was somewhere in the late fifties. A spare individual with high cheek bones, a long, firm mouth, big-boned hands and long arms. His slow stertorous breathing was plainly audible once Mason had entered the room.

Mason said, “Oh, Paul, take a look. He’s not dead, just knocked out... Don’t see any signs of a bullet wound — wait a minute, here’s a gun.”

Mason bent over the weapon. “A short-barreled .38,” he said. “There’s an odor of powder smoke. Looks as though it might have been fired... But I still can’t see any bullet wounds.”

Drake said, “For the love of Mike, Perry, come on out of there. We’ll telephone the police and let them wrestle with it.”

Mason, completely absorbed with the problem of trying to deduce what happened, said, “This bird has a leather holster on his belt. Looks as though it was his gun. He may have been the one who did the shooting and then perhaps he got slugged... Yes, here’s a bruise up on the left temple, Paul. Looks as though it might have been done with a blackjack or—”

A siren sounded with that peculiarly throbbing sequence of low notes which comes before and after the high-pitched scream. A blood-red spotlight impaled Paul Drake on the porch, swept past him to throw a reddish light through the half-open front door.

Drake said with what was almost a groan, “I should have known it!”

A voice from the outside barked a gruff command. “Come out of that! Get your hands up!”

There were steps. Paul Drake’s voice was raised in rapid explanations. Mason moved around the man’s feet to appear at the half-open front door.

Two men, evidently local officers, carrying guns and five-celled flashlights, tried to hide nervousness behind a gruff exterior. “What’s coming off here?” one of them demanded.

Mason said, “I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer. Milicent Hardisty is my client. I stopped by to see if she was home. We saw the lights and came up on the porch. As soon as I looked in the house, I saw something was wrong.”

The second man said in a low voice, “It’s Mason, all right. I’ve seen him before.”

“How long have you been here?” the first officer asked.

“Just a matter of seconds,” Mason said. “Just long enough to look inside. We were just starting to telephone for the police.”

“Oh yeah? This guy was coming down off the porch when we spotted him with the light.”

“Certainly.”

“There’s a telephone right here, ain’t there?”

Mason said scornfully, “And if we’d used it, you’d have bawled us out for obscuring fingerprints.”

“What’s happened?” the officer asked.

Mason said, “I don’t know. A man inside appears to have been slugged. There’s a gun lying on the floor.”

“Your gun?”

“Certainly not.”

“You do any shooting?”

“Of course not.”

“Hear any shot?”

“No. I’m not certain any were fired.”

“Somebody telephoned headquarters,” the officer said, “said that a shot had been fired in the Hardisty residence, and it looked like a murder.”

“How long ago was this?” Mason asked.

“Seven or eight minutes.”

Mason moved back through the half-opened door. “I don’t see any evidences of a bullet wound,” he said, “but there’s a bruise on the left temple.”

The two officers herded Drake in through the door, and then looked down at the unconscious figure.

“Shucks, that’s George Crane,” one of the men said.

“We’d better get him up off that floor,” Mason said, “and see what can be done for him. Who’s George Crane?”

“Merchant patrol, deputy constable. A good sort, does a little private work on the side.”

Mason said, “We could lift him up on that couch.”

“Okay. Let’s do it... Wait a minute; who’s this man with you?”

“Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency.”

“We’ll take a look at his credentials first,” the officer said.

Drake extracted a leather wallet from his pocket, passed it over. The men opened it, turned the cellophane-faced compartments, one at a time, looking at the cards. The leader said, “I guess you’re okay,” and handed the wallet back to Drake. They holstered their guns, snapped flashlights to their belts, then bent over the unconscious man on the floor. Mason and Drake helped them lift him to the couch. Almost immediately the eyelids fluttered, the tempo of the breathing changed, the muscles of the arm twitched.

Mason said, “Looks as though he’s coming around. Find the bathroom, Paul; get towels soaked in cold water, and—”

“Just a minute,” the officer in charge said. “You boys are staying right here with me, both of you. Frank, you get that wet towel.”

The officer prowled around, found the bathroom. They heard the sound of running water, then he was back with cold towels.

George Crane opened his eyes, stared groggily, then suddenly flung himself to a sitting position and started flailing about him with his arms.

The officers said, “Take it easy, George. Take it easy. You’re okay.”

Recognition came into the man’s eyes.

“You’re all right,” the officer repeated soothingly.

“Where is she?” George Crane asked.

“Who?”

“The woman who slugged me.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

The officer looked questioningly at Mason, who shook his head.

The officer turned back to Crane. “There wasn’t any woman, George, not when we got here. What happened?”

Crane raised a hand to his sore head, pulled down the wet towel, felt with exploring fingers along the line of the bruise on his temple, said, “The deputy sheriffs left me in charge until they could get a key to that writing desk, or a warrant to bust in, one or the other.”

“Who has the key?” Mason asked.

“Mrs. Hardisty, I guess, but Mr. Blane said he thought her sister might also have a key. She has a key to the house.”

“What happened?” the officer asked.

Crane pressed the towel back against his bruised head, said, “I left the place dark. Sort of thought someone might start prowling around and I could do a little good for myself by catching them red-handed. Nothing happened. I was sitting out here on the porch — and all of a sudden I knew someone was on the inside. I peeked through the window, cautious-like. I could see a woman standing in front of that desk with a little flashlight playing on the stuff in the pigeonholes.

“The front door was locked. I figured she must have got in through the back door. If I tried to come in through the front, she’d put out the flashlight and make a run for it — so I sneaked around real quiet to the back... Sure enough, the back door was open. I started pussyfooting through the house, heading for the front of the place. I must have tipped my hand. First thing I knew she was right in front of me. I had my gun in my right hand. I tried to grab her with my left, and she hit me on the right arm with a blackjack. I had the gun half raised when she cracked down. The jerk that came with the blow pulled the trigger on the gun — and that’s all I remember.”

“Did you hit her?”

“I don’t know... I don’t think so. I wasn’t aiming, just had the gun half up.”

“Why didn’t you use your flashlight?”

“I’m telling you I wanted to catch her red-handed. I thought she was still in the front room. I was pussyfooting through, not making no noise.”

The officer said, “The trouble with you, George, is that you’re half deaf. You thought you weren’t making any noise, but—”

“Now that will do! I don’t have to take any criticism from you!” George Crane interrupted angrily. “You ain’t so smart. How about the time you were after the two burglars in the hardware store, and—”

The officer interrupted hastily, “Keep your shirt on, George. No one’s criticizing you. We were just trying to find out how it happened. What time was this?”

“I don’t know, rightly. Right around nine o’clock, I guess. What time is it now?”

“About fifteen or twenty minutes past nine.”

“I guess it was right around nine, then.”

“Someone telephoned in they heard a shot. Wouldn’t leave a name. You don’t know who that was, do you, George?”

Crane said irritably, “From the time I was halfway through the house, I don’t know anything.”

“You were over by the front door when we found you,” Mason said. “Do you have any idea how you got there?”

Crane looked at him suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“We’re the persons who found you,” Mason said, smiling.

“Milicent Hardisty’s lawyer,” the officer explained.

Instant suspicion appeared in Crane’s eyes. “What were you doing here?”

“We called to see if Mrs. Hardisty was home.”

Crane started to say something, then apparently changed his mind, glanced significantly at the officers.

The officer in charge said, “I guess that’s all. We know where we can get you two if we need you... How about it, George, can you describe this woman?”

George Crane said pointedly, “Not while these guys are here.”

The officer smiled. “I reckon he’s right at that, boys.”

Drake needed no second invitation. “Come on, Perry.”

They walked out of the house, across the front porch, and down to where Mason had left his car parked. Drake said in an undertone, “Feel like running before they start shooting? It’s an even-money bet they’ll grab us before we get to the car.”

Mason laughed, said, “We’re okay, Paul. Something else is bothering me.”

“What?”

“I’d just like to know if Adele Blane’s car is still at the Acme Garage.”

Drake said. “We can soon find out. That garage is just one block over from the main drag. My man says you can’t miss it.”

Mason, starting the motor, said, “I’m suspicious of the things you can’t miss... Wonder who it was that telephoned in about that revolver shot.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t suppose they’re going to give us any information in case they do find out... Swing to the left at the next corner, Perry, and then turn to the right.”

Drake said, “Better let me go in, Perry. Two of us will make him suspicious. There’s a way of handling these things.”

Drake entered the garage, was gone for about five minutes, came back, jerked open the door of Mason’s car, slid in beside the lawyer and slumped down on the seat.

“Well?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “Adele Blane took her car out exactly forty-five minutes ago.”

Mason slammed the car into gear.

Drake, slumping dejectedly over against the corner of the seat, said, “One thing about a guy who works on your cases, Perry, he never needs to get bored... Where are we going now?”

Mason, putting the car rapidly through the gears, said, “This time I’m going to try to get an interview before the police do.”

“With Adele?” Drake asked.

“With Adele,” Mason said, pushing the throttle down to the floorboard.