The Case of the Drowning Duck

Chapter 1

Once when Della Street, Perry Mason’s private secretary, had asked him what was the most valuable attribute a lawyer could have, Mason had answered, “That peculiar something which makes people want to confide in you.”

Certainly Mason possessed this power to a marked degree. When he walked across a room, people instinctively followed him with their eyes. When he seated himself in a hotel lobby or on a train, persons who were seated next to him almost invariably started a casual conversation and wound up baring their innermost secrets.

As Mason himself had once said, a lawyer either has this quality or he hasn’t. If he has it, it’s as much of a natural gift as having a good ear for music. If he doesn’t have it, he shouldn’t practice law.

Della Street insisted that it was merely the instinctive reaction which people gave to one who could comprehend human frailties, and extend sympathetic understanding.

Mason seldom needed to ask questions. At times, he even seemed uninterested in the confidences which were being poured into his ears. His very indifference stimulated people to go to even greater lengths. But Mason always was understanding and sympathetic. He always made allowances for human weaknesses, and frequently had said that every man who has lived enough to be more than a stuffed shirt, has a closed chapter in his life. If he hasn’t, he isn’t a man.

There on the veranda of the hotel at Palm Springs, Della Street, standing under the steady, unwinking stars which were blotted out here and there by the silhouetted fronds of tall palms, could look into the hotel lobby and see the man who had seated himself next to Perry Mason. She knew, with what amounted to absolute certainty, that this man was getting ready to tell Mason something so important that it had previously been kept as a closely guarded secret.

If Mason realized this, he gave no sign.

He was stretched out comfortably in the deep leather chair, his long legs thrust out before him, the ankles crossed, a cigarette between his lips. His face, usually granite-hard, was relaxed into the grim mask of a fighter who is at rest.

It was only when the man at his side cleared his throat as a preliminary to speech that Mason apparently became aware of his existence.

“I beg your pardon. You’re Mr. Mason, the lawyer, aren’t you?”

Mason didn’t, at once, turn to survey the man’s face. He let his eyes slide obliquely over to look at the other’s legs. He saw black dress trousers that were creased to a knife-like edge, expensive black kid dress shoes that were as soft as gloves.

The man on his right went on, “I’d like to consult you,” and then, after a moment, added, “Professionally.”

Mason turned then all the way for a brief appraisal. He saw a shrewd face with a high forehead, prominent nose, a long, lean mouth which indicated decision, and a chin which was almost too prominent. The eyes were dark, but steady, with the calm confidence of power. The man was in his late forties, and his clothes, his manner, and the fact that he was staying in this particular hotel at Palm Springs indicated wealth.

Any sudden effusive cordiality would have frightened this man as much as too great a reserve would have antagonized him. Mason said simply, “Yes, I’m Mason,” and didn’t so much as offer to shake hands.

“I’ve read quite a lot about you — your cases — in the newspapers — followed them with a great deal of interest.”

“Indeed?”

“I presume you lead a very interesting and exciting life.”

“It’s certainly not monotonous,” Mason agreed.

“And I guess you hear many strange stories.”

“Yes.”

“And are the recipient of many confidences which must, at all costs, be treated as sacred?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Witherspoon, John L. Witherspoon.”

Even then Mason didn’t extend his hand. He had turned his head back so that the other had only the benefit of his profile. “Live here in California, Mr. Witherspoon?”

“Yes, I have a place down in the Red River Valley, down in the cotton section of the valley — a mighty nice place, fifteen hundred acres.”

He was talking hurriedly now, anxious to get the preliminaries over with.

Mason seemed in no hurry. “Gets rather hot down there in the summer, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“Over a hundred and twenty some of the time. My place is air conditioned. Most of the houses in the valley are. It’s really marvelous what they’re doing to make the desert livable these days.”

Mason said, “It must have a splendid winter climate.”

“It has... I wanted to talk to you about my daughter.”

“You’re staying here at the hotel?”

“Yes. She’s here with me.”

“Been here long?”

“I came up specifically to see you. I read in the Indio paper that you were staying here at Palm Springs. I’ve been studying you for the past hour.”

“Indeed! Drive up?”

“Yes. I don’t want my daughter to know why I’m here or that I’ve consulted you.”

Mason pushed his hands down deep in his trousers pockets. Della Street, watching him through the huge plate-glass window, saw that he didn’t even turn his eyes toward the other. “I don’t like routine cases,” Mason said.

“I don’t think this would be uninteresting — and the fee would be...”

“I like excitement,” Mason interrupted. “Some particular case appeals to me, usually because there’s a mystery connected with it. I start plugging on it, and something develops which leads to excitement. I usually try to cut a corner and get in hot water. It’s the way I’m built. Ordinary office practice doesn’t appeal to me in the least. I have all the work I can do, and I’m not interested in ordinary litigation.”

His very indifference made Witherspoon the more anxious to confide in him. “My daughter Lois is going to marry a young chap who’s going into the Engineering Corps as soon as he finishes college.”

“How old?”

“My daughter or the boy?”

“Both.”

“My daughter’s just twenty-one. The boy’s about six months older. He’s very much interested in chemistry and physics — an unusually bright chap.”

Mason said, “Youth really stands a chance these days.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you — not that I’m unpatriotic, but I don’t relish the idea of having a prospective son-in-law sent off to war almost as soon as he gets back from his honeymoon.”

“Prior to 1929,” Mason said, “kids had too much of everything. Then after the crash, they didn’t have enough of anything. So they became too much concerned with economic problems. We began to think too much about sharing the wealth, instead of creating it. Youth should create something, and it should have something to create.

“The modem youngsters are coming into a different scheme of things. There’ll be heartaches. There’ll be fighting, and hardships — and death — but those who survive will have been tempered in a crucible of fire. They won’t put up with makeshifts. Make no mistake about it, Witherspoon, you and I are going to be living in a different world when this war is over, and it’s going to be different because of the young men who have suffered, and fought — and learned.”

“I hadn’t thought of youth in that way,” Witherspoon said. “Somehow, I’ve never seen youth as a conquering force.”

“You must have seen it in uniform in the last war, but then its back wasn’t against the wall,” Mason said. “The ‘youth’ of 1929 is middle-aged today. You’re due for a surprise... This young man of yours interests me. Tell me more about him.”

Witherspoon said, “There’s something in his past. He doesn’t know who he is.”

“You mean he doesn’t know his father?”

“Neither his father nor his mother. Marvin Adams was told by the woman whom he’d always considered his mother that he had been kidnapped at the age of three. She made that statement when she was on her deathbed. Of course, the disclosure, which came about two months ago, was a great shock to him.”

“Interesting,” Mason said, frowning at the toes of his shoes. “What does your daughter say about that?”

“She says...”

A feminine voice from the second row of chairs which sat back to back, and directly behind Mason’s chair, said, “Suppose you let her say it for herself, Dad.”

Witherspoon jerked his head around. Mason, moving with the leisurely grace of a tall man who carries no extra weight, got to his feet to look down at the animated girl who had now turned so that she was kneeling on the seat of the chair, her arms flung over its leather back. A book slipped to the floor with a hard thud.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. Dad, honest. I was sitting here reading. Then I heard Marvin’s name — and — suppose we have it out.”

John Witherspoon said, “I see no reason for discussing this in your presence, Lois. There’s nothing for us to have out — yet.”

Mason looked from one face to the other, said, “Why not? Here’s my secretary, Miss Street. Suppose the four of us go into the cocktail lounge, have a drink, and discuss it in a civilized fashion. Even if we don’t reach an understanding, we won’t be bored. I rather think, Witherspoon, that this might be an interesting case.”