The Case of the Drowning Duck

Chapter 8

Mason jingled the bell on the huge iron gate. The deep-throated barking of big dogs drowned out the sound of the bell. A moment later, the dogs were at the gate, fangs bared, eyes gleaming yellow reflections of car headlights.

A light clicked on the porch. A Mexican came hurrying across the flagged walk, said, “Who is it, please?” and then recognized Mason and Della Street.

“Oh, yes. Uno momento. Wait, please.”

He turned and darted back into the house.

The dogs withdrew some four or five feet, watchful yellow eyes staring at the pair.

Witherspoon himself came hurrying out of the house. “Well, well, I’m glad to see you. I certainly am! Get back, King. Get back, Prince. Tie them up, Manuel.”

“We haven’t time for that,” Mason said. “Just open the gate. They know we’re all right.”

Witherspoon looked at the dogs dubiously.

“They won’t hurt us,” Mason insisted. “Open up.”

Witherspoon nodded to the Mexican, who fitted a big key to the huge iron lock in the gate, shot back the bolt, and pulled the gate open.

The dogs came rushing forward.

Mason pushed through the gate, calmly ignoring the dogs, and shook hands with Witherspoon.

The dogs meanwhile moved back to sniff stiffly at Della Street. She extended the tips of her fingers with careless unconcern.

Witherspoon was nervously apprehensive. “Come on,” he said. “Come on in. Let’s not stay out here. These dogs are savage.”

They started toward the house, the dogs falling in behind.

Witherspoon held the door open. “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he said.

“What?”

“The dogs. They should have chewed you up. They don’t make friends that quickly.”

“They have sense,” Mason said. “Let’s go where we can talk — privately.”

Witherspoon led the way into the house.

“Our suitcases are in the car,” Mason said.

“Manuel will bring them in. You’ll have the same rooms you had yesterday.”

Witherspoon led the way into the northeast wing, opened the door of Mason’s sitting room, and stood to one side.

Mason followed Della Street in. Witherspoon came in after them, and Mason kicked the door shut.

Witherspoon said, “I’m certainly glad you showed up. There’s an important...”

Mason said, “Forget it. Sit down in that chair and give me the low-down on this detective. Talk fast.”

“What detective?”

“Leslie Milter, the one who’s been blackmailing you.”

“Milter blackmailing me!” Witherspoon exclaimed incredulously. “Mason, you’re crazy!”

“You know him, don’t you?”

“Why, yes. He’s the detective who made the investigation of the murder. He works for Allgood.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Yes. He made a report to me in person once; but that was after he had completed his investigations in the East.”

“You were in touch with him by long distance during the time he was making that investigation?”

“Yes. He telephoned me every night.”

Mason stared down at Witherspoon and said, “Either you’re lying to me, or everything is cockeyed.”

“I’m not lying,” Witherspoon said with cold dignity, “and I’m not accustomed to be accused of lying.”

Mason said, “Milter is in El Templo.”

“Is that so? I haven’t seen him since that one time when he made his report.”

“And haven’t heard from him?” Mason asked.

“Not within the last ten days. Not since he completed his investigations.”

Mason took from his pocket the special-delivery envelope which he had received that afternoon. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.

Witherspoon regarded the envelope with an air of detached curiosity. “No.”

Mason said, “Open it and read what’s inside.”

Witherspoon pressed the edges of the envelope together and looked inside. “Seems to be nothing in it except a newspaper clipping,” he said.

“Read it,” Mason ordered.

Witherspoon scissored two fingers of his right hand so as to draw out the clipping. He held it so the light struck it, but before starting to read, said, “I think we can dispense with a lot of this, Mr. Mason. Something developed this evening that...”

“Read it,” Mason interrupted.

Witherspoon flushed. For a moment he seemed on the point of throwing both envelope and clipping to the floor; then under the steady pressure of Mason’s eyes, he started reading.

Mason watched his face.

Apparently it took the first few lines to get Witherspoon’s interest sufficiently aroused so that he was conscious of what he was reading. A few words more and the full import of the words struck him. His face twisted into a black scowl. His eyes, moving rapidly back and forth, finished the printed words. He looked up at Mason with a face gone grim and hard. “The swine! The dirty swine! To think that any man could stoop so low as to publish a thing like that. How did you get it?”

“In that envelope,” Mason said. “Sent special delivery. Do you know anything about it?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Have you any idea who sent it?”

“Certainly not.”

“Know where it was published?”

“No. Where?”

“In a Hollywood scandal sheet.”

Witherspoon said, “I’ve tried to be fair. That’s where I’ve made my biggest mistake. I should have stopped this thing instantly. As soon as I found out about that murder.”

“Do you mean,” Mason asked, “that you wish now you had gone to your daughter with all this? Do you mean you would have wrecked her happiness and stirred up all this old scandal, without first making any investigation to find out whether Horace Adams’ conviction was justified?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Witherspoon said. “I should have realized that the verdict of that jury was conclusive.”

“You have more confidence in juries than I have,” Mason retorted. “And I have a lot more confidence in juries than I have in judges. Human beings are always fallible. However, let’s forget that for the moment and talk about blackmail.”

Witherspoon said solemnly, “No man on earth could blackmail me.”

“Not even if he had something on you?”

Witherspoon shook his head. “I wouldn’t ever place myself in such a position. Can’t you see? That’s one reason why this whole proposed marriage is absolutely impossible.”

Mason seemed trying to control a growing impatience. “Let’s get this straight,” he said. “You employed the Allgood Detective Agency to check up on this murder case. Leslie L. Milter was their representative. Apparently he’s in El Templo right at this moment, living at eleven sixty-two Cinder Butte Avenue. He’s logically the one who gave the information to the columnist who spewed out this scandal column. The Allgood Agency kicked him out for talking. That means he must have talked to someone. The columnist sounds like the most logical bet.”

“I’m distressed and annoyed to find that he wasn’t trustworthy,” Witherspoon said with dignity. “He seemed very efficient.”

“Distressed!” Mason all but shouted. “Annoyed! Dammit, the man’s a blackmailer! He’s down here for the purposes of blackmail! Who’s he blackmailing? Who would he be blackmailing, if not you?”

“I don’t know.”

Mason said, “Witherspoon, if you’re holding out on me, I’ll walk out on this case so fast...”

“But I’m not holding out on you. I’m telling you the absolute truth.”

Mason said to Della Street, “Rush through a call to Paul Drake. Tell him we’ve arrived. He may have something new. This thing’s all cockeyed.”

Mason started pacing the floor.

Witherspoon said, “I’ve been trying, ever since you arrived, to tell you about a most significant development. We’ve caught young Marvin Adams red-handed.”

“Doing what?” Mason asked, continuing to pace the floor and flinging the question over his shoulder as though it had to do with a matter of minor importance.

“Being cruel to animals — at least, that’s a fair inference... and it explains something in that newspaper clipping.”

“What did he do?” Mason asked.

“He’s going to Los Angeles tonight.”

“I know that. I understand he’s returning to college.”

“He took Lois out to dinner tonight. He didn’t want to eat at the house.”

“So what?”

Witherspoon said irritably, “Let me tell it.”

“Go ahead and tell it then.”

Witherspoon went on, a mantle of injured dignity wrapped around him. “Marvin was out in the compound this afternoon where we keep the livestock, rabbits, chickens, and ducks. There was a mother duck and a brood of ducklings. As I get the story from the Mexican attendant, Marvin said he wanted one of the young ducks for an experiment. He said he wanted to drown him.”

Mason stopped pacing the floor. “Was Lois with him?”

“That’s my understanding.”

“What did Lois say?”

“That’s the absolutely incredible thing about the whole business. In place of being revolted, Lois helped him catch one of the ducklings and told him to take it along with him.”

“You’ve talked to Lois about it?”

“No, I haven’t. I made up my mind that she’d have to know. It’s time to tell her the whole thing.”

“Why don’t you tell her then?”

Witherspoon said, “I’ve been putting it off.”

“Why?”

“I think you can understand why.”

Mason said, “Probably because your judgment is better than your emotions. You go to your daughter with the story the way you have it now, and she’ll either sympathize with Marvin or become violently partisan, and turn against you. The girl’s in love. You can’t run Marvin down to her unless you have some absolute proof.”

“His father was convicted of murder.”

“I don’t think she’ll care a hoot about that,” Mason said. “She’ll simply take the position that his father was innocent. But what will happen to Marvin when he finds out?”

“I don’t care what happens to him,” Witherspoon said.

“You might feel differently about it if he committed suicide.”

Witherspoon’s face changed expression as he turned that idea over in his mind. Abruptly he said, “I think the only thing to do is make my daughter see him in his true light.”

“When did you see him last?” Mason asked.

“He drove away from here not over half an hour before you came.”

“Where was the duckling?”

“Apparently in the car with him.”

“Does young Adams own this car?” Mason asked, looking at his watch.

“No. It’s one that belongs to a friend of his — a boy who’s attending junior college here. They shouldn’t permit junk like that on the roads. It’s completely disreputable.”

“Does Lois ride with him?”

“Yes. That’s another thing I can’t understand. She seems to think it’s fun. The windshield is cracked. The springs in the seat cushions are broken... Damn it, he’s got her hypnotized!”

“Not hypnotized,” Mason said. “She’s in love. That’s worse — or better.”

Della Street said, “Here’s Paul Drake on the phone.”

Mason scooped the receiver to his ear. “Hello... Hello, Paul. This is Perry. We’re here at Witherspoon’s. What’s new?”

Drake said, “Things are coming along. You’ll probably hear from my operative in El Templo in a few minutes. He called me from one of the stage stops about an hour ago, and said that the blonde had put through a call to Milter. He’s expecting her. We’re still working on that case in the East. I think we’ve found out who Miss X is. That is, we have her name and identity, but haven’t located her as yet. She was a cashier in a sweet shop when the murder was committed. Sure you don’t want me to shut off calls after midnight?”

Mason said, “Call me just as soon as you get information. I don’t care what time it is.”

“Okay, stick around and you’ll be hearing from that El Templo operative.”

“You’re sure about Milter, Paul — that he’s here in El Templo?”

“Positive. We’ve checked on him.”

“Let’s get that address straight. He’s living at eleven sixty-two Cinder Butte Avenue?”

“That’s right. It’s a big frame house that’s been turned into four apartments. Milter has the one in the upper right-hand corner.”

“Okay. Call me if anything turns up.”

Mason hung up, turned to Witherspoon, and said, “Milter’s living here in El Templo, has been for days — and is here now.”

“He hasn’t even tried to get in touch with me. He most certainly hasn’t tried to blackmail me.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “How about Lois? That kid have any money in her own name?”

“Not until she’s... wait a minute. Yes, she has, too. She’s twenty-one now. Her birthday was a week ago. Yes, she has the money that was left in her mother’s estate.”

“How much?”

“Rather a considerable sum.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“All right,” Mason said grimly, “that’s your answer.”

“You mean that he’s blackmailing Lois?”

“Yes.”

“But Lois doesn’t know anything about that murder case.”

“The kid’s a damn good little actress,” Mason said. “Don’t you ever kid yourself that a man of Leslie Milter’s caliber is going to pass up a chance of that sort. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t tackle you, except as a last resort, anyway. You’re a tough bird, and you don’t give a damn whether the scandal in connection with that murder case comes out — not until after Marvin Adams becomes your son-in-law; then, and only then, would you pay money to hush it up. Wait a minute. Marvin and your daughter weren’t planning on doing anything sudden, were they?”

“What do you mean?”

“Running away and getting married?”

“She wants to announce her engagement and be married next month. I believe I told you he’s going into the Army when he graduates in June, and...”

“I know,” Mason said, “but next month is three weeks away. If Milter were planning blackmail for next month, he wouldn’t be waiting around here now, where you might run into him on the street. No, that bird has sunk his fangs into someone right now, and is bleeding him white — or getting ready to.”

Witherspoon said angrily, “If Lois is taking the money her mother left her, and paying it to some blackmailer in order to keep the facts about this young cad from...”

“Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “You’ve put your finger on something. To keep the facts from being what?”

“Made public,” Witherspoon said.

Mason shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’d pay money to keep you from finding out the facts, but... wait a minute. That must be the angle. Milter must have given her the low-down, without letting her know that you know anything about it. He’s threatening to go to you with the facts, unless she kicks through with some dough to buy his silence.”

“Do you mean she’s paid him money to...”

“Not yet,” Mason said. “He’s still here. Once he gets the dough, he’ll get out. He may be closing the deal but he hasn’t got it completely closed — not yet. I presume there was some legal red tape to unwind before Lois got that inheritance. Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She went out.”

“I want to talk to her just as soon as she comes in.”

Witherspoon said, “If that man tries to blackmail Lois, I’ll...”

Mason interrupted him. “Take a lawyer’s advice, Witherspoon, and quit that habit of mentioning the things you’ll do... It looks as though Milter were the key to the whole business. I’m going to have an interview with Mr. Milter. When I get done with him, he’ll be sneaking out of town with his tail between his legs.”

“I’ll go along with you,” Witherspoon said. “When I think of Lois getting into the clutches of a blackmailer... I’m going to see him.”

“Not with me, you aren’t. There won’t be any witnesses to this interview. You don’t wear kid gloves when you’re dealing with a blackmailer. Della, stay here and hold the fort. If Paul Drake telephones any information, make a note of it.”

“How about that girl from the detective agency?” Della Street asked. “She was on her way down here on the bus, and...”

Mason looked at his watch. “She should have arrived — unless the bus was late. That’s fine! I’ll have a chance to talk to both of them together.”

Witherspoon darted out of the door. “The dogs,” he said. “Wait here a few seconds, until I can get those damn dogs tied up.”

Mason looked at his watch. “That bus should be here by now — won’t that blonde be glad to see me come walking in!”