The Case of the Demure Defendant

Chapter Twelve

It was nearly midnight. Della Street, dark circles under her eyes, sat at her desk watching Mason apprehensively.

Mason was pacing the office floor. He had been pacing the floor with rhythmic regularity ever since their return from a cheerless dinner, into which two cocktails had failed to inject any warmth. Della Street had hardly touched her steak and Mason had eaten with the abstract disinterest of a condemned man partaking of his last meal.

Mason stopped his pacing. “Go on home, Della.”

She shook her head. “Not until we hear.”

Mason looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter of twelve. The police have been staked out at John Locke’s apartment all evening. By ten-thirty they began to suspect that he’d given them the slip. By eleven-thirty they were sure of it. They’re taking steps as of now.”

“What sort of steps?” Della Street asked.

“Look at it the way the police will,” Mason said. “They’ll know Nadine is missing, that John Locke is missing. They’ll suspect that John Locke might be a witness against her. They’ll begin to take measures to see that his testimony is protected.”

“In other words, you mean that they’ll anticipate John and Nadine are getting married?”

“The police aren’t fools,” Mason said. “That idea is in their minds right now. It probably occurred to them at least an hour ago.”

“What can they do?”

“Plenty.”

“What?”

“For one thing they can cover the state line checking stations. They can put out a broadcast in Las Vegas and Yuma. The only chance John had of marrying Nadine was to have chartered a plane and got to Yuma before the officers missed him.”

Della Street, seeming close to tears, said, “That’s what comes of my interfering. I didn’t think far enough. If I’d waited and let you tell him, you’d have told him to get a plane and—”

Mason said, “A lawyer isn’t supposed to take steps to suppress evidence.”

“Well, you could have told him indirectly. I keep thinking that we’ll hear any minute. Oh, I hope they made it.”

Mason resumed pacing the floor.

“Paul Drake will know?” Della asked.

“Paul Drake’s sitting right on top of everything,” Mason said. “He’ll know what happens.”

“Chief,” she said, “how many tablets were in that bottle of cyanide the police uncovered?”

“We don’t know,” Mason said. “The police aren’t taking us into their confidence — not as yet.”

“When will we know?”

“If Hamilton Burger is smart we’ll know when the case comes to trial.”

“You think it’ll come to trial?”

“It’ll come to trial.”

“Even if Nadine and John get married?”

Mason nodded.

“But if they do get married, if John can’t testify, then you can beat the case?”

Mason said, “There’s something wrong somewhere. We have too many cyanide tablets. Remember that the police recovered one bottle from the lake. John dumped one bunch of tablets down the toilet — at least he says he did. That makes two bottles of cyanide tablets. Then we have one bottle of sugar substitute tablets that was thrown out in the lake. That’s three bottles altogether, one of them containing harmless tablets, two containing cyanide.”

“But Jackson Newburn threw that bottle of sugar substitute out in the lake—”

“And he’s going to deny it,” Mason said. “The police would like to pin that on me. They won’t be very tough with Jackson Newburn — if he can think up a nice story to tell the police about how it happened he was down at the High-Tide Motel to meet Nadine.”

“But can he do that, Chief? Can he tell a lie that won’t have loose ends you can pick up?”

Before Mason could answer, the telephone rang sharply.

Della Street snatched it up. “Hello. Yes, Paul.”

The receiver made squawking noises.

Mason, standing by the corner of the desk, anxiously watching Della Street, needed no words to tell him what had happened. He saw the dismay on her face.

“Oh, Paul,” she said chokingly. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

Mason walked over to the hat closet, took his hat and moved over to the light switch.

“All right, I’ll tell him,” Della Street said tearfully and hung up.

“Paul wants us to stop by his office,” she said. “They caught Nadine and John Locke halfway to Yuma. The damn fool was driving his own car. The police had the license number. Police are triumphant. They have given a statement to the press.”

Della Street came toward Mason.

Mason clicked the light switch, circled Della Street’s waist with his arm, let her cry on his shoulder, there in the warm darkness of the law office.