The Case of the Drowning Duck

Chapter 7

It was about four in the afternoon when Della Street entered Mason’s private office bearing a special-delivery letter.

Mason raised tired eyes from the transcript of The People versus Horace Legg Adams. “What is it, Della?”

“Special delivery. Looks suspicious. The address is printed, probably by someone using his left hand.”

Mason studied the envelope thoughtfully, held it to the light, grinned, said, “It’s just a newspaper clipping.” He picked up a thin-bladed stiletto which he used as a paper cutter, slit open the envelope, and shook out the newspaper clipping.

Della Street said, “I’m sorry I bothered you. I thought it was something important, and that you’d like to see the envelope before it was opened.”

“Wait a minute,” Mason said. “You had a hunch.”

She came to stand by the side of his chair. He held the clipping so they could both read at the same time. It was printed on a better grade of paper than the ordinary newsprint, quite evidently was not from a newspaper, and had been clipped from a chatty scandal column. It read:

Mason studied the clipping thoughtfully, said to Della, “Run down the hallway to the Drake Detective Agency, and see if Paul Drake would know anything about what paper this came from.”

Della Street took the clipping, stood for a moment, turning it over in her fingers, said, “This is plain blackmail, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said.

She said suddenly, “Wait a minute. I know what paper this is.”

“What?”

“It’s a little Hollywood scandal sheet. I’ve seen some copies. There was some veiled stuff in there about some of the movie stars.”

“What is it, a newspaper?”

“No, not exactly. It’s handled as a quiz test. Whom does the shoe fit and can you put it on the right foot? Look over here on the reverse side of this clipping. You can see the way it’s handled.”

Della Street indicated a paragraph which read,

Mason jerked his head toward the telephone. “Give Paul’s office a ring. If he’s in, ask him if he can come down here for a second or two. I want to talk with him about this, and about Miss X.”

Della put through the call, said, “He’ll be here in just a moment,” hung up the receiver, and asked, “You think Miss X is the missing link?”

Mason pushed his hands down deep in his trousers pockets. “Of course, Della, I’m always suspicious of district attorneys.”

“And they’re always suspicious of you, eh?” she said.

Mason acknowledged the point by grinning. “Now, in this case,” he said, “the district attorney, according to the newspapers, reached an agreement with the defendant’s lawyer by which it was stipulated that the young woman whose name had been used by the defendant as the person with whom the murdered man was supposed to have run away could be referred to throughout the case as Miss X. That’s the biggest single blunder the lawyer who handled that case made.”

“Why?”

Mason said, “Because it was the same as a public admission on the part of the lawyer that he didn’t believe in his own client. Remember, Adams told the police Latwell had said he was going to run away with this Miss X. Then when they found Latwell’s body buried under the cellar floor in the factory, the police adopted the position that this must have been a lie. The stipulation entered into by Adams’ attorney indicates that he thought so, too. At least, it looked that way to the jury.”

Delia Street nodded slowly.

Mason said, “Now that’s one thing about the case I can’t understand. The logical move would have been for the district attorney to have introduced those initial statements in evidence, then called the woman mentioned in those statements and had her deny that she’d ever had any such conversation with Latwell.”

“Well,” Della Street asked, “why didn’t he?”

“For one thing, this stipulation made it unnecessary,” Mason said. “When Adams’ attorney stipulated that the woman could be kept out of the case and referred to only as Miss X, it made the jury think that both the district attorney and Adams’ lawyer knew he’d been lying. Now suppose he hadn’t been lying? Suppose Latwell actually had intended to run away with this girl? See what an interesting vista of possibilities that opens up?”

“But wouldn’t she have had to admit to the district attorney that...”

“There’s nothing to indicate she ever talked with the district attorney or that he ever talked with her,” Mason said. “She...”

Knuckles tapped a code signal on the door of Mason’s private office.

“That’s Drake,” Mason said. “Let him in.”

Paul Drake was carrying half a dozen telegrams as he entered the office. “Well, we’re gradually getting somewhere, Perry.”

Mason said, “Give me yours first, and then I’ll give you mine.”

“Milter isn’t at the Wiltmere Apartments. I’ll give you one guess as to where he is.”

Mason raised his eyebrows. “El Templo?”

“Right.”

“How long’s he been there?”

“Four or five days.”

“Where?”

“In an apartment house at eleven sixty-two Cinder Butte Avenue. It’s a frame two-story that was turned into an apartment house — on the order of a furnished flat. There are four in the building. You know the type. Two upstairs, two down, four private entrances.”

“Interesting,” Mason said.

“Isn’t it? Now I’ll tell you something else. A young woman by the name of Alberta Cromwell claims to be his wife. She followed him down to El Templo, found the apartment next to his vacant, and rented it.”

“He know she’s there?” Mason asked.

“I don’t see why not. Her name’s on the mailbox, Alberta Cromwell.”

“Why didn’t she go down with him?”

“Darned if I know.”

Mason handed the envelope and clipping across to Drake. “This came by special-delivery mail a few minutes ago.”

Drake started to read the clipping, then lowered it to say, “I haven’t given it all to you yet. The blonde in Allgood’s office sneaked down to a drugstore to put in a call from a telephone booth. My operative got in the booth next to her and could hear the conversation. Guess what?”

“I’ll bite. What?”

“She was ringing up the Pacific Greyhound stages to make a reservation on a five-thirty stage for El Templo.”

Mason’s eyes sparkled. “I want her tailed, Paul.”

“Don’t worry. My operative got a reservation on the same bus. What is this?”

“Looks like a blackmail clipping. Read it.”

Drake read it, then puckered his lips in a whistle. “That’s Milter, all right.”

“I don’t get it,” Mason said.

“What do you mean, you don’t get it?”

“I just don’t understand it, that’s all.”

Drake said, “Gosh, Perry, it’s simple as A.B.C. The Allgood Agency is just so-so. It hires any old tramp that knows the ropes, and will do the work. Milter had his palm out. When Witherspoon asked for daily reports by telephone, he tipped his hand. Milter decided to move in on the blackmail racket.”

“Blackmailing him for what?” Mason asked.

“To keep the dope about that case from becoming public.”

Mason shook his head. “Witherspoon wouldn’t pay out money to keep that hushed up.”

“He would if his daughter was going to marry the guy.”

Mason thought that over for a few minutes, then shook his head. “He wouldn’t pay to hush it up — not before the marriage.”

“Then that’s what Milter’s waiting for,” Drake said. “For the marriage to take place. He’s down there marking time.”

Mason said, “That’s logical, but if that’s the case, why would he have given out that information to this scandal sheet?”

Paul said, “Milter must have got paid for the tip-off.”

“How much?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know,” Drake said. “This is an outfit that’s started up in Hollywood within the last four or five months. It dishes out authentic bits of scandal. The guy who’s running the thing has a good nose for news, but he isn’t trying to blackmail the individual. He’s trying to blackmail the industry. That’s why it’s impossible to get anything on him.”

“You mean he wants to make them buy him out?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. He goes ahead and publishes things about the big shots in Hollywood without ever giving them a tip-off or trying to make a shakedown. In that way, they can’t get anything on him. He’s let it be known that his paper and its good will are for sale. The price, of course, is about a thousand times what it’s worth, except to put a muzzle on it.”

Mason glanced at his wrist watch, said, “Ring Witherspoon in El Templo, Della, and tell him he’s going to have guests tonight.”

“Me too?” Drake asked.

Mason shook his head. ‘You stay here and keep on the job, trying to find out something about Miss X. Hang it, I can’t get the slant on Milter.”

“You don’t think he’s simply sitting down there waiting for the wedding to take place, and then moving in on Witherspoon?”

Mason tapped the clipping. “This must have come from a leak from Allgood’s office. That leak seems to have been traced definitely to Milter. Milter is in El Templo. If he’s there to blackmail Witherspoon after the wedding, why should he jeopardize his entire position by selling something like this for pin money to a Hollywood blackmail sheet? That’s calculated to stop the wedding.”

Drake thought that over for a moment, then said, “When you put it that way, there’s only one logical solution.”

“What’s that?”

“Milter is down there marking time, waiting for the wedding to take place so he can put the screws on Witherspoon. That accounts for Milter. This scandal-sheet business is something else. It’s an entirely separate angle.”

Mason said, “It’s someone who’s darn close to the home plate, Paul. He knows about Witherspoon having retained me. He knows about the drowning duck. That’s something Witherspoon doesn’t even know about.”

“I don’t even know about it myself,” Drake said. “What is it, a gag?”

“No. A scientific experiment. Marvin Adams performed it a few nights ago in front of Witherspoon’s guests. Witherspoon wasn’t there.”

“How did he make the duck drown?” Paul asked. “Hold him under water?”

“No. He didn’t touch him.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. It’s on the level.”

Drake said abruptly, “You’re going to El Templo tonight. Are you going to bust in on Milter?”

Mason gave the question thoughtful consideration. “I think I am.”

“He may be a tough customer,” Drake warned.

Mason said, “I might be tough myself. If you get anything on that Miss X business, give me a ring. I’ll be down at Witherspoon’s.”

“How late do you want me to call you?”

“Whenever you get the information,” Mason said, “call me. Now matter how late it is. And tell your shadow who’s following that blond from Allgood’s office to call me direct at Witherspoon’s house and let me know where she goes when she gets there. That’ll save time. Otherwise, he’d have to call the office and report to you, and then you’d have to call me.”

“It’ll only mean a matter of minutes,” Drake said.

“Minutes may be precious. Let your operative report directly to me.”

Drake grinned. “That’s the mistake Witherspoon made.”

Mason picked up some papers, pushed them into a brief case, and strapped the brief case closed.

“It may turn out to have been Milter’s mistake,” he said. “See if you can get a line on this Hollywood scandal sheet, Paul. It’s important to find out if this information came through Milter.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do and let you know. I think I know someone who can give me the real low-down on that.”

Mason said, “I can promise you one thing. If Milter sold that information to the scandal sheet, the whole thing is cockeyed. It just doesn’t add up to give the correct answer.”

Drake stood frowning down at the special-delivery envelope. “By gosh,” he admitted, “it doesn’t!”