The Case of the Buried Clock

Chapter 25

Vincent Blane’s house went back to an ancient day of architecture when huge frame houses garnished with gables, ornamental half turrets and balconies sprawled over spacious grounds, in an era of tranquillity, financial security and happiness.

Mason surveyed the big spaciousness of the house. “I presume,” he said, “it will be one of the rooms in the back.”

“Probably on the ground floor,” Della said. “Let’s try the back door first.”

“No,” Mason said. “The back door will be locked from the inside, and have the key in it. The front door will have a nightlatch. We can work it with one of these passkeys — if we’re lucky.”

They waited until the street was deserted, then slipped up to the dark porch. Della Street held a small fountain-pen flashlight while Mason ran through his bunch of skeleton keys, looking for the right one.

“Here’s where we give another statute a compound fracture,” Della Street said. “I was afraid our law-abiding rôle was getting too irksome.”

Mason selected a key he thought might do the work, and inserted it tentatively in the lock. “We’re doing it in an emergency to clear a client who may be innocent.”

“If she’s innocent,” Della Street said spitefully, “why doesn’t she tell you the true story of what happened?”

“Because she’s afraid to. The truth looks too black. She—” The lock clicked back in the middle of the explanation. Mason opened the door, grinned and said, “Did it with the first key. That’s an omen, Della.”

The house was warm, with an aura of human occupancy. There was a comfortable, lived-in aroma clinging to the rooms, the faint after-smell of good cigars and well-seasoned cooking — the mellow feeling which clings to huge wooden houses and is almost never found in fireproof apartments.

Mason said, “Okay, we’ll head for the back of the house. There are back stairs. I remember seeing them that day when the officers came to get Milicent Hardisty.”

Della Street said, “Her room might be at the head of the back stairs. At any rate, it’ll be a good place to start.”

Within five minutes they had found it. A room on the second floor, at the extreme back of the house.

“It’s pretty hard to make a search with flashlights,” Della Street said.

Mason nodded, boldly walked over to the light switch, and clicked it on. “Neighbors,” he announced, “get suspicious when they see the beam of a flashlight playing around a room, or even impinging against the drawn shades, but they think nothing of it when lights are on... Just make certain the shades are all drawn, Della.”

Della Street went around the room pulling shades.

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s get to work.”

“What are we searching for?” Della Street asked.

Mason grinned. “That’s the beauty of it. We don’t know, we—” He broke off abruptly. “What was that, Della?”

Della Street said, “Someone tossed gravel up against the window.”

Mason frowned. “Sit tight. See what happens.”

A moment later more gravel was thrown against the window.

“Do I dare to switch out the lights, and take a peek at whoever is below?” Della asked.

Mason thought for a moment, then said, “Give it a try, Della.”

He switched out the lights. Della Street drew back the window shades, stood against the dark window, looking down into the back yard.

After a moment she moved back from the window and said with an odd catch in her voice, “It’s a man. He beckoned to me, and then moved up to the back porch. He’s standing there waiting, as though expecting me to let him in.”

For a long moment Mason deliberated this new development, then he said with sudden decision, “Okay, Della. We let him in.”

“But we can’t afford to be caught here, and—”

“We let him in,” Mason repeated. “It’s a hunch. Maybe Martha Stevens’ boy friend... Come on, Della, unlock the back door, and don’t say a word. I’ll be standing directly behind you. See what he does.”

With the aid of the flashlight, they negotiated the back stairs, crossed the kitchen. Della Street unlocked the back door, Mason switched out the flashlight, stood directly behind her. As the door opened, a slender man, wearing a reefer-type overcoat, pushed his way into the room and slipped a familiar arm around Della Street’s waist. “Cripes,” he said, “thought I wasn’t going to get away. Give us a kiss.”

Mason’s flashlight snapped on.

The man frowned at the annoyance of the flashlight, then caught a glimpse of Della Street’s face and jumped back as though he’d been shot. “Say, what’s the idea?” he demanded.

Mason kicked the back door shut and locked it. “Come on up,” he invited.

“Where to?”

“Martha’s room.”

“Say, who do you think you are?”

Mason said with every assurance of authority. “Come along, my man, I want you to answer questions about what happened the night Jack Hardisty was murdered.”

Every bit of resistance oozed out of the man as though he had been hit hard in the solar plexus. “Who... who are you?” he asked, his shoulders drooping, the coat seeming suddenly much too large.

Mason merely clasped an authoritative hand on the man’s arm. “Come on.”

Silently they climbed the stairs, entered Martha Stevens’ room. Accusingly, Mason turned to regard the frightened man. He fixed him with a steady, penetrating scrutiny that he used at times effectively in his cross-examination.

“All right,” he said, at length. “Let’s have it.”

“Where’s Martha?”

Mason said, “Martha’s having a chance to tell her story to a Los Angeles detective. You can tell yours now.”

The man fidgeted uneasily. “I haven’t done anything.”

Mason merely smiled.

The man settled down in a chair, his body seemingly trying to hide behind the heavy folds of the sagging coat.

Mason said, “We haven’t got all night... What’s your name?”

“William Smiley.”

“Where were you,” Mason asked, “when Martha Stevens broke her glasses?”

“I was right there.”

“How did they get broken?”

“This guy lunged at her.”

“You mean Hardisty?”

“Yes.”

Della Street quietly extracted a notebook from her purse, unscrewed the cap from a small fountain pen, and started making shorthand hieroglyphics.

“Why did you go up to the cabin to meet Hardisty in the first place?” Mason asked.

“It was Martha’s idea. She’d been reading the dope in this magazine about how this drug made people talk. Hardisty had been dipping into funds, and Blane was going to have to make good, so Martha figured that by giving him a shot of this drug, we could make him talk his head off, and get the money back.

“She knew she was going to have to use force. That’s where I came in... I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to. She’ll tell you that herself.”

“I know,” Mason said sympathetically, glancing from the corner of his eye to see that Della Street was keeping up with the conversation. “Just tell me what happened, so that I can check it with Martha’s story.”

“Martha won’t lie, she’ll tell you the truth.”

“I know,” Mason said soothingly.

“Martha and I would have married, only Blane doesn’t want a married housekeeper. He always said he never hired a couple that was any good. Either the man was good and the woman wasn’t, or the other way around... Well, Martha and I was going together secret-like. This thing came up, and she called on me.”

“Where did you get the hypodermic?” Mason asked.

“One she used to give Blane his shots for diabetes.”

Mason waited for the other to go on.

Smiley, recalling what had happened, became less hostile. “Okay,” he said in a nasal, somewhat whining voice as though he were accustomed to registering complaints which did no good, “what was there for me to do? I had to go through with it. Martha got the gun for me.”

“What kind of a gun?” Mason asked with a significant glance at Della Street.

“A thirty-eight. It was Mrs. Hardisty’s gun. Mrs. Hardisty was spending part of the time over here. She kept that gun in her suitcase. Martha got it and gave it to me. We went up to the cabin. Hardisty was there, all right. He’d parked his car and was standing right by this big granite rock. He had a spade in his hands, like he was going to dig. I wanted to try talking with Hardisty, to be reasonable about it, but Martha was all business. She gave him the works right away.”

“Shot him?” Mason asked.

“No. Don’t be silly! I had the gun. She told him she was going to give him this hypo, that it would make him tell the truth, and not to try getting rough. I cut down on him with the gun, and made him get his hands up. He was scared, but not too scared.”

“And what did Martha do?”

“She gave him the hypo.”

“And then what?”

“Then, I guess he came to the conclusion that I wouldn’t shoot. Anyway he made a swing at Martha, and clipped her one that knocked off her glasses, and it gave her a jolt.”

“And you shot?” Mason asked.

“Not me, brother. I got sore when he pasted Martha. I hauled off and hit him.”

“With the hand that was holding the gun?”

“No. I tossed the gun away when I pasted him... Damn little shrimp, hitting a woman. I should have broken his jaw. As it was, I knocked him down and he broke his glasses — we thought we’d picked up all the pieces. Guess we missed some.”

“And then what happened?” Mason asked.

“He wouldn’t talk for a while, then finally he got to talking. At first I thought that magazine article was on the up-and-up. He said he was just about ready to call the whole thing off and go to Blane and make a clean breast of it He said that he didn’t have the nerve for a job like that, that every time he hid the stuff he was afraid the police would find it. He said he’d hid it in his house first. Then he’d got nervous and gone up to the tunnel with it, buried it in the end of the old mining tunnel. That had been only an hour or so ago, but he’d got nervous before he’d driven half a mile and began thinking of other and better places. He said after he’d hidden the stuff in the tunnel it seemed like any school kid would have picked the tunnel as a place to look.

“Of course, it’s easy to look back now and see what this guy was doing to us. Martha had made the mistake of telling him this drug was going to make him tell the truth. Maybe it would have if we’d given it a chance, but he out-foxed us. He pretended it had taken effect before he even felt it, and sent us on a wild-goose chase.”

“You mean you went to the tunnel?” Mason asked.

“Sure. We fell for it, hook, line and sinker. We left him there at the rock, and Martha and I went up to the tunnel. We took his spade along to dig with.”

“And you dug?”

“I’ll say we dug. I haven’t shoveled so much dirt in a year — and the lousy crook had the swag right there in his car all the time. He just outsmarted us, that’s all.”

“What did you do when you realized he’d been lying to you?” Mason asked.

“We came back to see if we could question him some more. Naturally, we couldn’t find him. He’d dusted out, lock, stock and barrel, as soon as he got rid of us. So then we came on back home.”

“Exactly where was it that you met Hardisty?”

“Right by that big granite rock. He was there with the spade. Looked like he was getting ready to do some digging. If we’d only laid low we could have caught him red-handed. It was this hypo that queered things, gave him his chance to slip one over on us.”

“And this was before dark?”

“Sure. It was late in the afternoon, but it was light, all right.”

“While you were driving up, did you meet Adele Blane on the road?”

“She drove right past us just before we made the turn off to the cabin,” Smiley said, “but she didn’t see us. She had some fellow with her.”

“Did you see anything of a clock that was buried near that—”

“Nope,” Smiley interrupted. “I read about that buried clock. It doesn’t make sense to me. Why would Hardisty want to bury a clock?”

For a long moment there was silence, then Mason said, “You came back to this house with Martha Stevens?”

“Nope. We were afraid there might be a kickback on that dope business. She put me on the interurban. I went in to Los Angeles. She was to meet me there the next night at a hotel. She’d registered, all right, but she went out again and didn’t come back. I called there and hung around for a while, but she never did show up.”

“And you didn’t go back to recover your gun?” Mason asked.

“No. I just chucked it away when he hung one on Martha. Then after I got him licked and he got started talking, I forgot all about the gun. As soon as he said he’d buried the stuff in the tunnel, Martha and I fell for it. We beat it up there. I did want to take him with us, but he acted dopey and just sat down all caved-in like, and his eyes got glassy. Martha pushed the spade at me and said to come on, that she knew where the tunnel was... Shucks, the guy had never been near the tunnel. I tell you he had the dough right there in the car with him.”

“Did you go into the cabin when you got back from the tunnel?” Mason asked.

“No. We saw Jack Hardisty’s car was gone, so we took it for granted he’d beat it. We left the spade up there, got in our car and came back.”

“How long were you up at the tunnel?”

“I don’t know, maybe an hour and a half from the time we left until we got back. It was pretty dark when we got back to the cabin.”

“How did it happen you didn’t pick up the gun, if you picked up the broken glasses?”

“We picked up the glasses right after the fight. You know how a person picks up glasses as soon as they get broken. Martha was picking up pieces of glass almost as soon as he’d knocked ’em off.”

“Who picked up his glasses?”

“I did. I put ’em in my pocket. There was just one big piece knocked out of his. I was afraid to give ’em to him, sort of afraid they might be evidence.”

“And you knew the gun was found later on?”

“Oh, sure. I read the papers about the trail and all that, and Martha’s told me stuff... How come Martha hasn’t told you this?”

“Where were you working?” Mason asked.

“Turret Construction Company — defense work. Been there for six months.”

“You read in the papers about Hardisty’s body being discovered in the cabin?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know whether he was in the cabin when you got back from the tunnel?”

“No I don’t. His car was gone — and I was getting an awful case of cold feet. You know, jabbing a man full of a drug—”

“I know. Where did Martha get this drug, do you know?”

“She told Mrs. Hardisty she wanted to get it. I don’t know what excuse it was she gave to Mrs. Hardisty, or what she said she wanted it for. I think she told Mrs. Hardisty the old man wanted it, or intended to use it, somehow... Anyhow, Mrs. Hardisty was friendly with a doctor, and she said she could get it. I don’t think Hardisty’s own wife even knew he was short. Martha found out about it listening to Blane talking on the long distance phone with the bank directors over at Roxbury.”

Mason said abruptly, “You haven’t told anyone anything about this?”

“No.”

“Not a soul?”

“Not a soul.”

Mason said, “Well, I think Martha Stevens will be home pretty quick. You can wait here, if you want.”

“Not me. I don’t like to come in the house unless Martha’s here. I don’t think the old man would like it. I saw the light up here and threw a little gravel against the window pane. That’s our signal... I’ll go out and wait around outside, until Martha gets here. You don’t think it will be long?”

“No, I don’t think it will be long,” Mason said.

Della Street closed her notebook, dropped it into her bag, screwed the cap on the fountain pen, glanced at Perry Mason. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

The three of them walked out of the house. Mason said, “Well, good night, Smiley.”

“Good night, sir.”

Mason helped Della Street into the automobile.

“Couldn’t you have used him somehow?” she asked in a low voice.

Mason said, “If he ever told that story in front of a jury, Mrs. Hardisty would be out of the frying pan and into the fire. This is one of those cases where they throw everything at you except the kitchen sink... You can begin to understand now why Milicent is keeping her mouth shut, why Dr. Macon doesn’t dare to say a word. Dr. Macon thinks she did it.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s a cinch,” Mason said. “Remember, she went to him for the scopolamine. Remember, she was a trained nurse before she was married. Dr. Macon thought she wanted to try this drug on Jack Hardisty. Evidently there’d been a magazine article on it... He probably thinks Milicent is lying to protect her father as well as herself.”

“But if they had Milicent’s gun, what gun was it that she threw away?”

Mason said, “It wasn’t what she threw away, it was what I threw away.”

“How do you mean?”

“The only point I had to argue to a jury,” Mason went on, “was that if Milicent Hardisty had thrown her gun down an embankment, that same gun couldn’t very well have been found beside the big granite rock... I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut. I had to take what seemed to be a minor discrepancy at the time, and use it to heckle Jameson. Now Jameson is up there searching for that gun, and if he finds it— Well, if he finds it, we’re not only licked, we’re crucified — unless I can figure out some way I can get that damned clock introduced in evidence.”

“Well, there’s one thing,” Della said. “You know what happened now.”

Mason’s eyes were thoughtful. “I’m not so certain that I do.”

“What do you mean by that? That Smiley was lying?”

Mason said, “One bit of evidence bothers me.”

“What?”

“Hardisty’s trousers. The red clay mud showed that he had been up at the tunnel — and someone took off his shoes, removed every bit of mud on the shoes, polished them, put them by the bed — and forgot to inspect the cuffs on his trousers.”

Della Street’s eyes were wide. “Then... then Smiley must have been lying?”

“Or telling the exact, unvarnished truth,” Mason said.