The Case of the Drowning Duck

Chapter 3

Rays of early-morning sunlight flashed across the desert until, striking the mountain barrier on the west, they burst into a golden sparkle which tinged the towering peaks. The sky was beginning to show that blue-black which is so characteristic of the Southern California desert.

Della Street, attired in tan frontier pants, cowboy riding boots, and a vivid green blouse, paused as she walked past the door of Perry Mason’s room, tapped tentatively on the door.

“Are you up?” she called softly.

She heard the sound of a chair moving back, and then quick steps. The door opened.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “You haven’t even been to bed!”

Mason brushed a hand over his forehead, motioned toward a pile of typewritten manuscript on the table. “That damned murder case,” he said. “It’s got me interested... Come in.”

Della Street looked at her wrist watch, said, “Forget the murder case. Slip into your riding things. I ordered a couple of horses for us — just in case.”

Mason hesitated. “There’s an angle about that case I...”

Della Street walked firmly past him, opened the Venetian blinds, and pulled them up. “Switch off the lights,” she said, “and take a look.”

Mason clicked off the light switch. Already the vivid sunlight was casting sharp, black shadows. The intense illumination reflected back into the room with a brilliance that made the memory of the electric lights seem a sickly, pale substitute.

“Come on,” Della Street coaxed. “A nice brisk canter, a cold shower, and breakfast.”

Mason stood looking out at the clear blue of the sky. He swung open the window to let the crisp air purify the room.

“What’s worrying you?” Della Street asked, sensing his mood. “The case?”

Mason looked toward the pile of transcript and folded, age-yellowed newspaper clippings, and nodded.

“What’s wrong with it?” Della asked.

“Almost everything.”

“Was he guilty?”

“He could have been.”

“Then what’s wrong with it?”

“The way it was handled. He could have been guilty, or he could have been innocent. But the way his lawyer handled it, there was only one verdict the jury could possibly have brought in — murder in the first degree. And there’s nothing at all in the case, as it now stands, which I could point out to John L. Witherspoon, and say, ‘This indicates conclusively that the man was innocent.’ The jury found him guilty on that evidence, and Witherspoon will find him guilty on that evidence. He’ll go about wrecking the lives of two young people — and the man may have been innocent.”

Della Street remained sympathetically silent. Mason stared out at the cruel, jagged ridges of the steep mountains which towered almost two miles above sea level, then turned, smiled, and said, “I should shave.”

“Never mind that. Get into some riding boots and come along. Put on some overall pants and a leather jacket. That’s all you need.”

She went over to Mason’s closet, rummaged around, found his riding boots and jacket, brought them out, and said, “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.” The lawyer changed his clothes hurriedly, met Della in the lobby, and they went out into the cool fresh air of the desert morning. The man who was in charge of the horses indicated two mounts, watched them swing into the saddles, and grinned at Mason.

“You can tell what a man knows about horses the way he gets on one,” he said. “Those are pretty good horses, but you’ll have better ones tomorrow.”

Mason’s eyes showed that he was interested. “How can you tell?”

“Lots of little ways. The tenderfoot tries to tell you how he always rode bareback as a boy, and then he grabs hold of the horn and cantle.” He snorted disgustedly. “Now, you never touched the cantle with your hand. Have a good ride.”

Mason’s eyes were thoughtful as they trotted away from the hotel and up the bridle path.

“What now?” Della Street asked.

“That talk about getting on a horse made me think — you know, a lawyer must always be on the alert for details.”

“What does getting on a horse have to do with it?” she asked.

“Everything — and nothing.”

She reined her horse close to his.

“The little things,” Mason said, “little details which escape the average observer, are the things that tell the whole story. If a man really understands the significance of the little things, no one can lie to him. Take that wrangler, for instance. The people who come here have money. They’re supposed to be intelligent. They’ve had, as a rule, the best education money can buy. They usually try to exaggerate their ability as horsemen in order to get better mounts. And they’re utterly oblivious of the little things to do which give the lie to their words. The wrangler stands by the hitching post, apparently sees nothing, and yet can tell to a certainty just how much a person knows about a horse. A lawyer should appreciate the significance of that.”

“You mean that a lawyer should know all of those things?” Della Street asked.

“He can’t know them all,” Mason said, “or he’d be a walking encyclopedia, but he should know the basic facts. And he should know how to get the exact knowledge he needs in any given case to prove a man is lying when his own actions contradict the words his lips are uttering.”

She looked at his somewhat drawn countenance, the tired weariness of his eyes, said, “You’re worrying a lot about that case.”

He said, “Seventeen years ago, a man was hanged. Perhaps he was guilty. Perhaps he was innocent. But just as certain as fate, he was hanged because a lawyer made a mistake.”

“What did the lawyer do?”

Mason said, “Among other things, he presented an inconsistent defense.”

“Doesn’t the law permit that?”

“The law does, but human nature doesn’t.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Mason said, “Of course, the law has been changed a lot in the last twenty years, but human nature hasn’t changed. Under the procedure, as it existed in those days, a person could interpose a plea of not guilty, go into court, and try to prove he wasn’t guilty. He could also interpose a plea of insanity which was tried at the same time as the rest of the case, and before the same jury, and as a part of the whole case.”

She studied him with eyes that saw deep beneath the surface, seeing those things which only a woman can see in a man with whom she has had a long, intimate association.

Abruptly, she said, “Let’s forget the case. Let’s take a good, brisk canter, soak up the smell of the desert, and come back to business after breakfast.”

Mason nodded, touched his horse with the quirt, and they were off.

They left the village behind, rode up a long winding canyon, came to water and palms, dismounted to lie in the sand, watching the purple shadows seek refuge from the sunlight in the deeper pockets where the jagged ridges offered protection. The absolute silence of the desert descended upon them, stilled the desire for conversation, left them calmly contented, souls purified by a vast tranquillity.

They rode back in silence. Mason took a shower, had breakfast, and dropped into a deep, restful sleep. It wasn’t until afternoon that he would see John Witherspoon.

Della and Perry met him on the shaded veranda which furnished a cool shield against the eye-aching glare of the desert. Shadows of the mountains were slowly stealing across the valley, but it would be several hours before they embraced the hotel. The heat was dry but intense.

Mason sat down and began to review the case dispassionately.

“You’re familiar with most of these facts, Witherspoon,” he said, “but I want Miss Street to get the picture, and I want to clarify my own perspective by following the case in a logical sequence of events; so I’ll run the risk of boring you by dwelling on facts you already know.”

“Go right ahead,” Witherspoon said. “Believe me, Mason, if you can satisfy me the man was innocent...”

“I’m not certain we can ever satisfy ourselves,” Mason said, “at least not from the data we have available at present. But we can at least look at it in the light of cold, dispassionate reason.”

Witherspoon tightened his lips. “In the absence of proof to the contrary, the verdict of the jury is binding.”

“In 1924,” Mason said, “Horace Legg Adams was in partnership with David Latwell. They had a little manufacturing business. They had perfected a mechanical improvement which gave promise of great potential value. Abruptly Latwell disappeared. Adams told his partner’s wife that Latwell had gone on a business trip to Reno, that she would doubtless hear from him in a few days. She didn’t hear from him. She checked the hotel records at Reno. She could get no trace of him.

“Adams told other stories. They didn’t all coincide. Mrs. Latwell said she was going to call the police. Adams, confronted with the threat of a police investigation, told an entirely different story, and told it for the first time. Mrs. Latwell called in the police. They investigated. Adams said that Latwell had confessed to him his marriage was unhappy, that he was in love with a young woman whose name didn’t enter into the case. She was referred to in the newspapers and in court as ‘Miss X.’ Adams said Latwell told him he was going to run away with this woman, asked him to stall his wife along by telling her he’d gone to Reno on a business trip, that Adams was to carry on the business as usual, hold Latwell’s share of the proceeds, give an allowance of two hundred dollars each month to Latwell’s wife, and wait until he heard from Latwell as to what to do with the rest. Latwell wanted to get completely away before his wife could stop him.

“At that time, Adams told a convincing story, but because of his early contradictory statements, police made a thorough investigation. They found Latwell’s body buried in the cellar of the manufacturing plant. There was a lot of circumstantial evidence indicating Adams was guilty. He was arrested. More circumstantial evidence piled up. Adams’ lawyer evidently became frightened. Apparently, he thought Adams wasn’t telling him the whole truth, and that, at the time of trial, he might be confronted with surprise testimony which would make the case even more desperate.

“The prosecution closed its case. It was an imposing array of circumstantial evidence. Adams took the stand. He didn’t make a good witness. He was trapped on cross-examination — perhaps because he didn’t clearly understand the questions, also perhaps because he was rattled. He evidently wasn’t a man who could talk glibly or think clearly in front of a crowded courtroom and the stony faces of twelve jurors. Adams’ lawyer put on a defense of insanity. He called Adams’ father, who testified to the usual things a family can dig up when they want to save a child from the death penalty. A fall in early childhood, a blow on the head, evidences of abnormality — principally that Horace Adams had a penchant as a youngster for torturing animals. He’d pull the wings off flies, impale them on pins, gleefully watch them squirm — in fact, that animal-torturing complex seemed to be the thing on which the defense harped.

“That was unfortunate.”

“Why?” Witherspoon asked. “It would indicate insanity.”

“It antagonized the jury,” Mason said. “Lots of kids pull the wings off flies. Nearly all children go through a stage when they’re instinctively cruel. No one knows why. Psychologists give different reasons. But when a man is on trial for his life, you don’t stand much chance with a jury by dragging in a lot of early cruelties, magnifying them, distorting them, and trying to show insanity. Moreover, the fact that Adams’ lawyer relied on an insanity defense, under the circumstances of the case, indicated that he himself didn’t believe Adams’ story about what Latwell had told him.

“Circumstantial evidence can be the most vicious perjurer in the world. The circumstances don’t lie, but men’s interpretation of circumstances is frequently false. Apparently no one connected with the case had the faintest knowledge of how to go about analyzing a case which depended simply on circumstances.

“The district attorney was a shrewd, clever prosecutor who had political ambitions. Later on, he became governor of the state. The attorney for the defense was one of those bookish individuals who are steeped in the abstract lore of academic legal learning — and who knew nothing whatever about human nature. He knew his law. Every page of the record shows that. He didn’t know his jurors. Almost every page of the record indicates that. Adams was convicted of first-degree murder.

“The case was appealed. The Supreme Court decided that it was a case of circumstantial evidence, that, thanks to the care with which Adams’ lawyer had presented his points and bolstered his arguments with decisions, there were no errors of procedure. The jurors had heard the witnesses, had seen their demeanor on the stand, and, therefore, were the best judges of the facts. The conviction was affirmed. Adams was executed.”

There was a certain touch of bitterness in Witherspoon’s voice. He said, “You’re an attorney who has specialized in defending persons accused of crime. I understand you have never had a defendant found guilty in a murder case. Yet, despite your viewpoint, which is naturally biased in favor of the defendant, you aren’t able to tell me that this man was innocent. To my mind, that is conclusive of his guilt.”

“I can’t say that he was innocent,” Mason said, “and I won’t say that he was guilty. The circumstances in connection with the case have never been thoroughly investigated. I want to investigate them.”

Witherspoon said, “The mere fact that you, biased as you are, can’t find anything extenuating...”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “In the first place, it wasn’t a case which would have appealed to me. It lacked all the elements of the spectacular. It was a sordid, routine, everyday sort of murder case. I probably wouldn’t have taken Adams’ case if it had been offered to me. I like something which has a element of mystery, something which has an element of the bizarre. Therefore, I’m not biased. I’m fair and impartial — and I’m not satisfied the man was guilty. The thing of which I am satisfied is that this man was convicted more because of the way his lawyer handled the case than for any other reason.”

Witherspoon said, almost as though talking to himself, “If he was guilty, it’s almost certain that the boy will have inherited that innate streak of cruelty, that desire to torture animals.”

“Lots of children have that,” Mason pointed out.

“And outgrow it,” Witherspoon commented.

Mason nodded his agreement.

“Marvin Adams is old enough to have outgrown it,” Witherspoon went on. “I think first I’ll find out something of his attitude toward animals.”

Mason said, “You’re following the same erroneous course of reasoning which the jury followed back in 1924.”

“What’s that?”

“That because a man is cruel to animals, you think he’s a potential murderer.”

Witherspoon got up from his chair, walked restlessly over to the edge of the veranda, stood looking out at the desert for a moment, then came back to face Mason. He seemed, somehow, to have aged, but there was clear-cut decision stamped on his face. “How long would it take you to investigate the circumstances of the case so that you could pass on the circumstantial evidence?” he asked Mason.

Mason said, “I don’t know. Eighteen years ago, it wouldn’t have taken very long. Today, the significant things have been obscured. Events which went unnoticed at the time, but which might have had an important bearing on the case, have been snowed under by the march of time, by the sheer weight of other events which have been piled on top of them. It would take time, and it would take money.”

Witherspoon said, “I have all the money we need. We have very little time. Will you make the investigation?”

Mason didn’t even look at him. He said, “I don’t think any power on earth could keep me from making the investigation. I can’t get this case out of my mind. You furnish the expenses, and if I can’t come to a satisfactory conclusion, I won’t charge you any fee.”

Witherspoon said, “I’d like to have you do this work where you can exclude everything else — every possible interruption. We have only a few days — and then I’m going to act...”

Mason said in a low voice, “I don’t need to tell you, Witherspoon, that that’s a dangerous way to feel.”

“Dangerous to whom?”

“To your daughter — to Marvin Adams — and to yourself.”

Witherspoon raised his voice. A flush darkened his skin. “I don’t care anything about Marvin Adams,” he said. “I care a lot about my daughter’s happiness. As far as I’m concerned, I’d be willing to sacrifice anything to keep her from being unhappy.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Mason asked, “that if young Adams knew exactly what you were doing and the reason back of it, he might do something desperate?”

“I don’t give a damn what he does,” Witherspoon said, emphasizing his words by gently striking the top of the table with blows of his fist at measured intervals. “I tell you, Mason, if Marvin Adams is the son of a murderer, he is never going to marry my daughter. I’d stop at nothing to prevent that marriage, absolutely nothing. Do you understand?”

“I’m not certain that I do. Just what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that where my daughter’s happiness is concerned, I’d stop at nothing, Mason. I’d see that any man who threatened her happiness ceased to be a threat to that happiness.”

Mason said in a low voice, “Don’t talk so loud. You’re making threats. Men have been hanged for but little more than that. You certainly don’t mean...”

“No, no, of course not,” Witherspoon said in a lower tone, glancing quickly over his shoulder to see if his remark had been overheard. “I didn’t mean that I would kill him, but I would have no compunctions whatever about putting him in such a position that the inherited weakness of character would become manifest... Oh, well, I’m probably working myself up needlessly. I can count on Lois to look at the situation sensibly. I’d like to have you come down to my house, Mason — you and your secretary. You could be undisturbed and...”

Mason interrupted to say, “I don’t want to be undisturbed.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you. When a person is concentrating...”

“I told you,” Mason went on, “that from the data available and evidence in the record itself, Horace Legg Adams might well have been guilty. I want to uncover evidence which wasn’t in the record. That’s going to take more than undisturbed solitude. It’s going to take action.”

“Well,” Witherspoon said, “Id like to have you near me. Couldn’t you at least come down now, and...”

Mason said crisply, “Yes. We’ll leave right away. I’ll go down and look your place over. I want to see something of your background. I want to see a little more of your daughter and of Marvin Adams. I take it he’ll be there.”

“Yes. And I have two other guests, a Mr. and Mrs. Burr. I trust they won’t disturb you.”

“If they do, I’ll move out... Della, telephone Paul Drake at the Drake Detective Agency. Tell him to hop in a car and start for El Templo at once.”

Witherspoon said, “I’ll find my daughter and...”

He broke off as he heard the sound of running steps, the lilt of a woman’s laughter; then the youngsters came pellmell up the steps, and were starting across the veranda, when they saw the trio at the table.

“Come on,” Lois Witherspoon called to her companion. “You’ve got to meet the famous lawyer.”

She was wearing a playsuit which showed the girlish contours of her figure, an expanse of sun-tanned skin which would have resulted in a call for the police twenty years earlier. The young man with her wore shorts and a thin blouse. He was beaded with perspiration, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, intense young man with long, tapering fingers, nervous gestures, and a thin, sensitive face which seemed, somehow, older than Mason had expected. It was a face that mirrored a sensitive mind, a mind that was capable of great suffering, one that a great shock might unbalance.

Lois Witherspoon performed quick introductions. She said, “We’ve had three sets of fast tennis, and I do mean fast! My skin has a date with lots of cold water and soapsuds.” She turned to Perry Mason and said, almost defiantly, “But I wanted you to look us over, perspiration and all, because — because I didn’t want you to think we were running away.”

Mason smiled. “I don’t think you two would run away from anything.”

“I hope not,” she said.

Marvin Adams was suddenly very sober. “There’s no percentage in running away from things, war, fighting, or — anything else.”

“Away from death,” Lois added quickly, “or—” meeting her father’s eyes — “away from life.”

Witherspoon got heavily to his feet. “Mr. Mason and his secretary are going back with us,” he said to Lois, and then to Mason, “I’ll go and make arrangements to check out. If it’s all right with you, I’ll have your bill added to mine, and then you won’t need to bother with it.”

Mason nodded, but his eyes remained on Marvin Adams and did not follow John L. Witherspoon through the door into the lobby.

“So you don’t believe in running away?” Mason asked.

“No, sir.”

“Nor do I,” Lois said. “Do you, Mr. Mason?”

The question made Della Street smile, and that smile was Lois Witherspoon’s only answer.

Marvin Adams wiped his forehead and laughed. “I don’t want to run, anyway. I want to dive. I’m as wet as a drowning duck.”

Della Street said, half jokingly, “You have to be careful of what you say in front of a lawyer. He might get you on a witness stand and say, ‘Young man, didn’t you claim that ducks drown?’”

Lois laughed. “It’s a favorite expression of his ever since his physics professor performed a classroom experiment. Down at the ranch a few nights ago, Roland Burr, one of the guests, called him on it. Tell them what you did, Marvin.”

The young man seemed uncomfortable. “I was trying to show off. I saw Mr. Burr was getting ready to call me on it. Shucks, I was away out of line.”

“Not a bit of it,” Lois defended. “Mr. Burr was actually insulting. I jumped up, ran out, and got a little duck, and Marvin actually drowned it — and he didn’t even touch it. Of course, he took it out in time to keep it from really drowning.”

“Made a duck drown?” Della Street exclaimed.

“Right in front of all the guests,” Lois boasted. “You should have seen Mr. Burr’s face.”

“How on earth did you do it?” Della asked.

Marvin quite apparently wanted to get away. “It wasn’t anything. Just one of the more recent chemical discoveries. It’s nothing but a spectacular trick. I put a few drops of one of the detergents in the water. If you folks will excuse me, I’ll go shower. I’m awfully glad to have met you, Mr. Mason. I hope I see you again.”

Lois grabbed his arm. “All right, come on.”

“Just a minute,” Mason said to Lois. “Was your father there?”

“When?” she asked.

“When the duck was drowned.”

“He wasn’t drowned. Marvin took him out of the water after he’d sunk far enough to prove his point, wiped him off, and... pardon me, I guess I’m digressing. No. Father wasn’t there.”

Mason nodded, said, “Thanks.”

“Why did you ask?”

“Oh, nothing. It might be as well not to mention it. I think he’s a bit sensitive about using live things in laboratory experiments.”

She looked at Mason curiously for a moment, then said, “All right, we won’t breathe a word of it. The drowning duck will be a secret. Come on, Marvin.”

Della Street watched them walk across the porch, saw Marvin Adams hold the door open for Lois Witherspoon. She didn’t speak until after the door had gently closed; then she said to Perry Mason, “They’re very much in love. Why were you wondering about whether Mr. Witherspoon had seen the performance of the drowning duck or might hear about it?”

Mason replied, “Because I think Witherspoon might have been biased enough to see in it, not the experiment of a youngster interested in science, but the sadistic cruelty of the son of a murderer. Witherspoon’s in a dangerous frame of mind. He’s trying to judge another man — and he’s terribly biased. It’s a situation that’s loaded with emotional dynamite.”