The Case of the Drowning Duck

Chapter 19

It was a new experience for Perry Mason to sit in a courtroom as a spectator — and it was a trying experience.

The expert bronco-buster who sits in the grandstand at a rodeo instinctively sways his body as he watches another rider trying to stay on a bucking horse. The expert pinball-machine player, standing as a spectator, watching another send the metal balls roiling down the inclined plane, will instinctively push with his own body as the balls hit the cushioned bumpers.

Perry Mason, sitting in the front row of the spectators’ chairs in the crowded courtroom at El Templo. listening to the preliminary hearing of the case of The People of the State of California versus John L. Witherspoon, at times would lean forward in his chair as though about to ask a question. When some objection was made, he would grip the arms of the chair as though about to get up and argue the matter.

However, he managed to sit silently through the course of the long day’s trial while the evidence presented by the district attorney piled up against the defendant.

Witnesses testified that Roland Burr had been a guest at the defendant’s house. It was made to appear that the defendant had invited Burr to his house after a casual conversation during which it had developed that they shared a number of hobbies, among which were fly-casting and photography. It was also made to appear that when they had first met in the lobby of the hotel, Witherspoon had not issued his invitation until after Mrs. Burr had appeared, and been introduced.

The figure of Mrs. Burr began, bit by bit, to assume a more important place in the trial.

Servants testified that Roland Burr made frequent trips to town. Upon most of these trips, his wife would accompany him. But there were times when Burr was in his room that Mrs. Burr would meet Witherspoon in the corridors, or in the patio. Witherspoon’s Mexican servants testified with obvious reluctance, but the story which they told built up a damning case of motivation, indicating a growing intimacy between the defendant, Witherspoon, and Mrs. Burr, the wife of the man who had been killed.

Then came more evidence of stolen kisses, little intimacies, which, under the questioning of the district attorney, began to assume sinister proportions — figures entwined in hallways, low voices at night by the swimming pool, beneath the stars. Bit by bit, he brought out every “clandestine caress,” every “surreptitious sexual advance.”

With cold, deadly precision, the district attorney, having proved motivation, began to prove opportunity. The doctor who had been attending Burr testified to the condition of the patient, that it was obviously impossible for the patient to have left the bed, that not only was his leg in a cast, but it was elevated and held in place by a weight which was suspended from a pulley in the ceiling, one end of a rope being on this weight, the other fastened securely to the patient’s leg. Photographs were introduced showing the position of the deadly glass of acid from which the cyanide fumes had been generated. It had been placed some ten feet from the bed, on a table which had originally been designed as a stand for a typewriter but which had been introduced into the room as a medicine table at the suggestion of John L. Witherspoon himself when the deceased had broken his leg.

The doctor also testified that when he and Mrs. Burr had left the house, the last request of the decedent had been that Witherspoon get his fishing rod, which the deceased said he had left in Witherspoon’s study.

Servants testified that no one but Witherspoon had a key to that study, that, at the time the murder must have been committed, Witherspoon, the servants, and the decedent were alone in the house. The district attorney introduced evidence about the dogs, showing that it would have been impossible for any stranger to have entered the house while the trained police dogs were patrolling the grounds.

The fishing rod which the deceased was holding in his hand when the body was discovered was conclusively identified as being the particular fishing rod which Burr had asked Witherspoon to get for him. Photographs were introduced showing the body as it had been discovered. Two joints of the fishing rod had been put together. The decedent was holding the tip of the rod in his left hand. The right hand was gripped about the ferrule of the second joint. The entire position of the body indicated that the man had been in the act of placing the last joint in the rod when he had been overcome by the fumes of the gas.

“The Court will observe,” the district attorney said, indicating the photograph, “that quite evidently the decedent had just received the fishing rod when the gas fumes were released.”

“Objected to,” Lawrence Dormer, the attorney for the defendant, shouted, getting to his feet. “I object to that statement, Your Honor,” he went on, with the vehemence of indignation. “That is plainly a conclusion. It’s something...”

“I’ll withdraw the statement,” the district attorney smirked. “After all, Your Honor, the photograph speaks for itself.”

Dormer resumed his seat at the counsel table.

The district attorney went calmly on, building up his case. Medical testimony showed approximately the time of death. Medical testimony also showed the manner of death.

The district attorney called James Haggerty, the officer who had entered Milter’s apartment with Mason when the body was discovered. The district attorney asked him his name, his occupation, while Lawrence Dormer sat tense in his chair, ready to object to the first question by which the district attorney would attempt to open the door to prove that other murder.

The district attorney said, “Now then, Officer Haggerty, I will ask you if, when you entered the apartment of Leslie L. Milter on the night prior to the murder of Roland Burr, you noticed anything which would indicate that hydrochloric acid or cyanide of potassium were present in that apartment.”

“Objected to,” Dormer shouted, getting to his feet. “Your Honor, this is not only incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, but the asking of that question constitutes prejudicial misconduct on the part of the district attorney, and I assign it as such. The defendant in this case is being tried for one crime, and for one crime alone. That crime is the murder of Roland Burr. There is no point of law which is better established than that when a defendant is being tried for one crime, the Court or jury cannot be prejudiced against him by having evidence introduced of another crime. Apparently, it is the contention of the district attorney that he can introduce this extraneous evidence...”

“I am inclined to agree with Counsel for the defendant,” the Court ruled, “but I’ll listen to the district attorney’s argument.”

District Attorney Copeland was fully prepared, not only with argument, but with a bristling list of authorities.

“If the Court please,” he said, in the calm manner of one who is very sure of his ground and who is making an argument upon which he is thoroughly prepared, “there is no question as to the general rule stated by Counsel for the defense. There are, however, certain exceptions.

“I will state at the outset that where exceptions to the rule exist, the evidence is permitted only for the purpose of showing opportunity, only for the purpose of showing some fact in connection with the crime for which the defendant is on trial, and not for the purpose of proving him guilty of any other crime.

“Under that rule, evidence of prior forgeries has been admitted for the purpose of showing that the defendant has practiced the signature of a certain individual. In connection with certain sexual crimes, previous acts have been admitted in order to show that the natural barriers of restraint have been broken down. And so in this case, Your Honor, I wish to introduce this evidence, not for the purpose of proving that the defendant murdered Leslie L. Milter, but only for the purpose of proving that, first, he was familiar with that method of murder, second, that he had a quantity of hydrochloric acid, third, that he had a quantity of cyanide of potassium, fourth that he knew full well the deadly gases which were liberated by these chemicals when placed in solution.

“Now then, if the Court please, I have a long list of authorities covering the rule of law. I would like to cite these authorities to the Court and would like to read from some of them.

“For instance, Your Honor, quoting from volume sixteen Corpus Juris, at page 589, I read, quote, Where the nature of the crime is such that guilty knowledge must be proved, evidence is admissible to prove that at another time and place not too remote, accused committed or attempted to commit a crime similar to that charged — end of quotation.

“In order to show that the defendant knew of the deadly gas which would be liberated by...”

Judge Meehan glanced at the clock and interrupted the district attorney to say, “It’s approaching the hour of the afternoon adjournment. The Court would like very much to have an opportunity to make some independent investigations upon this point. It is, quite apparently, a crucial point in the case, one which will be argued at some length. The Court will, therefore, adjourn this case until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. The defendant is remanded to the custody of the sheriff. Court will take a recess until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

Deputy sheriffs escorted Witherspoon from the courtroom. The judge retired from the bench. Spectators began talking among themselves excitedly. It was quite apparent that the wall of evidence which the district attorney was beginning to erect so remorselessly around the figure of a man who had been so prominent in the life of the community was impressing the spectators.

Lois Witherspoon, her chin held high, her eyes hard and dry, swept out of the courtroom, disdaining both the looks of pity which were bestowed upon her by some, and the stares of contempt which she encountered from others.

Back in his suite at the hotel, Mason stretched out in a comfortable chair, said to Della Street, “This feels good after those hard chairs in a courtroom.”

Della said, “You kept looking as though you wanted to get on your feet and charge into the fray.”

“I did,” Mason admitted.

“From all I can hear, he’s making a pretty good case against Witherspoon.”

Mason smiled. “Perhaps Witherspoon will suffer enough to learn a little charitable compassion. He’ll know now how Horace Adams felt eighteen years ago. Heard anything from Paul Drake yet?”

“No.”

“You transmitted my message to him?”

“Yes. I told him you wanted that girl from the Allgood Detective Agency shadowed, that you wanted to know, as far as possible, everything Roland Burr had done the day we arrived, as well as the day before.”

“Prior to being kicked by the horse,” Mason said, smiling. “After that, he stayed put.”

She said, “Drake’s working on it. He’s been in and out all day, sending telegrams and talking over the telephone. He has a couple of detectives down here working. He said he’d be here in time for a cocktail before dinner.”

Mason said, “Well, I’ll go in my room and take a bath and change my clothes. I never saw humanity packed into a courtroom quite so closely. They exude moisture, odor, and interest. I feel sticky all over.”

He went to his own room and was halfway through a bath when Paul Drake came in. “My gosh, Perry, I don’t know whether it’s mind reading or how you do it, but you certainly do get the damnedest hunches!”

“What this time?” Mason asked.

“About that mysterious Miss X in the old murder case, Corine Hassen.”

“What about her?”

“We’ve located her.”

“Where?”

“In Reno, Nevada.”

“Dead?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“Murdered?”

“She jumped into Donner Lake and committed suicide. The body wasn’t identified, but police had photographs on file.”

“When?” Mason asked.

“Apparently just about the time David Latwell was murdered.”

“The date is very, very important,” Mason said.

“I have it all here for you, including photographs of the body.”

“You say she wasn’t identified?”

“No. The body was absolutely nude when it was found, and they never discovered any of her clothes. Apparently a damned attractive young woman. The verdict was that it was suicide. You can compare these photos. It’s Corine Hassen, all right.”

“Do you, by any chance, know whether she could swim?” Mason asked.

“I haven’t found that out, but I’ll be finding it out rather shortly.”

Mason said, “Things are beginning to take shape.”

“I don’t get you, Perry,” Drake said. “Honestly, I don’t.”

Mason dried himself with a towel, laid out clean underwear. Once more that peculiar granite-hard look was on his face.

“How about that girl from the Allgood Detective Agency?”

“Sally Elberton. We’re having her shadowed.”

“You can put your finger on her any minute?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Lois Witherspoon is going to serve an ultimatum on me tonight. And I wouldn’t doubt if I heard from her father.”

Drake said, “I’ve got some more dope for you on Roland Burr. He came into town quite frequently, buying photographic supplies and things of that sort. The day that you came down from Palm Springs — the day he was kicked by the horse — he seems to have been particularly active. He went into town four or five times. Apparently he was getting photographic supplies, and doing errands. But he went to the post office a couple of times. On one trip his wife wasn’t with him.”

Mason paused in the act of putting on his shirt. He asked, “Did you inquire particularly at all of the places where parcels could be checked, to see if he had...”

“That’s another thing you were right on,” Drake said. “At the Pacific Greyhound depot, he left a parcel, received a check in return for it, and so far as I’ve been able to find out, never returned for that particular parcel. The girl on duty doesn’t remember him doing so.”

“Wait a minute,” Mason said. “There were several girls on duty there.”

Drake nodded. “That’s where the broken-leg business comes in handy.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you see that parcel was checked around noon of the day when his leg was broken. The girl who was on at the checking station goes on duty at nine o’clock in the morning and gets off at five o’clock in the afternoon. By five o’clock, his leg was broken. Obviously, he couldn’t have gone down after he’d broken his leg.”

“How about that package?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “The package is gone. Therefore, someone must have presented the pasteboard claim check.”

“The girl doesn’t remember who called for the package?”

“No. She remembers Burr, but she doesn’t remember the package particularly. It was just a small package done up in brown paper. She thinks it was about the size of a cigar box, but she can’t be certain. They have quite a few packages checked in and out.”

“The girl who waits on that parcel-checking counter has other duties?” Mason asked.

“Yes. She also runs the magazine stand and acts as cashier at the soda fountain.”

“No chance someone sneaked around the counter and got that package without presenting a claim check, is there?”

“None whatever,” Drake said. “They’ll swear to that. They keep a pretty close watch on those packages — and a person would have to raise up a section of the counter to get in and out.”

Mason said, “Well, I guess that gives me an out, but I don’t mind telling you, Paul, it was a close squeeze.”

Drake watched the lawyer drawing on his trousers, said, “You don’t need to be so darn smug about it. What are you holding out on me?”

“Nothing,” Mason said. “The cards are all on the table. Find out anything about Burr having a Winterburg City background?”

Drake said, “That’s another thing you were right on. Burr lived in Winterburg City.”

“When?”

“I don’t know exactly when, but it was several years ago. He was in the insurance business there.”

“What did he do after that?” Mason asked.

“Went out to the coast and got in on a big parking-station deal, getting some leases, and that stuff. He ran the parking station for a while afterwards. Since then, he’s been in half a dozen things. There’s a gap in his life. I can’t find anything from about 1930 to 1935. I don’t think he ever went back to Winterburg City, though.”

Mason said, “Get his fingerprints, Paul. Find out if he ever did time. The coroner’s office probably took his fingerprints.”

“Come on,” Drake said. “You were playing something more than hunch in this thing. Kick through and give me the low-down.”

Mason said, “There isn’t any low-down yet, Paul. I’ll tell you though some of the things which made me get those hunches. Understand, when I start work on a case, I act on the assumption my client is innocent. Therefore, it was no trick at all to get the hunch that Corine Hassen might have gone to Reno. Now then, if Adams was telling the truth and Latwell had intended to run away with her, and if she had gone to Reno, then it’s obvious that something must have intervened to change the entire picture. That something resulted in the murder of David Latwell. Wasn’t it reasonable to suppose that that same something could have resulted in the murder of Corine Hassen?”

“There were no marks of violence on the body,” Drake said. “A canoeing party happened to glimpse the body in the clear waters of the lake. They sent in an alarm to the sheriff’s office, and the body was recovered. There was evidence indicating she must have come from Reno. The body was taken back to Reno, photographs were made, and a coroner’s jury returned a verdict of death by drowning.”

“It still could have been murder,” Mason said.

Drake thought that over. “Well, as I get the picture, Milter wasn’t playing the blackmail angle. That must have been Burr and his wife who had moved in on Witherspoon and were planning to collect from him. But I don’t see how that helps us any, Perry. It simply builds up an added motive for murder. Witherspoon’s got himself in a spot, and...”

He broke off as knuckles tapped on the door. Della Street called, “How about it, Chief? Are you decent?”

“Just,” Mason said. “Come on in.”

Della Street slipped into the bedroom, said, “She’s out there.”

“Lois Witherspoon?”

“Yes.”

“What does she want?”

“She wants to see you immediately,” Della said. “She’s reached a decision. I think she’s going to tell it all right now.”

Mason said, “Okay, we’ll have it over with.”

Lois Witherspoon got to her feet as Mason entered the sitting room of his suite in the hotel. She said, “I want to talk to you alone.”

“That’s all right,” Mason said, indicating Paul Drake and Della Street. “You can say what you have to say in front of these people.”

“It’s about that duck you had me plant in Marvin’s car,” she said. “It looks now as though they’re going to be successful in dragging the Milter murder into it. That means the duck becomes important. I’m not going to sit by and let my father get smeared with that...”

“I don’t blame you,” Mason said.

“I’m going to tell them about the duck. You know what that will mean.”

“What will it mean?”

She said, “I’m sorry I did it. I’m sorry for my sake. I’m sorry for Dad’s sake. And I’m sorry for yours.”

“Why for mine?”

“They won’t let you get away with anything like that down here, Mr. Mason.”

“Why not?”

“It was planting evidence. I don’t know much law, but it certainly seems to me that it’s a violation of law. If it isn’t, it’s a violation of legal ethics — or so I should think.”

Mason lit a cigarette. “Know anything about surgery?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

Mason said, “There are times when you have to cut, and cut deep in order to save the patient’s life. This was what you might call legal surgery.”

“Isn’t it illegal?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is it going to make trouble for you if I tell?”

“Definitely.”

Her eyes softened somewhat. She said, “Mr. Mason, you’ve been very, very nice. I don’t know why you made me do that — yes, I do, too. You sympathized very much with Marvin, and I think you’re holding something back from me.”

Mason said, “That’s what I want to talk with you about. Sit down. Let’s have a cocktail and a cigarette and talk.”

“We’ll dispense with the cocktail,” she said. “Let’s make it a cigarette, and I’d like to have you hand it to me straight from the shoulder.”

” Can you take it?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “I’ve already told you the truth about Marvin’s background and why your father employed me. And I told you that I hadn’t found anything in the record of that murder case, but that I was working on another angle. Well, I now have the proof I need. I can clear Marvin of the stigma of his father’s tragedy — but I can’t do it unless I can do it my way. Once you say anything about the duck, I’m mixed up in the case — up to my neck. Once I’m mixed in it, I can’t be free to do the things I want to clear up that old case. Once Marvin hears of that old case, he’ll run out on you. You should know that.

“The district attorney would love to get me hooked with that duck business. He also wants to put on evidence about that old murder case. You’re going to play right into his hands. If the district attorney tries to put on evidence concerning that old case as additional motivation for Burr’s murder, the witnesses will commit perjury. I want the thing handled my way.”

“How is that?” she asked, apparently hesitating about forming her decision.

“I want you to get one message to your father.”

“What?”

“Tell him to make his damn fool lawyer sit down and shut up,” Mason said, with so much feeling that his hearers were startled.

“Why? Why, what do you mean? He hasn’t said very much. He’s cross-examined the witnesses and only made one or two objections.”

“He’s objecting to that question about what the officer found when he went up to Milter’s apartment,” Mason said.

“Well, good heavens, isn’t that the whole thing? Doesn’t the whole case hinge on that? As I told you, I don’t know much law, but it seems to me that if they can drag that other murder into it, and smear Dad with a lot of suspicion in the one case and a lot of suspicion in the other, then people will think he’s guilty and...”

“Of course they will,” Mason said, “and so will the judge. But the newspapers have already commented on that stuff. Every man, woman, and child in the courtroom who’s old enough to read or think knows the evidence that the district attorney is trying to bring out. If your dad manages to suppress it by a legal technicality, it will still be lurking in the back of the judge’s mind. What does your father’s lawyer intend to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Mason said, “I heard that he thinks the case is so black that the judge won’t dismiss it, that therefore he’s not going to try to put on any evidence at this time, but let your father be bound over for trial, and put on his evidence at the time of the trial.”

“Well, isn’t that good legal policy?”

Mason looked at her and said, “No.”

“Why?”

“Because your father is a proud man. This thing is eating into his spirit. A little of it will do him good. Too much of it will ruin him. What’s more, it will ruin him in the community. This is a small place. Your father is prominent. He’s got to smash this thing right in its tracks or it will smash him. If his lawyer starts taking advantage of technicalities, and people feel that your father was acquitted on a technicality... oh, well, what’s the use?”

She said, “Do you want me to talk with Dad?”

“No,” Mason said morosely.

“Why not?”

Mason said, “Because it’s not my case. It’s even unethical for me to say a word about what the other attorney is doing.”

She said, “But what are we going to do about the duck?”

“Go tell your story if you want,” Mason said. “It won’t help your father any at this time. It’ll drag Marvin into it, bring out all of that scandal, probably cause the boy either to commit suicide, or, in any event, will send him rushing away to join the Army without finishing his education — and you know what’ll happen. He’ll try his darndest not to come back. If he does, he’ll never see you.”

She was white-faced, but steady-eyed. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked.

“Let your conscience be your guide,” Mason said.

She said, “Very well, I’m going out and announce my engagement to Marvin. I’m going to get him to go over to Yuma and we’ll be married tonight. Then I’m going in and tell the judge about the duck.”

Mason said moodily, “About what I expected you’d do.”

She looked at Della Street, saw the sympathy in Della’s eyes, and said savagely, “Don’t sympathize with me. I suppose I could go feminine with very little urging and start bawling, but this is something that takes action, not tears.”

“Suppose he won’t marry you?” Mason asked.

She said, with tight-lipped determination, “I can fix things so he will.”

“And then you’re going to tell about the duck?”

“Yes. I hope it won’t hurt you, or spoil your plans, but I’m going to tell them, anyway. I’m tired of having a lie bottled up inside me.”

“And then what?”

“Then,” she said, “if we can’t prove Marvin’s father was innocent, what’s the difference? Marvin will already be my husband. He can’t run away then.”

“There’ll be a lot of smear stuff in the newspapers,” Mason said.

“Let them smear. What bothers me most is what it’s going to do to you — but I can’t jeopardize my father’s position by keeping silent any longer.”

Mason said, “I’ll take care of myself. Don’t worry about me. Go ahead and tell ’em about the duck.”

She suddenly gave him her hand. The cold fingers squeezed his palm. “I guess you’ve done some wonderful things in your life, Mr. Mason, but I think this is about the most wonderful — being such a good sport — and what you did for Marvin, and being willing to have your professional career put in danger — well, thanks.”

Mason patted her on the shoulder. “Go to it,” he said. “You’re a fighter. You can get what you want out of life — if you fight hard enough for it.”

She said, “Well, don’t think I’m not going to fight hard enough,” and started for the door.

They watched in silence while she turned the knob. It was no time for conventional good-bys or the inane formulae of politeness. They simply stood, watching her.

The bell of the telephone exploded the silence. Della Street jumped as though a gun had gone off behind her. Lois Witherspoon paused, waiting.

Mason, being nearest the telephone, scooped it up, placed the receiver to his ear, and said, “Hello... Yes, this is Mason... When?... Very well, I’ll be there right away.”

He dropped the receiver into place, said to Lois Witherspoon, “Go get your boy friend, drive over to Yuma, and get married.”

“I’m going to.”

“And keep quiet about that duck,” Mason said.

She shook her head.

Mason grinned. “You’re not going to have to say anything about it.”

“Why?”

He said, “Your dad’s sent for me. He wants me to come in and act as his lawyer tomorrow.”

She said coldly, “You can’t act as his lawyer, Mr. Mason.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve contributed to building up some of the evidence against him.”

“Ethically, you’re probably right,” Mason said, “but it’s an academic question which you won’t need to worry about — because tomorrow I’m going to walk into court and blow that case against your father into a million pieces of legal wreckage.”

She stood for a moment looking at the determination of his face, the gleam in his eyes. Abruptly, she came toward him. “Would you like to kiss the bride?” she asked.