The Case of the Runaway

Chapter 7

The plane approached the lighted area which marked the location of Fresno.

“You can go on to Los Angeles?” Mason asked the pilot.

“Sure. I have to get gasoline, that’s all.”

Mason said, “Land at Fresno just as though you were making a routine stop for gasoline. I’ll get out. You fill up with gas and take Miss Street on into Los Angeles.”

“How about you?”

“I’ll stop off here.”

“Okay by me.”

“When you get to Los Angeles,” Mason said, “I’d just as soon you didn’t talk with a lot of newspaper people. If you can land and manage to keep from being interviewed I’ll appreciate it. Miss Street will settle up with you by check just before you land. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Mason said to Della Street, “I’ll be in touch with you, Della. Try and get some sleep if you can.”

“How about Paul?”

“I’ll get in touch with him from here.”

She slipped her hand in his. He squeezed it gently. “Good girl,” he said.

“When will you be in?”

“Tomorrow morning perhaps. There’s work to do here.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

“Better fasten your seat belts,” the pilot said. “We’re coming in.”

He swung in a wide circle and landed at the airport. As soon as he had taxied up and stopped the motor Mason jumped out, hurried into the administration building and into a telephone booth, where he hunched over with his right hand at his head so that his face wasn’t visible from the outside.

Mason put through a collect call to Drake’s office and within a few minutes had Paul Drake on the line.

“What are you doing up there in Fresno?” Drake asked.

“Looking around.”

“Have they caught you?”

“Who?”

“The Fresno authorities.”

“No.”

“They’re looking for you.”

“On what grounds?” Mason asked.

“The authorities think you slipped over a fast one.”

“How come?”

“That letter that Davenport left to be opened at the time of his death.”

“What about it?”

“They think you have the original sheets that were in there and that you stuffed it with six sheets of blank paper.”

“And what does that make me?” Mason asked.

“According to the district attorney up there it may make you an accessory after the fact.”

“Go on,” Mason told him. “What’s next? Where’s Mrs. Davenport?”

“Apparently she’s in Fresno.”

“I understand they found the body.”

“That’s right.”

“No question of identification?”

“None whatever. It was buried in a shallow grave. Now here’s a funny one, Perry. The grave had been dug for two or three days. It was all in readiness.”

“You’re sure?”

“That’s right.”

“How do they know?”

“Some kids had found it and had been playing around in it, using it for a fort. That’s how they happened to find the body so easily. The kids reported that somebody had filled up their fort. Then they went ahead and described it to their parents—an oblong hole that had been filled in. The father of one of the kids went out to take a look. He became curious. The soil was easy to dig. He dug down two or three feet and struck the foot of a corpse. He went back and got the authorities and they uncovered Ed Davenport.”

“How long had he been dead?”

“Since yesterday. Apparently Dr. Renault had the right idea and the authorities are now busily engaged in begging his pardon.”

“What about the man who saw the corpse climb out the window?”

“Police are acting on the theory a male accomplice loaded the body into a car, then climbed out the window.”

“Wearing pajamas?”

“They think so—as a blind just in case anyone saw him.”

“What else?”

“You had the right hunch on the alias. I think we’re ahead of the cops on that. Frank L. Stanton was registered at Welchburg’s Motel there in Fresno. Evidently it was Davenport all right. The description fits him and he even gave the right license number on his automobile, but he wasn’t drinking. He had someone visit him and there was a conference rather late at night. One of the couples in an adjoining cabin complained.”

“Man or woman?”

“Who?”

“In the conference.”

“A man. We don’t know too much about it. We talked casually with Mrs. Welchburg but not enough to alarm her. We were afraid she might go to the police if we asked too many questions, and you might not like that.”

“I wouldn’t,” Mason said.

“Okay,” Drake told him. “You’re up there. It’s all yours.

Here’s another one, Perry. Your friend Sara Ansel has been haunting the office. Gertie, at the switchboard, told her she might leave any message with me, that I might be in touch with you.”

“What does she want?” Mason asked.

“She’s now very contrite. She’s had a complete change of heart. She says she acted on impulse when she lost faith in Myrna Davenport. She was tired and her suspicious nature got the better of her. She now says she wishes she could cut her tongue out.”

“But before she had this change of heart she told everything she knew to the police?” Mason asked.

“Oh definitely. She blabbed everything. Then the police got a little rough with her and made her mad. So she got to thinking things over and decided she had condemned Myrna Davenport on circumstantial evidence without a hearing. Now she’s tearful and repentant. She wants you to know that you can depend on her and she wants to get word to Myrna through you.”

“How nice,” Mason said.

“Isn’t it? She blabs everything she knows and then comes running back for forgiveness—or perhaps to get another ear fill to peddle.”

“You think the police sent her?” Mason asked.

“Could be,” Drake said, “but it’s a good act if it’s an act. Those are genuine tears she’s shedding all right. She wants you to call her just as soon as I get in touch with you. She left a number. Do you want it?”

“Hell, no,” Mason said. “I’d call her long-distance from here and within five minutes she’d report to the police that I was in Fresno and I’d have every officer in the country on my trail.”

“That’s the way I figured it. What are you going to do now?”

“Go to the Welchburg Motel, get a room, and try and get some information out of Mrs. Welchburg.”

“Going to register under an assumed name?”

“No,” Mason said. “That would be flight. I’m going to register under my own name and I’ll probably have twenty minutes to half an hour before the officers pick me up. How long had that grave been dug, Paul?”

“Three days at least. The kids had been playing in it for three days before Davenport’s death.”

“That’s going to make it bad,” Mason said. “The D.A. will use that as evidence of premeditation.”

“He’s done that already in an interview given to the press. He calls it one of the most dastardly, cold-blooded, premeditated murders he has ever encountered.”

“Okay” Mason said. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Mason remained in the telephone booth until he felt certain he was not observed, then slipped out to call a taxicab and went at once to the Welchburg Motel.

The woman who sat behind the desk in the office was somewhere in her fifties, a rather matronly figure with a kind mouth but with sharp, peering eyes.

“Hello,” Mason said. “I’m here without any baggage. Didn’t expect to stay. All I have is money.”

“That’s all we want,” Mrs. Welchburg told him. “We have two units left. You can take your choice at five dollars.”

Mason handed her the five dollars and at the same time gave her one of his cards. “I’m a lawyer,” he said. “I’m trying to find out something about a case up here.”

“Indeed.”

“I wanted to find out about a Frank L. Stanton,” Mason said. “He was here a couple of nights ago.”

“Oh yes. Why, you’re the second person who’s been asking about him.”

Mason smiled affably and said, “Mr. Stanton has quite a few interests.”

“What’s the matter? Did he do something? Did he—?”

“Not as far as I know,” Mason said. “It’s simply a question of serving some papers on him.”

“Oh!” she said sharply, and then after a moment, her eyes suspicious, asked, “Divorce?”

Mason shook his head. “I’m not free to go into the details but it has to do with an option on a piece of mining property. The option time will be up within a couple of days, and in the event the purchaser should want to take up the option well, you can see it would be rather embarrassing if Mr. Stanton couldn’t be found.”

“Oh yes, I see. Well, he was only here for one night. He left his address in Los Angeles.”

“I have his address,” Mason said, “but he isn’t home and—well, there are still a couple of days to run, but it would be very embarrassing if he should try to conceal himself. Do you remember much about him?”

“Not very much,” she said. “He was in the mining business, I know that. He carried two suitcases with him, rather heavy suitcases, and he said something about having some samples in them.”

“Of ore?”

“I guess so. He had a new handbag he’d bought.”

“New? “Mason asked.

“That’s right. It was wrapped up, that is, covered with paper except for the handle, and I know from the way he picked it up it was empty, but the suitcases certainly were full.”

“Two of them?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I wonder if anyone was with him or whether he was alone?”

“No, he was alone. That’s the only thing that I definitely remember. He had some visitors. About eleven-thirty a call came in from a man who had the adjoining unit. He said that he didn’t like to complain but the people in the place I’d rented to Mr. Stanton were talking and it was keeping him awake. He asked if I’d mind giving that unit a ring and asking them to be more quiet.”

“Loud talk? An argument?” Mason asked.

“Apparently not. Apparently it was just the opposite. They were talking in low voices but they were talking and it was rather late. You know how those things are when you’re trying to sleep and some little monotonous noise, the drip of a water faucet, or something like that, will magnify itself until you’re terribly nervous.”

“I understand,” Mason said. “You wouldn’t know anything about what time Mr. Stanton left here in the morning?”

“No, I don’t. I am up sometimes until one or two or sometimes three o’clock in the morning, and I usually sleep late. The maids take care of the units.”

“You certainly have a nice place here.”

“Thank you.”

“How many units do you have?”

“Fifty-two.”

“Quite a place,” Mason said. “Running it must be quite a job.”

“It certainly is.”

“I presume you have your problems.”

“We certainly do.”

“What did Mr. Stanton say when you rang his room and told him he was disturbing someone?”

“He said he was in a conference and that they were just finishing up. I guess that was true, too. I looked out of the door and saw there was a car parked in front of his unit. It was driven away just a few minutes later.”

“You don’t know what kind of a car?”

“No, it was just an average car. Just one of the popular makes. I wouldn’t know which. I’m not much on spotting cars. My husband can take a look at a car and tell the year, the make and the model as far as he can see it. I’m not much good at it.”

“Stanton didn’t put in any long-distance telephone calls, did he?” Mason asked.

“As to that I couldn’t say. You see, we can’t very well bill things like that on the rooms. When people want to put through calls we prefer that they go to the pay stations in the lobby. We have two telephone booths there with pay telephones. Of course we can put through a long-distance call and have the person talk in his room. Sometimes we do that when we know the party, but with strangers we don’t encourage it.”

“And Mr. Stanton didn’t ask for any long-distance service?”

“Not while I was here, and I’m certain he didn’t get any because there wasn’t any on the bill.”

“But he could have gone to the booths in the lobby and put through a call?”

“Oh yes.”

“And that wouldn’t have been noticed?”

“No, not at all.”

Mason said, “Well, I’ll put through a call myself. I guess.”

He was smiling cheerfully as he entered the telephone booth, dropped a coin, and asked to be connected with the sheriff’s office. After the connection had been made he insisted on talking to the person in charge and when he had the undersheriff on the line, said, “I’m Perry Mason, an attorney. I came up here to consult with my client, Mrs. Edward Davenport. You have her incarcerated. I want to talk with her.”

“You … you … you’re Perry Mason?”

“That’s right.”

The voice suddenly became suave. “And where are you now, Mr. Mason?”

Mason said, “I’m at the Welchburg Motel and I’m going to get a taxi to come to your office. I want to talk with my client.”

“Well, now. Mr. Mason, you don’t need to bother at all,” the voice said. “We try to be hospitable up here and we’ll provide you with transportation. You stay right where you are and you’ll have a car within five minutes.”

“Within five minutes?”

“Well, maybe less,” the voice told him. “Just a moment, please, I’ll see what I can do. Hold the line.”

There was some thirty seconds of silence, then the voice was back on the line. “We’ll have a car there for you, Mr. Mason. We’ve been looking for you.”

“Have you indeed?” Mason said.

“Yes. You went to Mr. Davenport’s house in Paradise, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You didn’t?” the voice asked incredulously.

“No.” Mason said. “I went to Mrs. Davenport’s house, and in case you’re interested in finding out about the contents of the envelope I suggest that you interrogate Mabel Norge, Mr. Davenport’s secretary. Incidentally, in case you’re interested any further, Mr. Davenport stayed here the night before his death, at the Welchburg Motel. He was registered under the name of Frank L. Stanton.”

“You’re sure?” the officer asked.

“The description fits, also the license number of the car.”

“Why are you giving us that information?” the officer inquired.

“Good heavens!” Mason exclaimed in surprise. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“No, I guess not. We felt you might be just as happy if we didn’t share your information.”

“What gave you that idea? There’s a car with a red light turning in the driveway. I suppose that’s my transportation. You got it here pretty fast.”

“We try to work fast, Mr. Mason,” the undersheriff said. “It just happened we had a radio car cruising in your neighborhood and just oddly enough they were making a canvass of the various motels trying to find where Mr. Davenport had stayed.”

“Well, I’m glad I saved you some trouble,” Mason said, and hung up as two broad-shouldered deputy sheriffs pushed their way into the lobby.