The Case of the Buried Clock

Chapter 5

Mason was advised in Kenvale that the deputy sheriff, a representative of the coroner, Vincent Blane and Harley Raymand had left for the scene of the crime only a few minutes earlier; that Mason could probably catch up with them if he “stepped on it.”

Mason duly stepped on it, arriving at the cabin just as the little group was getting ready to leave the chill north bedroom where the body lay just as Raymand had left it.

Mason was acquainted with Jameson, the deputy sheriff, and so was permitted to join the group without question, a tribute to Mason’s reputation as well as Blane’s local influence.

The lawyer had a glimpse of a cold bedroom, rustic furniture, knotty pine walls, clothes thrown over a chair, shoes placed at the side of the bed, and the stiff, still form of the little man, who, in his lifetime, had tried so desperately to be a magnetic, dominant personality. Now, in death, he seemed shriveled to his true stature, a cold corpse in a cold bedroom.

Mason made a swift survey of the room. “Don’t touch anything,” the deputy warned.

“I won’t,” Mason assured him, studying the room carefully.

“He must have undressed, gone to sleep and been killed while he was sleeping,” the coroner’s representative said.

The deputy sheriff said, “Well he’s dead, all right, and it’s murder. I’m going to close this room up and leave things just as they are until someone from the Los Angeles office can get here... Now, let’s take a look at this buried clock — although I don’t see where it enters into the picture.”

The deputy ushered them out of the room, closed and locked the door, and followed Harley out to the warmth of the sloping, sun-bathed clearing.

Harley walked over to the granite rocks. “Now, the clock is buried right about here. You can hear it ticking if you listen.”

“Let’s take a look,” the deputy sheriff said.

Harley got down on his knees, scraped away moss and pine needles. He placed his ear to the ground, then straightened and looked puzzled. “I’m certain this is the place,” he said.

The deputy’s tone was frankly skeptical. “Doesn’t look as though anything had ever been buried there.”

“Perhaps it’s a little deeper,” Blane suggested.

Harley, scraping a wider clearing in the ground, said, “No, the lid of the box was quite close to the surface.”

The deputy sheriff kicked the ground with the toe of his boot. “Doesn’t look to me as if this place had been disturbed since last winter.”

Harley bent over once more to place his ear against the ground.

The deputy sheriff flashed a glance at the coroner’s representative.

“I don’t hear it ticking now,” Harley said.

“You’re certain about that clock?”

Harley flushed. “I had it in my hands, took it out of the box. Adele Blane can vouch for that.”

Jameson seemed reluctant to extend belief. “And it was there this morning?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“After you’d found the body?”

“No, just before I found the body.”

“But after Hardisty had been killed?”

“Oh yes.”

“Well,” the deputy said, in the tone of one who wishes to be rid of a matter which may prove embarrassing, “then Jack Hardisty couldn’t have taken it, and that’s pretty apt to mean it isn’t connected with the murder. Now, how about Hardisty’s car. You haven’t any idea how it got down in that canyon?”

“No.”

“Now, I’m just asking this as a question,” Jameson said. “There’s no call to get up on your ear about it, but it’s a question I want you to answer, and answer truthfully. You won’t have a second chance at this, Raymand. Your answer’s got to stand for all time... You didn’t get on the running board of Jack Hardisty’s automobile, get it going at a good clip, then step off the running board and let the car go over the grade, did you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why did Blane ask you to stay up here at the cabin?”

“He wanted the place watched.”

“Why was that, Mr. Blane?” the deputy asked.

Before Blane could answer, Harley Raymand said, with a smile, “I think it was an attempt on Mr. Blane’s part to be magnanimous. He thought a period of rest and recuperation up here at the cabin would do me good, and he tried to make a job out of it so I wouldn’t feel under obligations to him.”

Blane started to say something, then apparently changing his mind, smiled enigmatically. After a moment he said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, while you’re getting additional details from Harley, I’ll have a chat with Mr. Mason.”

Blane motioned to Mason, and the lawyer, Della Street and Blane walked around the big granite outcropping to a sequestered clearing where they were out of earshot.

“Mr. Mason,” Blane said, “I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I am now that you’re here. Thank you for coming.”

“The buried clock did it,” Mason told him. “What do you know about that clock?”

“Harley Raymand mentioned it to me for the first time this morning. Adele confirmed his story. The clock was there, all right.”

“There where he had scraped away the pine needles?” Mason asked.

“Raymand may have mistaken the place,” Blane admitted.

“All right, that can wait. Tell me just what you want me to do and why you want me to do it. Hit the high spots. That deputy will be back here in a minute with more questions.”

Blane spoke with nervous rapidity, all but running his words together, in his anxiety to give Mason the picture.

“Jack Hardisty was my son-in-law — married Millicent. She was a girl who wanted a career — studied nursing. She’s clever — the sort people always praise for their intellect... Then along came Jack Hardisty, handed her a new line — the passionate, fervid, romantic line — swept her off her feet married her. Put him in a bank over at Roxbury — a damned four-flusher, a half-pint of nothing. Been breaking Milicent’s heart, chasing around with a milliner over there — ten thousand short in his accounts — found it out and told him to face the music... Before I could do anything about it, he took a couple of suitcases and cleaned out everything in the bank, nearly ninety thousand altogether. Rang me up, told me if I made good the ten thousand I’d get the rest of it back. If I didn’t, there wouldn’t be a dime in the bank when it opened this morning.”

“What did you do?” Mason asked.

“What could I do?” Blaine asked. “I was stuck for it.”

“How about the bonding company?”

“That’s just it. The bonding company held off on his bond. There’d been a little something in Jack’s past. At the time I thought the bonding company was being too damn technical — told them to go ahead and write the bond, and I’d guarantee they never lost a penny on it — signed a paper to that effect... Damn fool — serves me right.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

“My other daughter, Adele, came up here with Harley Raymand yesterday afternoon. Before they left, Jack Hardisty showed up. He didn’t see them. Raymand says Hardisty had a spade in the car... They started back for Kenvale and met Milicent on the road. She asked if Jack was up here.

“Adele didn’t think much of that until after Milicent had started on for the cabin. Then she got frightened. She told Harley she had another appointment, rushed him to his hotel, turned around and dashed up here to the cabin.”

“After Milicent?” Mason asked.

Blane nodded.

“Find her?”

“Yes.”

“Here at the cabin?”

“No, down by the main highway.”

“What was she doing there?”

“Having a spell of nerves.”

“Where was her husband?”

“No one knows. Milicent hadn’t gone to the cabin. She’d parked her car at a wide place in the road, and started to walk up to the cabin.”

“Why not drive all the way up?”

“She told Adele she didn’t want her husband to hear her coming.”

“Did she say why?”

“No.”

“All right, she didn’t get to the cabin?”

“No, her nerves went back on her. She must have had hysterics. She had a gun in her purse. She dropped it over the embankment at the edge of the road.”

“Why?”

“She told Adele she was afraid to trust herself with it.”

“Afraid she’d use it on herself, or on someone else?”

“I don’t think she said.”

“And Adele didn’t ask?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Revolver or automatic?”

“Revolver.”

“Hers?”

“Yes. It’s one I gave her. She was nervous and had to stay alone a lot at night. Her husband was away a lot of the time.”

“All right. She threw the gun away. Then what?”

“Adele got her to promise to go on back to Kenvale and stay with her.”

“Did she do it?”

“No.”

“Why not. What happened?”

“We don’t know. Adele drove on in her car. Milicent was right behind until they got to Kenvale. Then in the traffic, Adele lost her. It was getting dark and the headlights had been turned on. That makes it hard to watch a car behind, after you get in traffic.”

“Adele lost her — so what? Did Milicent go to your house?”

“No. So far as I can learn, no one has seen her. Adele was watching the car in the rear-view mirror — other headlights cut in, and — well that’s all.”

“To whom has Adele told this?” Mason asked.

“I am the only one, so far. We want to know—”

Mason interrupted. “The deputy’s getting ready to come back over this way. Does anyone know Milicent is missing?”

“No.”

“When will they find out?”

“It may be some time... I told Adele to tell the housekeeper Milicent was hysterical last night, that Adele gave her a sleeping tablet and put her to bed in the back bedroom upstairs — that Milicent isn’t to be disturbed by anyone. That will stall things along until we can find her.”

Mason said, “I’m not certain that what you’ve done is for Milicent’s best interest.”

“Why not? If they find out we don’t know where she is—”

“I understand, but amateurs shouldn’t try doctoring evidence. We haven’t time to discuss it now. They’re coming over this way. Get the deputy sheriff off to one side and tell him about that shortage.”

Blane’s face showed surprise. “Why, that’s one of the things I wanted you to do — to keep that hushed up, to tell me how I—”

“You can’t keep that hushed up,” Mason interrupted. “Try to cover that up and let them catch you at it, and they’ll blow the lid off.”

“But I don’t want—”

“Right now,” Mason said, “I’m thinking of Milicent and you should be. Get the deputy sheriff off to one side, tell him you’re giving him the information in strict confidence; that you don’t want him to tell a soul.”

“Well — all right — if you say so.”

“Where’s Adele?”

“At home.”

“She know you sent for me?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the nearest telephone?”

“Up the road about three miles there’s a little settlement, a ranger station and—”

“Okay, go talk with the deputy. Here he comes now; then meet me at the Kenvale Hotel as soon as you can get away from here. Try to follow me within fifteen or twenty minutes.”

The deputy sheriff was walking toward them. His manner was that of a man who has made up his mind to do something and wants to get it over with.

Mason said in a low voice, out of the corner of his mouth, as though coaching an actor, “Beat him to the punch. Beat him to the punch, Blane.”

Blane raised his voice. “Oh, Jameson, I want to talk with you for a few minutes — privately, please.”

The deputy glanced at the others, said, “Well, all right.”

Mason turned to Della Street. “Come on, Della. This way.” He led her around toward the back of the house, then along a well-defined trail running down a dry wash, deep enough so that they were invisible from the cabin. After they had gone a hundred yards, they scrambled up out of the wash, swung around to the place where Mason had parked his car.

Mason said, “I don’t want them to hear the sound of the motor, Della. Put it in high, turn on the ignition, push the clutch pedal down. I’ll start pushing it toward that grade. Let the clutch in when I tell you — after the car gets to going at a pretty good rate of speed... Okay now, swing that wheel.”

Mason pushed the car until it began to coast down the grade, then jumped in beside Della Street. When the car was running along at a good rate, he said, “All right, ease in the clutch.”

The engine purred into smooth power.

“Make time up to that settlement,” Mason said. “I want to telephone.”

“I take it we’re not conserving rubber?” Della asked.

“We’re conserving a reputation,” Mason told her.

They made the three miles of mountain road to the telephone in just a little over three and a half minutes. Mason found a telephone booth in the store, called Vincent Blane’s residence in Kenvale, asked for Adele.

A few moments later, he heard a feminine voice on the line saying dubiously, “Yes, what is it, please?”

“This is Perry Mason. Know anything about me?”

“Why... yes.”

“All right. No need to mention details. You knew your father was going to send for me.”

“Yes.”

“Know why?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Your father told me about the upstairs bedroom — you understand?”

“The person who’s supposed to be in it?”

“That’s right.”

“I understand.”

Mason said, “I don’t like it.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“It’s dangerous. We don’t know what trumps are — yet. I want you to do something.”

“What?”

“Go where you won’t be questioned. Get out, and get out fast. Simply disappear.”

“For how long?”

“Until I tell you to come back.”

“How will you reach me?”

Mason said, “My secretary, Miss Della Street, will be registered at the Kenvale Hotel. Call her about five o’clock tonight. Don’t mention any names over the phone. She won’t mention names. If the coast is clear, she’ll manage to let you know. If she doesn’t let you know, it means the coast isn’t clear. After five, keep calling her every few hours... Got that straight?”

“Yes, Mr. Mason.”

“All right, get started — and don’t tell a soul where you’re going. Fix things so you can’t be traced... And be certain to call Miss Della Street.”

“I have it all straight,” she said. “Good-by.”

Mason hung up the receiver, waited a moment, then called his office in Los Angeles.

When the girl at Mason’s switchboard answered, central said, “Deposit fifty-five cents for three minutes, please, including the Federal tax.”

Mason fumbled in his pockets, opened the door of the telephone booth, called to the man behind the counter. “I’ve got a Los Angeles call in. My party’s on the line. I need fifty-five cents. Can you give me some change?”

Mason waved a dollar bill. The man rang up NO SALE in the cash register, pulled out three twenty-five cent pieces, two dimes and a nickel, and came trotting over to the booth.

Mason thanked him, closed the door of the booth, dropped in the coins and heard the voice of Gertie, the tall, good-natured girl at the switchboard, saying, with her customary breezy informality, “Good Heavens, Mr. Mason, why didn’t you just tell them to reverse the charge? Then you wouldn’t have had to bother about the coins.”

Mason chuckled. “Because, in the course of an investigation that may be made, the officers will wonder why I went tearing up here to put in a telephone call. Then they’ll talk with the storekeeper and know my call was to my office in Los Angeles.”

Gertie hesitated a moment, then said, “I get it, your second call.”

“That’s right. Only it won’t occur to them there were two. Be a good girl, Gertie.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mason. Shall we indulge in the usual comments about the percentage there is in it, or have we talked long enough?”

Mason said, “We’ve talked long enough. You know all the answers anyway,” and hung up.