The Case of the Drowning Duck

Chapter 5

Della Street stood by the entrance to the dining room watching Perry Mason with amused eyes as the lawyer was presented to Mrs. Roland Burr.

A woman would have placed Mrs. Burr in the thirties. A man would have made it somewhere in the twenties. Her hair was the color of reddish oat straw when the sun glints upon it at just the right angle to bring out the sheen. Her white gown, although far from conservative, was not daring in cut. It was the manner in which it clung to her body that assured her of the rapt attention of every man in the room.

As Drake was being presented to Mrs. Burr, Lois Witherspoon came in.

Compared with the lush beauty of Mrs. Burr’s figure, Lois was girlishly athletic. Her dress was of a different type. Nor did she walk with the swaying, seductive rhythm which made Mrs. Burr’s every action so noticeable. She moved swiftly with the natural verve of a dynamic young woman who is entirely free from self-consciousness. Her presence gave the room a wholesome freshness, and in some way flattened out the high-lights of Mrs. Burr’s more seductive personality.

Della Street tried very much to keep in the background, watching what was going on with eyes which took in every move. But she was able to keep in the background only during the first part of the meal. Abruptly, Lois flung a question at her, and when Della’s well-modulated voice answered that question, attention focused upon Mason’s secretary, and somehow seemed to stay there.

“How’s Roland coming along?” Witherspoon asked, abruptly.

That gave Mrs. Burr her opportunity to be the devoted wife. “I’d better take a peek and see,” she said. “Excuse me, please,” and she glided from the room, walking softly as if anxious not to interrupt their conversation — and as though she were oblivious of the smooth swaying of her supple figure.

She was still out when the doorbell rang. Witherspoon summoned one of the Mexican servants. “That will be a nurse from El Templo,” he said, “who’s to relieve the nurse the doctor left in charge. You may take her directly to Mr. Burr’s room.”

The Mexican said in a low, musical voice, “Si, señor,” and went to the door.

Mrs. Burr came gliding back. “Resting easily, the nurse says,” she reported.

The Mexican servant returned, moved over to Witherspoon’s chair, handed him a tray on which was an envelope. “For you, señor,” he said.

“Wasn’t that the nurse?” Witherspoon asked.

“No, señor. A man.”

Witherspoon said, “Pardon me. We don’t ordinarily have unexpected callers.”

He slit the envelope open, read the brief note, looked across at Mason, and frowned. For a moment, he seemed on the point of saying something directly to the lawyer; then he said, “Excuse me, please. It’s a man I’ll have to see. Go right ahead with your coffee and brandy.”

From outside the house, the barking of the dogs gradually quieted. There was a moment during which an awkward silence fell over the table; then Mrs. Burr asked Drake, “Are you interested in color photography, Mr. Drake?”

“He’s a detective,” Lois Witherspoon announced bluntly, “and he’s here on business. So you won’t have to beat around the bush.”

“A detective! My, how interesting! Tell me, do you put on disguises and shadow people, or...”

“I live a very prosaic life,” Drake said. “Most of the time I’m scared to death.”

Mrs. Burr’s eyes were naïvely innocent, but her face seemed carved of brittle chalk. She said, “Dear me, how interesting! First, one of the most noted attorneys in the country, and now a detective. I suppose, of course, there’s some connection.”

Drake glanced at Mason.

Mason looked directly at Mrs. Burr. “Purely financial, madam.”

They all laughed, without knowing exactly what they were laughing at, but knowing that the tension had been broken and that the line of inquiry had been blocked — temporarily.

Abruptly Witherspoon appeared at the door. “Mr. Mason, I’d like very much to talk to you for a few moments, if the others will consent to spare you.”

Witherspoon was a poor actor. His attempt at being casual and polite merely emphasized the apprehension of his voice and manner.

Mason pushed back his chair, made his excuses, and followed Witherspoon into a big drawing room.

A man of about fifty-five was standing with his back to them, studying a shelf of books, and quite apparently not even seeing the titles. It wasn’t until Witherspoon spoke that he apparently realized they had entered the room. He turned quickly.

“Mr. Dangerfield,” Witherspoon said, “this is Mr. Mason. Mr. Mason is an attorney who happens to be familiar with the matter about which you wished to talk. I’d like to have him hear what you were starting to tell me.”

Dangerfield shook hands with Mason with the automatic courtesy of one acknowledging an introduction. He seemed completely preoccupied with his own worries as he mumbled, “Glad to meet you, Mr. Mason.”

He was a chunky man of small stature, heavy set, but hard. There was no sag to his cheeks or his stomach. His back was straight as a board, and he kept his chin up, his head balanced alertly on a thick neck.

His eyes were dark, with a reddish brown tinge deep in the background. Worry lines were stamped on his forehead, and there was a gray look of fatigue about his skin, as though he hadn’t slept the night before.

“Go right ahead,” Witherspoon prompted. “Tell me what it was you wanted to see me about.”

“About those detectives you hired,” Dangerfield said.

Witherspoon glanced at Mason, saw only the lawyer’s profile, cleared his throat, asked, “What detectives?”

“The detectives to investigate that old murder of David Latwell. I was hoping it would be all over when they hung Horace Adams.”

“What’s your interest in it?” Mason asked.

Dangerfield hesitated for a perceptible instant. “I married David Latwell’s widow.”

Witherspoon started to say something, but Mason interposed, quite matter-of-factly, “Indeed! I presume the murder was quite a shock to her.”

“It was... Of course. Naturally.”

“But, of course,” Mason went on, “she’s entirely over it by now. How about a cigarette, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“Thank you.” Dangerfield extended a hand to Mason’s proffered cigarette case.

“We may as well all sit down,” Mason said. “Nice of you to come out here, Dangerfield. You live in the East?”

“Yes. At the present time, we’re living in St. Louis.”

“Oh, yes. Drive out?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find the roads?”

“Fine. We made a quick trip. Came through very fast. We’ve only been here a day or two.”

“Then you didn’t get in today?”

“No.”

“Staying here in El Templo?”

“Yes. At the big hotel there.”

“Then I take it your wife’s with you.”

“Yes.”

Mason held a match to Dangerfield’s cigarette. He asked casually, “How did you learn that Mr. Witherspoon had hired any detectives?”

Dangerfield said, “People began to show up asking guarded questions. Some of our friends were interviewed. Well, Mrs. Dangerfield heard about it.

“The original affair was, of course, as you have pointed out, a great shock to her. Not only was there the shock of her husband’s disappearance, but there was a period during which she thought he had run away with another woman; then the body was found, and then the trial took place. You know how it is with a trial of that sort. Everything is dug out and rehashed and aired, and the newspapers give it a lot of publicity.”

“And now?” Mason asked.

“By a little clever detective work on her own part, she discovered the detective who was working on the case was making reports to someone in El Templo. She didn’t get that person’s name.”

“Do you know how she found out about the El Templo angle?”

“Generally. It was through a girl at the switchboard of a hotel where one of the detectives was stopping.”

“How did you happen to come here — to this house?” Mason asked.

“I was a little more successful than my wife in getting information — because I started from a different angle.”

“How is that?”

“I sat down in my armchair one night, and tried to figure out the reason why anyone would be making an investigation.”

“And the reason?” Mason asked.

“Well, I wasn’t certain, but I thought that it might be connected with Horace Adams’ widow, or with his son. I knew that they had moved somewhere to California. I thought perhaps she had died, and someone wanted to straighten out property matters. There might have been an attempt to reopen the old probate of the manufacturing business.”

“So you looked Mr. Witherspoon up?” Mason asked.

“Not in that way. As soon as we arrived in town, my wife tried to trace the detective. I started looking up Mrs. Horace Adams. Sure enough, I found just what I expected to find — that she had been living here, had died, and that her son was going with a rich El Templo girl. Then, of course, I put two and two together.”

“But you didn’t know,” Mason said.

“As a matter of fact,” Dangerfield admitted, “that’s right. I ran a little bluff on Mr. Witherspoon here as soon as I came in. He convinced me I was on the right track.”

“I didn’t admit anything,” Witherspoon said hastily.

Dangerfield smiled. “Perhaps not in just so many words.”

“Why did you come here?” Mason asked.

“Don’t you see? All my wife knows is that someone who lives in El Templo is trying to reopen the case. It worries her, and it’s getting her emotionally excited. If she knows young Adams is here, she’ll denounce him as a murderer’s son. I don’t want that, and you shouldn’t. She thought hanging wasn’t good enough for Horace Adams.”

“You knew her then, at the time of the trial?”

Dangerfield hesitated for only a moment, then said, “Yes.”

“And I presume that you knew Horace Adams?”

“No. I’d never met him.”

“Did you know David Latwell?”

“Well... I’d met him, yes.”

“And what do you want us to do?” Mason asked.

“My wife will find out where the office of that detective agency is any day now. See what I’m getting at? I want you to see that she gets a runaround.”

Witherspoon started to say something, but Mason silenced him with a warning glance.

“Exactly what do you want us to do?” Mason asked. “Can you be a little more specific?”

Dangerfield said, “Don’t you get it? Sooner or later, she’ll locate this detective agency and start making inquiries about the name of the client.”

“The detective agency won’t tell her,” Witherspoon said positively.

“Then she’ll find out the name of the detective who was working on the case, and get the information out of him, one way or another. Once she’s started on this thing, she’ll see it through. It’s building up on her. She’s getting intensely nervous. What I want you to do is to tip the detective agency off. Then, in place of refusing to give her information, they’ll give her the information we both want her to have. We’re really all in the same boat.”

Witherspoon asked, “What information?”

“Tell her the client who employed them is an attorney. Give her his name. Let her go to him. He can give her a runaround with some likely stall, and she’ll go back home and forget it.”

“Think she will?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s your interest in it?”

“I don’t want my wife turned into a nervous wreck, for one thing. For another, I don’t want to have a lot of publicity spread about regarding the business. My wife took over the business while it was in probate. We’ve slaved night and day building that business up. I’ve been advised by attorneys that in case fraud is present, together with duress and oppression, the statute of limitations won’t begin to run until the discovery of the fraud.”

“And there was fraud?” Mason asked.

“How the hell do I know?” Dangerfield said. “Estelle made the deal in probate. I’m simply trying to forestall a bunch of lawsuits. I hope you won’t take offense, but you know how it is. Some of these lawyers would do anything on earth to chisel in on a prosperous business such as we have.”

“Is it prosperous?” Mason asked.

“Very.”

Mason looked at Witherspoon.

“You’re the doctor,” Witherspoon told him.

Mason got to his feet. “I think we understand each other perfectly,” he said.

Dangerfield smiled. “I guess you understand me, but I’m not certain I understand you. I’ve given you information. What do I get in return?”

“Our assurance that we’ll give it thoughtful consideration,” Mason said.

Dangerfield got up and started for the door. “I guess that’s about all I can expect,” he announced, grinning.

Witherspoon said hurriedly, “Don’t try to go out until I’ve had the night watchman secure the dogs.”

“What dogs?” Dangerfield asked.

“I have a couple of highly trained police dogs that patrol the grounds. That’s why there was a delay about letting you in. The dogs have to be locked up before visitors go in or out.”

“Guess it’s a good idea.” Dangerfield said, “with things the way they are now. How do you take care of the dogs?”

Witherspoon pressed a button by the side of the door. He explained, “That is a signal to the watchman. When he gets this signal and sounds a buzzer, I’ll know the dogs are tied up.”

They waited for not more than ten seconds; then the buzzer sounded. Witherspoon opened the door, said, “Good night, Mr. Dangerfield, and thank you very much.”

Dangerfield paused halfway to the gate, looked at Mason, and said, “I don’t suppose I’m any closer to what I want to know than I was when I started, but I bet five bucks she doesn’t get anything out of you.”

With that he turned, walked through the heavy iron gate, and climbed in his car. The gate clanged shut. A spring lock snapped into position.

Witherspoon hurried back to press the button signalling the watchman that the dogs could be turned loose once more.

“What’s the name of the detective agency?” Mason asked.

“The Allgood Detective Agency in Los Angeles, Raymond E. Allgood.”

They started back toward the dining room. Mason turned abruptly to the left toward the wing of the building where his room was located.

“Aren’t you going to finish your dinner?” Witherspoon asked in surprise.

“No,” Mason said. “Tell Della Street and Paul Drake I want to see them. We’re driving back to Los Angeles. But you don’t need to tell Mrs. Burr.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Witherspoon said.

Mason said, “I haven’t time to explain now.”

Witherspoon’s face flushed. “I consider that answer unnecessarily short, Mr. Mason.”

Mason’s voice showed his weariness. “I didn’t sleep any last night,” he said. “I probably won’t sleep much tonight. I haven’t time to explain the obvious.”

Witherspoon said with cold dignity. “May I remind you, Mr. Mason, that you are working for me?”

“May I remind you that I’m not?”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“For whom are you working, then?”

Mason said, “I’m working for a blind woman. They carve her image on courthouses. She has a pair of scales in one hand and a sword in the other. They call her ‘Justice,’ and she’s the one I’m working for, right at the moment.” And Mason swung on down the left corridor, leaving Witherspoon to stand staring at him, puzzled, and more than a little angry.

He was throwing things into his suitcase when Della Street and Paul Drake joined him.

“I should have known this was too good to last,” Drake complained.

“You’ll probably be back,” Mason told him. “Get your things together.”

Della Street opened the drawer in the big writing desk, said abruptly, “Look here, Chief.”

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“Someone’s opened the drawer and moved the transcript.”

“Taken it?” Mason asked.

“No, just moved it — must have been reading it.”

“Anybody leave the dining room while I was out there with Witherspoon?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” Drake said. “Young Adams.”

Mason pushed the lid of his suitcase into place by simply compressing the contents until the lock would snap shut. He said, “Don’t worry about it, Della. It’s in Paul’s department. He’s the detective.”

Drake said, “I’d only need one guess.”

“It would take me two,” Mason announced, jerking his light overcoat out of the closet.