The Case of the Lame Canary

Chapter eleven

Rita Swaine sat across from Perry Mason in the visitor’s room in the county jail. A long row of heavy wire mesh divided the table into two parts. Rita sat on one side, and Mason on the other.

“Can I talk here?” she asked.

“Keep your voice low,” Mason said, “and, above all, don’t get excited. People are watching us. Make your manner casual. No matter what you tell me, shake your head once or twice emphatically, as though denying your guilt. Now, go ahead and tell me the truth.”

“Rosalind killed him,” she said.

“How do you know? Did she say so?”

“No, not in so many words. Oh, it’s awful. She’s my own sister, and now she’s turned against me. She and Jimmy Driscoll did it and she’s willing to have Jimmy make me the goat because she loves him so much she can’t bear the thought of anything happening to him, and he’s pushing it all over on me just to save his own skin.”

“How do you know they killed him?” Mason asked.

“Because,” she said, “they did. Walter came in and caught Jimmy there, and Jimmy shot him.”

“Go ahead,” Mason told her, his voice a low, rumbling monotone. “Tell me what you know. But shake your head first — that’s it.”

“Rossy called me over the telephone, said something awful had happened and asked me to go over to her house right away. I told her I couldn’t go right at that moment. So then she told me to go down to the pay station in the drug store and call a certain number. She did that because she didn’t want to take chances on having the clerk at the switchboard hear what we were talking about.”

“All right,” Mason said, “you went to the drug store and called her. Where was she?”

“She was at the airport then. She told me that Jimmy had been there in the house with her; that he’d taken her in his arms and made passionate love to her; that there’d been an auto accident out front and the police had made Jimmy give them his name and address and that he’d be called on as a witness. She said that Jimmy had given her a gun right after the accident and before he’d run into the police; that she’d dropped the gun down in back of a drawer in the desk in the solarium. Then she said Jimmy had tried to leave, had run into the police, and had decided the only thing to do was to run away with her; that Mrs. Snoops had seen everything and she’d undoubtedly tell Walter.”

“So what did you do?” Mason said.

“She gave me all the details, told me that she’d left the dress she’d been wearing in the bedroom and that the canary was fluttering around the solarium.

“Well, of course, I told her I’d go over and put on an act for the benefit of Mrs. Snoops. I didn’t want to do it particularly, because I was afraid I might run into Walter. But she told me she knew absolutely Walter wouldn’t be there.”

“Did she tell you how she knew?” Mason asked.

“No.”

“So you went over there?” Mason inquired. “And then what?”

“When I went to the upstairs bedroom to change into the dress Rossy had been wearing, I found the door to Walter’s bedroom slightly ajar. I didn’t think anything of it at the moment, left my dress there, put on Rossy’s,went down to the solarium, caught the canary, and did my stuff where Mrs. Snoops could get an eyeful. Then I went back upstairs to change my dress again. I went into the bathroom to wash my hands, and got a shock. There were bloodstains on the wash bowl — not stains of pure blood, but places where drops of bloody water had dried on the porcelain, leaving little pinkish stains, and in some places the drops hadn’t dried.

“So I pushed open the door, looked in Walter’s bedroom, and there was Walter, lying on his bed, on his back, his arms outstretched, his vest unbuttoned, and blood flowing from bullet wounds. I stood there on the threshold and screamed. Then, after a moment, I cried out, ‘Walter, what’s the matter?’ and ran across to the bed, knelt by his side and put my hands on his shoulders.

“I knew right away that he was dead.”

She paused, breathing heavily through dilated nostrils. Her lips quivered.

“Go ahead,” Mason told her. “Give me the rest of it.”

“Honestly, Mr. Mason, I don’t know what made me do the thing I did next. At first I was so shocked and horrified I could hardly breathe. And then, all of a sudden, I seemed to adjust myself in relation to what it would mean to me and to Rossy—”

“Never mind the psychology,” Mason said. “What did you do?”

“I thought about that letter Jimmy had written. I knew that Walter had planned to file suit against Jimmy and I knew what it would mean to Rossy if they should search the body, find that letter and—”

“What did you do?” Mason interrupted.

“I opened his inner pocket, took out his wallet and looked for the letter.”

“Did you find it?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Folded it and put it in the top of my stocking.”

“You were wearing Rosalind’s dress at the time?”

“No, I’d taken off the dress.”

“Were you wearing a slip?”

“Not then. I put one on later.”

“How long was it before you took that letter out of your stocking?”

“After I’d got downstairs.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Burnt it in the fireplace.”

“How did you bum it?”

“Why,” she said, “I touched a match to it. How does anyone ever bum things?”

“That isn’t what I mean. What did you do with the ashes?”

“Why, left them in the fireplace, of course.”

“Did you take a poker or a stick or anything and break them up?”

“No, I set fire to the letter, saw it was burning, and then tossed it into the fireplace. It flamed up all at once and singed my hair a little.”

“How were you dressed at the time?”

“I had on my gray suit.”

“The same one you wore to my office?”

“Yes.”

“What else did you do?”

“I took the canary and came to you. That’s why I came to you, Mr. Mason. Rossy hadn’t wanted me to get her a lawyer. She just wanted me to put on the act for Mrs. Snoops, but I felt she needed someone to protect her interests.”

“In other words, you knew there was going to be a murder case when you came to me?”

“Yes.”

“Then you flew to Reno?”

“That’s right.”

“And then what?”

“I was waiting to have a talk with Rossy after Jimmy had gone to bed and I could talk with her alone. I told her I’d arranged for you to be her lawyer, and I’d told her about Mrs. Snoops. I didn’t tell her about Walter, or ask her about the murder. I knew Rossy wouldn’t have done it. Jimmy did it, and Rossy’s backing him up. I wanted to ask her about it when Jimmy wasn’t there to make her lie.”

“Where’s your pearl-gray outfit now?” Mason asked.

“The police took it. They made me change to other clothes.”

“How about the shoes you were wearing?”

“They have them.”

“Did you look them over for bloodstains?”

“No, I didn’t — good heavens, Mr. Mason, you don’t think I—”

“I think,” he told her, “that you very probably had bloodstains on your shoes. You may have had some on your undergarments. I think that you left your finger-prints on the wallet in Walter Prescott’s pocket, and if you didn’t break up the ashes in the fireplace, I think they’ll find enough of the letter to photograph.”

“Do you mean to say they can photograph a letter after it’s been burnt?”

“Yes,” Mason said. “With the use of modem photography and ultra-violet and infra-red light, they can photograph writing on charred paper with the greatest accuracy. I thought Overmeyer was acting a little too dumb at the inquest. He had so much against you that he didn’t want to tip his hand in advance. He’s perfectly willing to let the coroner’s verdict be indefinite. He wants you to think he hasn’t very much evidence, and then get you lying. Did you make any statements?”

“No,” she said, “I remembered what you’d told me and didn’t say anything.”

“Did you make any denials?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “They accused me of killing Walter, and I denied I’d done that.”

Mason frowned and said irritably, “I told you not to say anything.”

“Well, I thought I should deny that.”

“Did you,” he asked, “go one step farther and deny knowing that he was dead?”

“No. I simply sat tight after that one denial.”

“Did they ask you when you’d seen him last?”

“Yes,” she said, “they did, and I told them I hadn’t seen him for a week. That was right, because I hadn’t. It really doesn’t count seeing a man after he’s dead, and—”

“And,” Mason interrupted, “when the finger-print expert hangs an enlarged photograph of your finger-prints found on Walter’s wallet up in front of the jury, you’ll have plenty of time to think over how much better it would have been to have followed your lawyer’s advice.”

Her eyes were wide and frightened, as the full meaning of his remark penetrated her consciousness. Then her chin came up and she said, “All right, you don’t need to rub it in. It’s no skin off your nose.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“I— No... unless Rossy did.”

“If you’re lying to me,” Mason said brutally, “they’re going to put a coarse hemp rope around that pretty neck of yours and drop you through a trap — and they may do it anyway.”

“I’m not lying. And, after all, Mr. Perry Mason, it’s my neck.”

Mason’s eyes showed approval. “Well,” he said, “you can take it, anyhow. That’s a lot better than having a woman on my hands who’ll get hysterical and go to pieces on the witness stand. Now, get this, and get it straight. The district attorney will start springing stuff on you. First, he’ll pretend that he hasn’t any case against you, is holding you more or less on suspicion, and that if you’d only deny the charges against you he’d probably turn you loose, but he can’t do it in the face of public opinion while you’re refusing to make any comments. Then, after he lures you into making a few more statements, denying this, that and the other, he’ll start springing evidence on you and ask you to explain that. He’ll do it all in a fatherly sort of manner and pretend that your release is just around the corner. Then, as you keep getting in deeper and deeper, he’ll start tightening the screws a little at a time, until you finally find yourself in a blind panic. Then, when you quit talking to him, he’ll turn the newspaper people loose on you and they’ll use all the wiles of the profession in order to get you talking. They’ll tell you what a powerful factor public opinion is. They’ll tell you how much good it’ll do your side of the case if their sob sisters dress up a swell story of how you tried to protect your sister and inadvertently got involved in a murder charge. They’ll tell you how nice it’ll be for you if your name is kept before the public, how they’ll give a prominent position to your interview, a sympathetic treatment to your story; how they’ll pay you to publish your memoirs or your diary. And they’ll use a hundred other different arguments to get you to talk. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Now,” Mason said, “you’re going to keep quiet all the way along the line. With the evidence the district attorney has against you, he’ll never release you. The only way you’ll ever get out of jail is by having a jury say ‘Not guilty,’ or having three juries in a row fail to agree on a verdict. Do you understand that?”

Again she nodded.

“All right,” Mason said. “Whenever anyone asks you to say anything, whether it’s district attorney or newspaper man, or some very sympathetic fellow-prisoner who just ‘happens’ to be put in the same cell with you, you’ll say that you want to talk; that I’ve ordered you not to talk; that as long as I’m your attorney, you’re going to obey orders; that you think it’s all foolishness; that you want to tell your story in a simple, straightforward manner, but that for some reason I’m ordering you to keep quiet. In other words, you pass the buck, and pass it big. Do you get that?”

“I get it,” she said.

“Do you have nerve enough to do it?”

“I think so.”

“It’s going to take a lot of will power.”

She said, “I know all about that, too. After all, Mr.Mason, I’m twenty-seven years old. A girl develops will power in twenty-seven years.”

“Bosh!” he told her. “You’ve been out with some young sprout who’s tried to do a little necking in an amateurish way and you think you’ve built up a mental discipline and an ability to take care of yourself. You’re going up against men now, men who have handled so many hundred similar cases that it’s a matter of routine with them. They know all the tricks that work, and those that don’t work. You’re a babe in the woods, going up against it for the first time. Keep your mouth shut, except for that one statement about wanting to talk but not being allowed to. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes indignant, “I understand. And don’t think young men are as amateurish as your little speech would imply.”

Mason got to his feet, started to turn away from the screen, then swung back to sit down once more. “How far can I go with this thing?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Don’t involve Rossy,” she said.

“Suppose I have to drag Rossy in to get you out?” he inquired, watching her narrowly.

“Then don’t get me out.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Of course I do.”

“You’re in bad,” Mason said, “Plenty bad. Anything may happen. With your looks, your brain and your figure, a jury isn’t apt to hang you. You may get life imprisonment. You may get a first-degree murder verdict without any recommendation, which will automatically mean the death penalty. It’s all right now for you to stick your chin up and tell me to keep Rossy out of it, but what’ll happen when the zero hour comes? Will you reproach me for letting you tie my hands?”

She got to her feet then, stood facing him across the screened table. “Mr. Mason,” she said, “when I do anything, I do it wholeheartedly, and I’m not inclined to regret it afterwards, no matter what the circumstances are. That’s my code of life. Lots of people live namby-pamby littles lives, in which they try to blame their mistakes on someone else. I don’t. You’ve asked me if I can take it. Now I’m asking you if you can take it.”

Mason grinned, said, “Okay, Rita, I’m going places.”

Rita Swaine watched the jail matron moving toward her, smiled gamely and said, “I’m not.”