The Case of the Drowning Duck

Chapter 4

It was quite evident that John L. Witherspoon was proud of his house, just as he was proud of his horses, of his car, of his daughter, and of his financial and social position. Strongly possessive, he threw about everything which came within the sphere of his influence an aura of prideful ownership.

His house was a huge structure built on the western edge of the valley. Off to the south was the black slope of Cinder Butte. From the front windows could be seen the waste of desert which rimmed the fertile stretch of the irrigated Red River Valley. East of the house were green irrigated acres. Far to the west were jagged mountains of piled-up boulders.

John L. Witherspoon proudly escorted Mason and Della Street around the building, showing them the tennis courts, the swimming pool, the fertile acres of irrigated land, the ’dobe-walled enclosure within which the Mexican servants and laborers lived.

Long purple shadows creeping outward from the base of the high mountains slipped silently across the sandy slopes, flowed gently down across the irrigated acres.

“Well,” Witherspoon demanded, “what do you think about it?”

“Marvelous,” Mason said.

Witherspoon turned and saw that the lawyer was looking out across the valley at the purple mountains. “No, no. I mean my place here, the house, my crops, my...”

“I think we’re wasting a hell of a lot of valuable time,” Mason said.

He turned abruptly and strode back to the house where Della Street found him at dinner time closeted in his room, poring once more over the transcript of that old murder case.

“Dinner in a little over thirty minutes, Chief,” she said. “Our host says he’s sending in some cocktails. Paul Drake has just telephoned from El Templo that he’s on his way out.”

Mason closed the volume of typewritten transcript.

“Where can we put this stuff, Della?”

“There’s a writing desk out here in your sitting room. It’s Mission type, good and strong. It’ll be a nice place for you to work.”

Mason shook his head. “I’m not going to stay here. We leave in the morning.”

“Just why did you come down here?” she asked curiously.

“I wanted to see a little more of those kids — together. And to size up Witherspoon in his own back yard. Met the other guests, Della?”

“One of them,” she said. “Mrs. Burr. We can’t meet Mr. Burr.”

“Why not?”

“He lost an argument with a horse shortly after you came in and buried yourself in that transcript.”

Mason showed quick interest. “Tell me about the horse, and the argument.”

“I didn’t see it. I heard about it. It seems he’s quite an enthusiast on fly-casting and on color photography. That’s the way Witherspoon met him — at a camera store in El Templo. They got talking, found out they had a lot of interests in common, and Witherspoon invited him out for a couple of weeks... I understand Witherspoon does things that way — likes to show off his big house here. He claims he either takes to a man at first sight, or never likes him at all.”

“A dangerous habit,” the lawyer commented. “When’s Burr’s two weeks up?”

“I think it was up a couple of days ago, but Witherspoon suggested he stay on a little longer. It seems Burr is going to open up a business here in the valley. He found he needed more additional capital and sent East for it. It’s supposed to be here tomorrow or next day — but he’ll stay put for a while now.”

“On account of the horse?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“It seems Burr wanted to take a color photograph of one of the mares. A Mexican vaquero was backing her out of the stable to take her over to the spot Burr had designated. She was nervous and high-strung. The Mexican jerked at her head. Burr was standing beside her. The doctor left about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Take him to the hospital?”

“No. He’s staying here in the house. The doctor brought out a trained nurse and left her in charge, temporarily. He’s going to send a regular nurse out from town.”

Mason grinned. “Witherspoon must feel he’s like the host in that play where the man broke a hip and...”

“Witherspoon was the one who absolutely insisted on his staying here.” she said. “Burr wanted to go to a hospital. Witherspoon simply wouldn’t listen to it.”

“You certainly do get around and keep your ears open,” Mason said. “How about Mrs. Burr?”

“Mrs. Burr is a knockout.”

“What sort?”

“Light reddish hair; large, slate-colored eyes; a perfectly wonderful complexion, and...”

“No, no,” Mason interrupted, grinning. “I meant what sort of a knockout.”

Della Street’s eyes twinkled. “I guess it’s what they call a technical knockout. She hits below the belt. She...”

The door opened. Paul Drake came breezing into the room.

“Well, well,” Drake said, shaking hands, “you sure do go places, Perry! What’s it all about?”

Before Mason could answer, the door opened again, and a soft-footed Mexican servant glided into the room, carrying a tray on which was a cocktail shaker, and three filled glasses.

“Dinner is in thirty minutes,” he said in faultless English as he passed the tray. “Mr. Witherspoon said please do not dress.”

“Tell him I won’t,” Mason said, grinning. “I never do.”

They clicked the rims of their glasses as the servant withdrew.

“Here’s to crime,” Mason said.

They sipped their cocktails, making something of a ceremony of it.

“You certainly pick swell places, Perry,” Drake commented.

“It depresses me,” Mason told him.

“Why? It looks like the guy who owned it had invented a way of beating the income tax.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but there’s something about it I don’t like — an atmosphere of being cooped up.”

Della Street said, “He doesn’t like it because there isn’t any excitement, Paul. When he works on a case, he wants to go out and drag in the facts. He can’t stand to stay put, waiting for the facts to come to him.”

“What’s the case?” Drake asked.

“It isn’t a case. It’s a post-mortem.”

“Who’s your client?”

“Witherspoon, the man who owns the place.”

“I know, but who are you trying to prove didn’t commit the murder?”

Mason said gravely, “A man who was hanged seventeen years ago.”

Drake made no effort to conceal his disgust. “I presume he was executed a year or so after the crime was committed. That would make the clues at least eighteen years old.”

Mason nodded.

“And you think he was innocent?”

“He may have been.”

Drake said, “Well, it’s okay with me, just so I get paid for it. Gosh, Perry, who’s the acetylene torch?”

“Torch?” Mason asked, his mind still on the murder case.

“The straw-headed lass in the seductive white outfit that fits her like the skin on a sausage. You can take one look at that and know she hasn’t anything underneath it except a pleasing personality.”

Della Street said, “She’s married, Paul. But don’t let that cramp your style. Her husband got mixed up with a horse this afternoon. I understand he’s now filled full of morphine and his leg’s wrapped in a plaster of Paris cast, and a weight is dangling from...”

“She’s married!”

“Yes. Why so startled? Good-looking women do get married, you know.”

“Then she must be related to the big-chested chap with the paunch and the air of ownership — what the devil’s his name?”

“No. That’s Witherspoon. She’s Mrs. Roland Burr. They became acquainted a couple of weeks ago in El Templo. Burr and Witherspoon are fly-fishing cronies and camera fiends. I’ve picked up all the gossip already, you see.”

Drake whistled.

“Why, Paul. What’s the matter?”

Drake said, “When I stepped out of my room into the corridor just now, I opened the door rather quietly, and this baby in white was leaning up against the big guy. She tilted her lips up. The last I saw, as I silently eased back into my room and waited for the coast to clear, was the paunchy party getting ready for a smear of lipstick. My entrance was delayed by a good thirty seconds.”

“After all, Paul,” Della Street pointed out, “a kiss doesn’t mean a lot, these days.”

Drake said, “I’ll bet this one meant something. It would have to me. If she...”

There was a knock on the door. Mason nodded to Della Street. She opened it.

Lois Witherspoon came marching into the room. Marvin Adams, looking somewhat embarrassed, hung a pace or two behind her.

“Come on in, Marvin,” Lois said, and, looking at Paul Drake, said, “I’m Lois Witherspoon. This is Marvin Adams. You’re the detective, aren’t you?”

Drake glanced obliquely at Mason, seemed almost taken aback for a moment, then said in his slow drawl, “Why? Did I drop a magnifying glass or did you notice some false whiskers clinging to my chin?”

Lois Witherspoon stood in the center of the floor. She had that reckless defiance, that utter disregard of consequences which is a part of youth. She spoke with hot-headed rapidity. “I bet you’ve heard the whole story, so don’t you try to stall! You can’t cover up. Your automobile is sitting out in front. The registration is ‘Drake Detective Agency.’”

Drake kept his voice on a note of light banter. “One should never take a car registration seriously. Now suppose I had...”

“It’s all right, Paul,” Mason interrupted. “Let her finish. What is it you want, Miss Witherspoon?”

She said, “I want things carried on fair and above board. I don’t want to have you pretending this is an old friend of the family or someone who brought you down some papers. Let’s be adult and civilized about this. My father thinks he should dig into the past. I know just exactly how the bugs in my biology class must have felt when they were dissected under a microscope. But if we’re going to be bugs, let’s be frank about it.”

Marvin Adams hastily interposed, “I want to know something about my parents. And I don’t want to marry Lois, if...”

“That’s just it,” Lois Witherspoon interrupted. “All this is making Marvin conscious of a possibility that... that I don’t like. If you uncover evidence that his father was a millionaire who was sent to jail for rigging the stock market, or that one of his distant ancestors was hung in chains from the Tower of London for being a pirate, he’ll go noble on me, and I’ll have to lasso him and hog-tie him in order to get my brand on him. In case you don’t know it, it’s an embarrassing experience for all of us. It’s making me feel like doing something rash... Now that we all understand each other, can we please dispense with all subterfuge?”

Mason nodded prompt agreement. “Except when it’s necessary to humor your father. After all, Miss Witherspoon, this is giving him an opportunity to discharge what he considers a family duty, and get something off his mind. It may relieve the pressure somewhat.”

She said, “Yes. It’s his toy. I suppose I should let him play with it.”

“How’s Mr. Burr getting along?” Mason asked, changing the subject.

“Apparently all right. They filled him full of dope. He’s sleeping. His wife... isn’t sleeping.”

Marvin said, “She’s out there pacing the corridor. I presume she feels rather helpless.”

Lois Witherspoon flashed him a swift glance. “Helpless! In that gown?”

“You know what I mean, Lois.”

“I do, and I know what she means. That woman is altogether too man-conscious to suit me.”

Marvin Adams said reproachfully, “Now, youngster!”

Lois turned abruptly, gave Mason her hand. “Thanks for understanding,” she said. “I thought we’d — break the ice all around.”

Paul Drake gave a low whistle as the door closed on the pair. “That,” he announced, “is personality. Sort of puts you on the spot, doesn’t it, Perry? Is she in on this old murder case — affected by it?”

Mason pushed his hands down into his pockets. “Naturally,” he said, “it looks like a lot of foolish and wasted effort to her. She thinks Marvin Adams was kidnaped when he was a child of three, and that her father’s concern is all caused by his desire to investigate the family of his future son-in-law.”

“Well,” Drake asked curiously, “where does the murder came come in?”

Mason said, “Marvin Adams doesn’t suspect it, but he’s the son of the man who was executed for that murder seventeen years ago, and if either one of those high-strung, nervous kids had any idea of what we’re investigating, it would turn loose some emotional dynamite that would blast the Witherspoon family wide open.”

Drake slid down on the davenport, surrendering to a characteristic muscular relaxation that left him limp as a piece of loose string. “Witherspoon knows all about it?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mason said. “He’s had a copy of the transcript of the old trial made. It’s there in the desk. You’re going to have to read it over tonight.”

Drake said, “I’m betting that kid finds it all out before we’ve been working on the case for two weeks.”

“No takers,” Mason told him. “And we won’t have two weeks. If we don’t turn up something definite within about forty-eight hours, Witherspoon is going to conduct an original experiment in murder psychology. Think that one out!”

Drake grinned. “I’m damned if I do — not until after dinner. Jiggle that cocktail shaker, Della. I think it’s full.”