The Case of the Buried Clock

Chapter 4

Perry Mason hummed a little tune as he strolled down the corridor to his office, moving with the leisurely, long-legged rhythm characteristic of him. Walking to meet the adventures of the day, he didn’t intend to be too hurried to enjoy them.

He latchkeyed the door of his private office, and caught Della Street’s smile as she looked up from the mail.

“What ho!” Mason said. “Another day... How about the dollar, Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

Della Street bowed with mock humility. “The dollar awaits, my lord.”

Mason lost his bantering tone. “Don’t tell me you’ve scared up a new case.”

“We have a potential client.”

“In the outer office?”

“No. He’s not the type who waits in outer offices.” Della Street consulted a memorandum on her desk. “He’s a Mr. Vincent P. Blane, a banker and department store owner at Kenvale. He called on long distance, three times within thirty minutes. The first two times he wouldn’t talk with anyone except Perry Mason. The third time he consented to talk with Mr. Mason’s secretary.”

Mason hung his hat in the closet, crossed over to the big desk, selected a cigarette from the office humidor, and said, “I don’t like him.”

“Why not?”

“He sounds pot-bellied and self-important. What does he want?”

“His son-in-law was murdered in a mountain cabin sometime last night.”

Mason scraped a match on the under side of the desk, devoted his attention to lighting the cigarette before asking, “Who’s elected as the official suspect?”

“No one.”

“Who’s nominated?”

“They haven’t even made a nomination.”

“Then what the devil does Blane want me for? I’m not a detective, I’m a lawyer.”

She smiled. “It seems there are several family skeletons Mr. Blane wants kept safely in the closet. Naturally, he didn’t dare say much on the phone. Both of Mr. Blane’s daughters were up at the cabin yesterday afternoon. Mr. Blane himself was also up there... And well, after all, the man has money.”

Mason said, “Oh, I suppose I’ve got to handle it, but it sounds like a legal chore, one of these uninspiring, routine family murders.”

Della Street once more consulted her memorandum. “There is, however, one redeeming feature,” she added, her eyes twinkling.

“Della, you’ve been holding out on me!” Mason charged.

“No. I only saved the dessert until last.”

“All right, let’s have the dessert.”

“A buried clock,” she said, “which is running about twenty-five minutes slow. It’s buried somewhere near the cabin where the murder was committed, a small-edition alarm clock in a lacquered box. It—”

Mason started for the cloak closet.

He called to Della Street as he grabbed his hat. “The clock does it... Come on. Let’s go!”