The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

Chapter 19

Sheriff Greggory pushed his way toward the counter, his face hard lines of determination.

Pete skidded around the counter to stand beside his wife. His frightened little eyes regarded the sheriff apprehensively.

Nell Sims said, “Pete, what have you been up to now?”

Behind the officer, venturing somewhat tentatively through the doorway, appeared Mrs. Bradisson and her son.

Pete Sims caught sight of Mason and, his voice chattering with fright, said, “There’s my lawyer. I demand an opportunity to talk with my lawyer. You can’t do anything to me until I’ve seen a lawyer.”

“Pete,” Nell Sims said sternly, “you tell me what you’ve been up to. Come on now, make a clean breast of it.”

Greggory said, “Ask him to tell you what he was doing with twelve ounces of arsenic.”

“Arsenic!” Nell exclaimed.

“That’s right. What were you doing with it, Pete?”

“I didn’t have it, I tell you.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ve found where you bought it. The druggist identifies your photograph.”

“It’s all a mistake, I tell you.”

“It’s a mistake as far as you’re concerned all right.”

“I’m going to talk with a lawyer.”

“Pete Sims, did you put poison in that sugar? Why, if I thought you’d done that, I’d — I’d — I’d kill you with my bare hands.”

“I didn’t, Nell. Honest I didn’t. I got this poison for something else.”

“What did you want with it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Where is that poison?” Nell demanded.

“You’ve got it.”

“I have?”

“Yes.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Don’t you remember that paper bag I gave to you and told you to save?”

“You mean that stuff that — Good Heavens! I thought it was some stuff for mining. That’s what you said it was. You didn’t tell me it was poison.”

“I told you to keep it where no one could possibly touch it,” Sims said.

“Why you... you...”

“Come on,” Sheriff Greggory said; “what did you buy it for?”

“I— I don’t know.”

Mason turned to Nell Sims. “Where did you put it?” he asked.

Her face told its own story of agonized dismay.

“Near the sugar?” Mason asked.

She nodded, too overcome for words.

“And,” Mason went on gently, “could you, by mistake, have reached into this bag instead of the sugar bag, and—”

“I couldn’t,” she said, “but Dorina could have. You see, with the rationing of sugar, the way things are nowadays — well, I told Dorina to use her stamps and get a bag of sugar. She handed it to me. After she’d gone, I opened the bag and dumped it into the big sack with the other sugar; but this bag Pete had given me was in there on the shelf, and she might have seen it and thought it was the bag of sugar she’d bought. And then, if she thought the sugar bowl needed filling... Pete, why didn’t you tell me that was poison?”

“I told you not to touch it,” Pete said.

“Don’t you see what you’ve done? If Dorina got into that bag by mistake and filled up the sugar bowl, you’ve been the one that poisoned Banning Clarke.”

“I didn’t poison him. I tell you I didn’t have anything to do with it. I just handed you this bag.”

“Why did you buy that arsenic in the first place?” Sheriff Greggory asked.

“I wanted to do some experiments in mining, and I had to have some arsenic to do them with.”

“Then why didn’t you use it?”

“Well, I just never got around to doing those experiments.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Mrs. Bradisson said, “But while that might account for the fact that arsenic was mixed in the sugar, Sheriff, it would hardly account for the fact that arsenic had been mixed in with the salt the night my son and I were poisoned.”

“That’s right,” the sheriff agreed. “I hadn’t thought of that. That shows it was deliberate, not an accident.”

“Just a moment,” Mason interposed smoothly. “I hadn’t intended to spring this at this time, but under the circumstances and since you seem to be narrowing the circle down, Sheriff, I’m going to tell you that Mrs. Bradisson wasn’t suffering from arsenic poisoning.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Bradisson said. “I guess I know what the symptoms were, and Dr. Kenward said that’s what it was, also the nurse.”

“Nevertheless,” Mason said, “you didn’t have arsenic poisoning. You had certain symptoms and you perhaps simulated others, but your nausea was induced by ipecac — probably deliberately induced.”

“Why, I never heard of any such thing. What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Mason said, “that Dr. Kenward told me he placed a portion of the stomach contents in a sealed glass bottle and delivered it to a laboratory for an examination and analysis. The report came back a few hours ago. There was no sign of arsenic, but there were traces of ipecac. The same situation is true of both yourself and your son.”

“Why, I never heard of such a thing,” she stormed.

“Now then,” Mason went on smoothly, “arsenic might have been administered accidentally, or with homicidal intent; but the strong probabilities are that the ipecac was taken deliberately. Now suppose you and your son tell us why you took ipecac, and then simulated the symptoms of arsenic poisoning. Why did you do it?”

“I never did any such thing,” Mrs. Bradisson said.

James Bradisson moved forward. “I think it’s about time for me to take a hand in this, Mason.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said. “Walk right in.”

Bradisson said in a low voice to Greggory, “I think you should find out why Mason is so deliberately pulling a red herring across the trail.”

“It’s no red herring,” Mason said. “I’m simply showing that the theory that the arsenic got into the sugar accidentally is quite tenable. The only thing that stands in the way of such a theory is that arsenic is supposed to have been in the saltcellar the night before.”

Mrs. Bradisson tilted her chin. She said with dignity, “I can tell you why Perry Mason has suddenly brought up all of this stuff about the ipecac.”

Sheriff Greggory looked at her expectantly.

“Because,” Mrs. Bradisson went on, “Perry Mason stole something from Banning Clarke’s study.”

“What’s that?” Greggory demanded. “Say that again.”

Mrs. Bradisson spoke, the words coming out in a rush. “I said that Perry Mason stole a document out of Banning Clarke’s desk, and I know what I’m talking about.”

“How do you know?” Greggory asked.

“I’ll tell you how. When I heard Banning Clarke was killed, I knew that there was something very dark and sinister behind it, and that someone would be almost certain to try to go through his things, and — if he had left a will — to tamper with it. So I went into his room, went through his roll-top desk, found a document that I considered very important evidence. I fastened it to the bottom of the drawer on the lower left-hand side of the desk with thumbtacks and then put the drawer back.”

“Why did you do that?” Greggory asked ominously.

“So that anyone that came in and tried to tamper with his things wouldn’t be able to find that document and destroy it.”

“Why would anyone want to destroy it?”

“Because it purported to be a will in Banning Clarke’s handwriting. It wasn’t in his writing at all. It was a forgery. It left property to Perry Mason. And if you’ll use your head a little you’ll see some very sinister things have been happening. Perry Mason meets Banning Clarke only a few days ago. In that short time, Mason gets all of Banning Clarke’s stock, then Clarke leaves a will leaving property to Mason, and then Clarke dies. Rather a nice series of happenings — for Perry Mason — who is also named in the will as executor.”

Greggory turned toward Perry Mason, started to say something, changed his mind and whirled back to Mrs. Bradisson.

“And why do you think Perry Mason took the will?”

“Put two and two together. When I went down to Banning Clarke’s room I didn’t close the door. I simply went into the desk and found this forged will and hid it. Remember that Banning was my son-in-law. I felt toward him just as though he had been my own child.”

“And,” Mason asked, “you substituted a will in place of the one you took out of the desk?”

She smiled at him with exaggerated sweetness. “Yes, Mr. Mason, I did. And thank you very much for calling my attention to that fact, because it shows that you were watching me.”

“I was,” Mason admitted.

She turned triumphantly to the officer. “You see,” she said, “he was watching me. As soon as I left, he entered the room, found where I had left that forged will, and probably destroyed it. He knew by that time that I suspected the truth. I went back the next morning and the will had been removed. There were only the thumbtacks left in the bottom of the drawer — no will. And you’ll remember you found Mr. Mason sitting at the desk when you went in there to search. I believe he said he’d been asleep. Well, that was only about ten or fifteen minutes after I had left the room. Banning had left his real will in my custody. I put it in the desk.”

Greggory said ominously, “Mason, this is serious — damn serious. You yourself admit you took that will?”

“I admit nothing,” Mason said suavely. “I only asked Mrs. Bradisson a question. She took it as an admission.”

“So did I.”

Mason bowed. “That’s your privilege. I only said I watched.”

“Where’s that will?”

“What will?”

“The one Mrs. Bradisson has described.”

“You’ll have to ask her. She’s the one who described it.”

“You deny having it?”

“I haven’t any such document as she described.”

“It said something about a clue in a drawer in the desk,” Mrs. Bradisson went on, “and there was nothing in there but a mosquito in a bottle.”

Mason smiled at her. “I believe I was accused of dragging red herrings across the trail, Mrs. Bradisson, so I feel free to make the same accusation. Now, since you have tossed the hand grenade which was to have stampeded the investigation in an entirely different direction, perhaps you’ll be so good as to explain to the sheriff how it happens that you took ipecac in order to simulate the symptoms of arsenic poisoning twenty-four hours before Banning Clarke was given a fatal dose.”

Sheriff Greggory seemed somewhat dazed as he turned his frown from Mason to Mrs. Bradisson.

James Bradisson interposed, “Look here, this is all news to me, but I don’t like the way this is being handled. My mother is nervous and unstrung. If she has any statement to make, she’ll make it to the sheriff privately. I don’t like the idea of Perry Mason standing here bulldozing her.”

Mason bowed. “I wasn’t aware I was doing it, but if you feel I am upsetting your mother, I’ll withdraw.”

“No, no!” Bradisson exclaimed. “That isn’t what I meant. I meant she would make her statement later, after the sheriff had finished with you.”

“It may not have been what you meant,” Mason said, “but it’s what I meant. Come, Della.”

“Wait a minute,” Greggory said. “I’m not finished with you, Mason.”

“You’re quite right,” Mason said, “but your most important angle at the moment is to find out about that ipecac before mother and son have a chance to confer, and I refuse to be questioned in the presence of the Bradissons.” He started for the door.

“Wait a minute,” Greggory interposed. “You’re not going to walk out of here until I’ve searched you for that document.”

“Really, Sheriff!” Mason said. “Has it ever occurred to you what county you’re in? Such high-handed procedure will hardly go over now that you’ve left your jurisdiction. And you really should question the Bradissons before they get a chance to patch up a story. Come, Della.”

It was the reference to the fact that Greggory was outside his own county that brought sudden dismay to his face. Mason calmly pushed past him to the door.

Paul Drake, who had been a fascinated spectator, suddenly burst into applause.

The sheriff whirled on him angrily. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

Drake, with alcoholic dignity, said loftily, “If you want to put it that way, who the hell are you?”

Mason didn’t wait to hear Greggory’s answer.

As the door banged shut behind them, Della Street let out her breath. “Whew! That was close. How’s the water now, Chief? Hot enough?”

“Coming to a boil,” Mason said.

“You have to hand it to Mrs. Bradisson for having the courage to stage a counter-offensive,” Della said.

Mason frowned as he slid in behind the steering wheel. “Unless she set a trap, and I walked into it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Suppose she left that door open on purpose so I could see her juggling wills. Naturally I’d promptly jump to the conclusion that the will she was hiding was genuine. If it should turn out to be forged, that, coupled with the phony endorsement on that stock certificate, and the fact that Banning Clarke was poisoned at a meal we shared with him—”

“Chief!” Della Street interrupted in an exclamation of frightened dismay.

“Exactly,” Mason said, and stepped on the foot throttle.

“But, Chief, there’s no way out.”

“Only one possible avenue left open,” Mason said.

“What’s that?”

“We don’t know too much about the drowsy mosquito,” Mason told her. “Velma Starler heard it. She turned on the light. The mosquito ceased flying. She turned out the light, went to the window carrying a flashlight. Someone was standing near the wall — almost directly below her window. He fired two shots. Those shots perforated the upper windowpane above Velma Starler’s head. They were less than three inches apart. Is there anything about that which strikes you as being particularly unusual?”

“You mean about the shots?”

“Yes. That’s partly it. Quite evidently the man didn’t want to hit her. He wanted to frighten her away from the window. If he had enough skill to put those bullets within three inches of each other, he must have been a darn good shot.”

“But why try to frighten her away from the window?”

Mason smiled. “The drowsy mosquito.”

“What do you mean, Chief?”

“Did you notice,” Mason asked, “that when Salty Bowers made his demonstration of black light last night there was some sort of an induction coil in the mechanism by which the current of a dry battery was stepped up to sufficient voltage to work the bulb?”

She nodded.

“And,” Mason went on, “if you had been somewhere in the dark and heard that rather faint buzzing, it would have sounded very much like a mosquito that was in the room.”

Della Street was excited now. “It would, at that,” she said.

“A peculiar, somewhat lazy mosquito — perhaps a drowsy mosquito.”

“Then you think the sound Velma heard was caused by one of those black-light devices?”

“Why not? When she looked out of the window, someone was standing near the wall. Put yourself in the position of Banning Clarke. He had a bad heart. He had very valuable information. He didn’t dare trust that information to anyone. Yet the possibility that he might die and take the secret to the grave with him must have occurred to him. Therefore, he must have tried to leave some message. His reference to the drowsy mosquito becomes very significant in view of the demonstration we saw last night of fluorescent lighting.”

“You mean that he worked out a code message somewhere?”

“Exactly.”

“Then it must be in that rock wall!”

“Exactly. Remember he had all of those different rocks brought in from the desert.”

Della Street’s eyes sparkled. “And I suppose that means we’re going to be the first ones to throw a beam of invisible light on that wall and see what the message is?”

“We’re going to try to be first,” Mason said.

“But the prowler must have been using one of these machines.”

Mason was thoughtful. “The machine may have been one that Salty Bowers or Banning Clarke was using at a place on the wall a short distance from where Velma saw the prowler. The prowler may have been trying to find out what was going on. In any event, I think we’ve found an explanation for the drowsy mosquito.”