The Case of the Buried Clock

Chapter 22

Perry Mason and Della Street sat in the curtained booth of a little restaurant around the corner from Mason’s office, eating a luncheon which consisted mostly of tea and cigarettes.

“I don’t get that about the dog,” Della Street said.

Mason said, “The thing works out mathematically from the district attorney’s point of view. Dr. Macon met Milicent as she was coming back from the cabin. She told him about the new embezzlement, about Jack Hardisty having ninety thousand dollars in cash that he was using as blackmail. Dr. Macon suggested that they return to the cabin, that he give Hardisty a hypodermic of scopolamine that would make him talk, and betray the hiding place of the stolen currency.”

Della Street sipped her tea. “I understand that, all right,” she said. “According to that theory they must have gone back and give him a hypodermic. After that he became violent and one of them shot him. But where does the dog come in?”

“Don’t you see? Dr. Macon would know that they’d recover the fatal bullet, that they’d check it with Milicent’s gun, that then they’d have a dead open-and-shut case. So he extracted the bullet and hid it.”

“But how could he shoot it into a dog after—”

“He didn’t. McNair’s betting that Macon got another gun of the same caliber, killed a dog with it, removed the bullet, buried the dog, and intended to conceal the bullet in the cabin in such a place that it would be found sooner or later. When the authorities found it, they’d think they’d discovered the fatal bullet where it had been concealed by Dr. Macon. They’d test it and find, to their surprise, that it didn’t fit Milicent Hardisty’s gun.”

“Then Dr. Macon was putting the bullet behind the picture, instead of taking it out, when he was apprehended?” Della Street asked.

“Exactly,” Mason said, “and I almost led with my chin by asking on cross-examination if he might not have been putting something in instead of taking something out... I caught myself just in time on that one.”

“What gave you the tip-off?”

“Something in the way McNair was watching me, some expression on the witness’ face... But I walked right into that dog business. I had to. I was in a position where I either had to stop my cross-examination, which would have made it look as though I were afraid of the truth, or go ahead and bring out the point which crucified my client.”

“Why didn’t McNair bring it out under direct examination?”

“Because it hurts my case more when I bring it out on cross-examination... Those are sharp tactics, and I’m going to get even with him.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mason admitted.

Della Street stirred the few grounds of tea in the bottom of the tea cup. “I could almost cry,” she confessed. “—You can see what happened. If Milicent Hardisty didn’t kill her husband, Dr. Macon at least thinks she did, and tried to protect her. In doing it, he dragged them both into the mess... Or Dr. Macon killed him, and Mrs. Hardisty is trying to protect him. Either way we’re licked — and McNair is so sneering, so soaked up with triumph, that he just makes me sick. I’d like to pull his hair out, a handful at a time. I’d like to—” Rage choked her words.

Mason smiled, “Don’t get excited, Della. Use your head instead... There’s one discrepancy in the evidence that I doubt if McNair’s thought of.”

“What is it?”

Mason grinned at her. “Wait until he puts Jameson on the stand.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I don’t think anyone’s thought of it,” Mason said, “but I’m going to make them do a lot of thinking about it.”

“But you can’t possibly work out any theory that will get Milicent Hardisty acquitted — can you?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said somberly. “Perhaps not, but I can mix the case up so that a lot of that supercilious smirk will come off McNair’s face and—”

Mason broke off as he heard Paul Drake’s voice asking the proprietor, “Is Perry Mason eating in here today?”

Mason pulled back the curtain of the booth. “Hello, Paul, what have you got?”

Paul Drake entered the booth. His face wore a grin. Under his arm he carried a small package wrapped in newspaper and tied tightly with a string.

Della Street moved over so he could sit down beside her. Drake put the package on the table.

Almost instantly a faint but unmistakable sound of steady ticking became apparent.

“The buried clock?” Mason asked.

Drake nodded.

“Where did you get it?”

“Harley Raymand found it buried just under the surface of the ground, about ten feet from the edge of the rock where it had been concealed the first time.”

“How far from where the broken spectacle lens was found?” Mason asked.

“Not very far... Harley Raymand tied up the package and wrote his name across the wrapper. I wrote my name just above his, and tied it up in another wrapping... Do you want to open it in court?”

Mason thought it over for a moment, then said, “We’ll put Harley Raymand on the stand, and let him identify his signature... We’ve got to do that before the clock runs down. It’s a twenty-four-hour clock, isn’t it, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“And what time did the clock say — that is, was it slow or fast or—”

Drake said, “The darned clock is two hours and forty-five minutes fast.”

Mason pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and did some rapid figuring. “That puts it almost exactly on sidereal time, Paul. As I get it, sidereal time would be about three hours and forty-five minutes fast today, but our time has been moved up an hour on account of the war. That means the clock is almost exactly on sidereal time.”

Drake gave a low whistle. “Perhaps that tag about the stars wasn’t just a pipedream, Perry. Why the devil should a man want a clock that keeps time with the stars — and why should it be buried around in different places?”

Mason’s grin was gleeful. “That, my boy, is a question we’ll try to dump in the lap of Thomas L. McNair.”

“They won’t let you put it in the case, Perry.”

Mason said, “I know they won’t, but they’ll have a hard time keeping me from putting it in the minds of jurors.”