The Case of the Drowning Duck

Chapter 9

Mason sent his car skimming along the desert highway. The lights of El Templo showed as a halo beneath steady, unwinking stars. The speedometer needle quivered around the seventy mark.

An irregularity in the road sent the car into a slight sway. Mason straightened it out and slowed his speed. Again a slight dip in the road swung the rear end over. This time, after Mason straightened the car out, he slowed to thirty miles an hour, deliberately twisted the wheel.

The rear of the car gave a wide swing.

Mason took his foot off the throttle, was careful not to use the brakes, swung over to the side of the road. Just before he reached the shoulder, he heard the unmistakable thump-ker-thumpety-thump, thump-ker-thumpety-thump of a flat tire.

It was the right rear tire. Mason looked at it ruefully, took off his coat, folded it, and tossed it on the back of the front seat. He rolled up his sleeves, removed the ignition key from the lock, took a flashlight from the glove compartment, and walked to the rear of the car, where he unlocked and opened the trunk. His suitcases, as well as those of Della Street, were in the trunk. He had to remove them, and then rummage around, finding the tools with which to make the tire change. With the aid of his flashlight, he assembled the bumper jack, got it into place, and started jacking the car up.

He saw headlights in the distance behind him, headlights that came swooping down the long, straight stretch of road at high speed.

As Mason raised the car so the flat tire was clearing the ground, he heard the whine of the tires on the other car, the sound of the motor; then, with a roar, the car swept on past, the current of wind created by its passage causing the jacked-up car to sway slightly on its springs. Mason watched the tail light vanishing into the distance at a rate of speed which he estimated must have been around eighty.

Mason got out the lug wrench, pried off the hub cap, got off the flat tire, and dragged the spare tire out from the trunk.

He rolled the wheel into position, lifted it, got it fitted on the lugs, and completed the chore of carefully tightening them and put the hub cap back into position. Then he released the jack, got the tools back into the trunk, and then had to replace the various bags and suitcases before he could get under way once more.

He found the address he wanted without much difficulty. Milter had not even bothered to assume an alias, but a printed section torn from a business card and placed in the little holder over the doorbell said simply, “Leslie L. Milter.”

Mason rang the doorbell twice. There was no response. He pounded on the door.

He heard the sound of steps on the stairs to his left. The door opened. A young, attractive brunette in a rakish hat and glossy fur coat started across the porch, saw him standing there, hesitated a moment, then turned for a frankly curious appraisal.

The lawyer smiled and raised his hat.

She answered his smile. “I don’t think he’s in.”

“You haven’t any idea where I might find him?”

“No. I haven’t.” She laughed slightly and said, “I hardly know him. I have the apartment which adjoins his. Several people have been in to see him tonight — quite a procession. You weren’t — didn’t have an appointment?”

Mason reached a prompt decision. “If he isn’t home,” he said, “there’s no use of my waiting.” He peered at the name card on her doorbell. “You must be Miss Alberta Cromwell — if, as you say, you live in the adjoining apartment. I have a car here, Miss Cromwell, perhaps I can drop you somewhere?”

“No, thanks. It’s only a block to the main street.”

Mason said, “I rather expected Mr. Milter to be home. I understood he was expecting someone to call, that he had an appointment.”

Her eyes flashed a quick glance at him. “A young lady?”

Mason said cautiously, “I wouldn’t know. I only understood that he had an appointment and that I would find him at home.”

“I think there was a young woman called, and I saw a man leaving the house shortly before you came up. I thought at first the man had rung my bell. I was in the kitchen with some water running, and I certainly thought I heard my bell ring.”

She laughed, an embarrassed little laugh which showed how nervous she was.

“I pressed the buzzer for my visitor to come up. Nothing happened, and then I heard steps on the stairs which went to Mr. Milter’s apartment, so I guess it wasn’t my bell at all.”

“Long ago?”

“No. Within the last fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Do you know how long this visitor stayed?”

She laughed and said, “My, you talk as though you were a detective — or a lawyer. You don’t know who this girl was, do you?”

“I just happen to be very interested in Mr. Milter.”

“Why?”

“Do you know anything about him?”

She waited for a perceptible interval before answering that question. “Not very much.”

“I understand he used to be a detective.”

“Oh, did he?”

“I wanted to talk with him about a case on which he’d worked.”

“Oh.”

The young woman hesitated. “Something he’d been working on recently?” she asked.

Mason met her eyes. “Yes.”

She laughed suddenly and said, “Well, I’ve got to be getting on up to town. Sorry I can’t help you. Good night.”

Mason raised his hat and watched her walk away.

From a telephone booth in a drugstore Mason called Witherspoon’s house and asked for Della Street. When he had her on the line, he said, “Anything new from Paul Drake, Della?”

“Yes. Drake’s operative telephoned.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the bus had got in right on time, that the girl had got off and gone directly to Milter’s apartment. She had a key.”

“Oh-oh!” Mason said. “What happened then?”

“She went upstairs, and wasn’t gone very long. That’s one thing the detective is kicking himself about. He doesn’t know just how long.”

“Why not?”

“He presumed, of course, she’d be up there some time, and he went across the street, and about halfway down the block, to a restaurant to telephone. He telephoned Drake, and made his report. Drake had told him to telephone you here. He put through the call to me here, and while I was talking with him, he happened to see the blonde walking past. So he hung up and dashed out after her. About five minutes later, he called up from the depot, says she’s sitting there waiting for the midnight train to Los Angeles, and that she’s been crying.”

“Where’s the detective?”

“Still at the depot. He’s keeping her shadowed. That train is a chug-chug that carries a Pullman up to the main line, where it lays over four hours, gets picked up by a main-line train, and gets into Los Angeles about eight in the morning.”

“This detective can’t tell exactly how long she was up in the apartment?”

“No. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. It might have been less. According to what he says, he thought it was a good chance to put through a telephone call and report. Naturally, he expected her to be up there for some little time... You know, when a girl has keys to a man’s apartment... the detective assumed... that he’d have lots of time to telephone.”

Mason looked at his watch, said, “I may have time to talk with her. I’ll go down to the depot and see if I can accomplish anything.”

“Did you see Milter?”

“Not yet.”

“A car drove away right after you left — within two or three minutes. I think it was Witherspoon. He’s probably trying to locate Lois.”

“Try to find out definitely, will you?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll beat it down to the depot. G’by.”

Mason drove directly to the depot. He heard a train whistle when he was three blocks away. As he parked his car, the train was just pulling into the depot.

Mason walked around the station platform just in time to see the blond girl whom he had last seen in Allgood’s office stepping aboard the car. For a moment, the light from the station fell full on her face, and there was no mistaking her identity, nor that she had been crying.

Mason returned to his automobile and had proceeded three or four blocks from the depot when he heard the sound of a siren. On the cross street a block away, a police car swept past the intersection.

At the intersection, Mason found the car had turned in the direction of Milter’s apartment. Mason followed along behind, saw the police car swing over to the curb, and come to an abrupt stop.

Mason parked his own car directly behind the police car. An officer jumped out and hurried across the cement walk to the door which led to Milter’s apartment. Mason was right behind him.

The officer pressed a broad thumb against the bell, then turned and saw Mason.

Mason returned the officer’s stare for a moment, then turned sheepishly, and started down the steps.

“Hey, you!” the officer called.

Mason stopped.

“What did you want?” the officer asked.

“I wanted to call on someone.”

“Who?”

Mason hesitated.

“Go ahead, let’s have it.”

“Mr. Milter.”

“You know him?”

Mason, choosing his words carefully, said, “I have never met him.”

“You want in, huh?”

“Yes. I wanted to see him.”

“You been here before?”

Mason waited once more for just the right interval before saying, “Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“What did you do?”

“Rang the bell.”

“What happened?”

“I didn’t get any answer.”

The officer pressed the bell again, said, “Stick around. I think I’m going to want to talk with you.”

He crossed over to an apartment marked MANAGER, and pressed the bell.

A light in one of the lower rooms came on. They could hear the sound of bare feet on the floor; then after a few moments, the shuffle of slippered feet coming down the corridor. The door opened a crack, and a woman somewhere in the forties with a dressing gown wrapped around her frowned at Mason with cold inhospitality. Then seeing the light glinting from the shield and brass buttons on the officer’s uniform, she became instantly cordial.

“Was there something I could do for you?” she asked.

“You got a man here named Milter?”

“Yes. He’s in the apartment over...”

“I know where he is. I want to get in.”

“Have you tried his bell?”

“Yes.”

“I... if he’s home...”

“I want in,” the officer repeated. “Give me a pass key.”

She seemed undecided for only a moment, then said, “Just a minute.”

She vanished into the dark interior of the house. The officer said to Mason, “What did you want to see him about?”

“I wanted to ask him a few questions.”

A radio playing somewhere in the lower floor gave forth four quick bursts of static. The officer said, “Do you live here?”

Mason gave him one of his cards. “I’m a lawyer from Los Angeles.”

The officer twisted around, held the card so the light from the interior of the hallway fell on it, and said, “Oh, you’re Perry Mason, the lawyer, huh? I’ve read about some of your cases. What are you doing down here?”

“Taking a trip,” Mason said.

“You come to call on Milter?”

Mason managed to give his laugh just the right shade of expression. “I hardly came all the way down here just to see Milter.”

“Hey, you,” the officer called down the corridor to the manager, “we can’t wait all night for that key.”

“Just a minute. I’m trying to find it.”

During the short period of silence which followed, Mason heard the metallic click of a telephone receiver being dropped into its cradle. “Considering the noise made on the radio when she dialed Milter’s telephone,” Mason chuckled, “she’s going to a lot of trouble to keep us from knowing what she’s doing.”

“Hey,” the officer shouted, “cut out that phoning. Get me the key, or I’m coming after it.”

They heard the slippered feet again, shuffling rapidly along the corridor. “I had a hard time finding it,” the manager lied. “Would you let me have your name, please — just in case there’s any trouble.”

“Haggerty,” the officer said, taking the key.

Mason walked across the porch, waiting while the officer fitted the key to the door, then said, “Well, I won’t go up with you. The matter I wanted to see him about wasn’t important.”

He turned and started away. The officer let him take two steps before he called, “Hey, wait a minute! I’m not so certain about that.”

“About what?”

“That what you wanted to see him about wasn’t important.”

“I don’t get you?”

“Why do you suppose I’m getting this pass key?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“A little while ago some jane telephoned the desk and said that something was wrong up here. Know anything about that?”

“No.”

“Know who that woman might have been who telephoned?”

“No.”

“You just come along, anyway,” the officer said. “Stick along with me for a minute. I want to take a gander up here, and maybe that’s all there’ll be to it. Maybe you’ll have some questions to answer.”

He led the way up the stairs, Mason following docilely along behind.

They entered a combined living room and bedroom. A wide, mirrored section of the wall was arranged to pivot so as to conceal a wall bed. The furniture was plain, somewhat faded. A door at the far end of the room was closed. A plain table in the center of the room held some magazines. Over at the far side was a big round goldfish bowl. In the bottom of the bowl was a little castle and some sort of green water grass. Some colored shells were strewn along the bottom of the tank. A couple of goldfish swam lazily about. In the tank, so far submerged that only the top of its head and part of its beak were protruding upward, a duck was struggling feebly.

The officer followed Mason’s eyes, saw the tank, turned away, then stopped.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong with that duck?”

Mason glanced at the duck, said quickly, “I suppose this door leads to another room.”

“We’ll take a chance,” the officer said.

He knocked on the door, received no answer, and opened the door. He turned back to look at the fish tank. “Funny about that duck,” he said. “He’s sick.”

A peculiar odor seeped into the room which the officer had just entered, a very faint acrid odor. The room itself was evidently intended to be used as a dining room. There was a big table in the center, a pine sideboard, and chairs of the conventional dining-room type.

Mason said, “Let’s open these windows. I don’t like this smell. What brought you up here? Specifically, what did that woman say?”

“Said there was something wrong up here. Let’s take a look in this other room.”

The officer opened the door which led to a bathroom. It was empty. Mason crossed the room and flung the windows wide open while the officer opened another door which apparently led to the kitchen.

Mason, watching his chance, doubled back quickly to the living room, and reached his hand down into the goldfish tank.

The little duck had quit struggling. Mason lifted him out, a soggy, almost inert bundle of wet feathers.

The lawyer whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the bird dry, squeezing the water out of the feathers. The little duck made feeble motions with his feet.

Heavy steps sounded on the floor. Mason thrust the duck into his coat pocket. The officer, his face gray, came staggering toward Mason. “Kitchen... dead man... some kind of gas. I tried...” The officer stumbled, then collapsed into a chair.

Mason, glancing toward the kitchen, could see a partially opened door, the sprawled figure of a man on the floor.

The lawyer held his breath, ran to the kitchen, slammed the door shut, returned to the living room, said to the officer, “Put your head out the window. Get some fresh air.”

Haggerty nodded. Mason supported him to the window, left the officer leaning on the sill.

Moving swiftly, the lawyer dashed back, picked up the goldfish bowl, darted into the bathroom, and dumped the water down the washbowl. He turned on fresh water from the bathtub tap, until the goldfish that had been flapping around on the bottom of the bowl, began once more swimming around in the tank. When the tank was once more filled with water, Mason crossed the dining room, replaced the tank on the table. The officer was still leaning out of the window. The little duck which Mason took from his pocket was stronger now, able to move about. Mason again dried the feathers, put the duck back in the water, crossed over to the window. “How’s it coming?” he asked the officer.

“All in — got a whiff of that—”

Mason said, “We’ve got the windows open. This part of the house will air out. We’ve got to get those kitchen windows open. It’s some deadly gas. The best thing to do is to get the fire department and smash in the windows.”

“Okay... I’ll... be all right in a minute. Sort of got me for a second.”

“Just take it easy,” Mason told him.

“What is that stuff?” the officer asked. “It isn’t stove gas.”

“No, apparently some sort of chemical. How about getting downstairs?”

“There’s a man in there. We’ve got to get him out.”

“That’s a job for the fire department. Have they got gas masks?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s put in a call.”

Mason walked over to the telephone, called Operator, and asked the policeman, “Do you feel well enough to talk to ’em?”

The officer said, “Yes,” took the telephone, and explained the situation to the fire department. He hung up the phone, came back, and sat down by the window. “I’m feeling better now. What the devil was wrong with that duck?”

“What duck?”

“The one in the goldfish bowl?”

“Oh, you mean the one that was diving?”

“He looked damn funny,” Haggerty said. “Guess the gas got him.”

Mason motioned toward the bowl. “The one over there?”

“Yes.”

The duck was sitting on the surface of the water looking rather weak and groggy, preening his feathers.

“I guess the fresh air revived him,” Mason said.

“Uh huh. What did you want to see Milter about?”

“Oh, nothing in particular.”

“Yeah? At this hour of the night?” the officer asked skeptically.

“I heard he was out of a job. I thought I might have some work for him.”

“What’s his line?”

“He was a detective.”

“Oh... Working on something down here?”

“I don’t think so. I heard he was out of a job.”

“Where’s he been working?”

“Man by the name of Allgood in Hollywood,” Mason said. “You might ring Allgood up and find out about him.”

Sirens announced the arrival of the fire department. A fireman in a gas mask entered the kitchen, raised the windows, dragged out the inert body. Ten minutes later, a doctor pronounced that the man was stone dead, gave it as his opinion he had died of hydrocyanic poisoning.

More policemen arrived, a man from the sheriff’s office. They discovered a small water pitcher half full of liquid on the back of the gas stove.

“That’s it,” the doctor exclaimed. “Put hydrochloric acid in that pitcher, toss in a few lumps of cyanide, and you liberate a deadly gas. It’s the same kind they use to execute criminals in a gas chamber. The effect is practically instantaneous.”

“We’ll look that glass over for fingerprints,” the officer said.

Mason stretched, yawned. “Well, I guess there’s nothing more I can do to help you.”

The officer said gratefully, “You just about saved my life. If you hadn’t got those windows open and got me out of here, I’d have keeled over. Gosh, that stuff is powerful.”

“Glad to do what I could,” Mason said.

“Where are you staying down here? At the hotel?”

“No. I’m visiting a friend — a man by the name of Witherspoon who has a ranch out here...”

“Oh, yes, I know him,” the deputy sheriff said. “I get out there every once in a while for some dove or quail shooting. Will you be there for a while?”

“No, probably not longer than tomorrow. I think you’d better telephone Allgood and let him know about this man. Allgood might have some information that would help.”

“That’s a good idea,” the sheriff said,

“You could put through the call from this phone,” Mason observed. “Allgood probably has a night number where he can be reached.”

The deputy sheriff consulted for a moment with the policeman, then put through the telephone call. Mason walked over by the window and lit a cigarette. He had taken only a few puffs, when the operator, spurred on by the statement that it was a police emergency call, located Allgood in Hollywood. Mason heard the El Templo end of the conversation.

“Hello, is this Allgood?... You have a detective agency there... Uh huh. that’s right... This is the sheriff’s office at El Templo. Did you have a man working for you named Milter, Leslie L. Milter...Uh huh...He’s dead. Found dead in his room... Maybe murder. Some kind of gas... Who would have been interested in bumping him off?... Don’t know anyone, eh?... Wasn’t working on any case for you?... How long?... Why did you let him go?... Just no more work for him, eh?... How was he, a good man?... Know anything about his affairs?... How about women?... I see... Okay, let us know if you turn up anything. Just ring El Templo — either the sheriff’s office or the chief of police. Okay, g’by.”

He hung up the phone and said, “Worked for Allgood up until four or five days ago. Allgood let him go because he didn’t have any more work. Business was kinda quiet. He says Milter was a pretty good man. He can’t remember what particular cases Milter had been working on lately, but he’ll look them up and let us know. He thinks it was mostly routine stuff.”

Mason heaved a sigh of relief that Allgood hadn’t missed his cue, carefully pinched out his cigarette, dropped it in the ash tray, said, “Well, I’ll be going. If you want me for anything, you can reach me in care of Witherspoon.”

“How did you happen to be here?” the sheriff asked.

The officer said, “He drove up right behind me. I brought him in with me.”

They wished Mason good night, and, as Mason went down the stairs, he heard them moving the body of Leslie Milter.

Mason drove his car to an all-night service station, opened the trunk, pulled out the flat tire, and said, “Fix this just as soon as you can. I’ll be back in a few minutes and see how you’re coming.”

Leaving the tire in the service station, Mason walked the five blocks to the bungalow where he had been told Marvin Adams lived.

The bungalow was a simple, unpretentious stucco building. Flowers which had been planted in the yard were evidences of Mrs. Adams’ desire to beautify the place. A light was on in the front of the house. Mason rang the bell.

A studious-looking young man came to the door.

“Marvin Adams in?” Mason asked.

“No, sir, he isn’t... He took the night train to Los Angeles.”

Mason said, “He was driving a car, I believe — earlier in the evening?”

“Yes.”

“Your car?”

“Yes.”

“He had a package I gave him to deliver. Apparently he forgot to deliver it. He must have left it in his room or in the car. It’s a square package wrapped in green paper, with my name written on it. Suppose we could look in his room and see if he left it there. He might have, you know — while he was packing.”

“Why, yes, sir. If you’ll step this way.”

The boy led the way down a corridor, past an open bathroom door, then paused, tapped on the door of the bedroom, and opened it.

It was a typical boy’s room with ice skates, tennis rackets, a couple of pennants, some pictures on the walls, a rack of neckties, a bed covered with a dark woolen blanket and no spread, a pair of white tennis shoes by the side of the bed, and a couple of white sport socks lying on the floor by the tennis shoes.

Mason prowled superficially about the room. “It doesn’t seem to be here. He keeps this room?”

“Yes. Another boy and I have rooms here, and Marvin keeps this one. He may rent it later.”

“Well, the package doesn’t seem to be here. How about the car? Where is it?”

“Outside, at the curb.”

“Isn’t locked, is it?”

The boy grinned. “No. You couldn’t hire anyone to steal it.”

Mason said, “I’ll take a look on the way out. I have a flashlight.”

Mason thanked the boy, said good night, and when the door had closed, slipped a small flashlight from his overcoat pocket and gave the battered sedan at the curb the benefit of a quick appraisal. It was empty.

Mason walked thoughtfully toward the service station where he had left his car, his steps pounding along the cement sidewalk. The street was dark and all but deserted so far as traffic was concerned. Mason met no pedestrians. A chill had edged the desert night. Overhead, the stars were frosty, brilliant, and steady. The sidewalk was lined with smoke trees, those weird trees of the desert which branch out into lacy, leafless tendrils, looking from a distance so much like smoke that many a tenderfoot has been deceived into thinking he is seeing a welcome wisp of blue smoke silhouetted against the sky, when he is in reality looking only at a most unusual bit of desert vegetation.

The man at the service station said to Mason, “Your tire’s all ready.”

“So soon?” Mason asked.

The man grinned. “Uh huh. There wasn’t anything wrong with it except that the cap was gone and the valve stem had worked loose. That was letting the air leak out.”

“How could the valve stem have worked loose?” Mason asked.

“Well, it might have jiggled loose. The cap was gone... Perhaps someone was playing a prank — some kid, you know.”

Mason paid the man, jumped in the car, fed it gas, was going fifty miles an hour by the time he left the city limits, and was hitting eighty as he skimmed along the desert road through the silence of the star-studded night.