The Case of the Runaway

Chapter 12

Perry Mason, Paul Drake and Della Street gathered in Mason’s suite in the Californian Hotel.

“Well,” Mason said, “we’re at least getting the situation clarified.”

“Clarified!” Paul Drake exclaimed. “It’s mixed up until I can’t make head or tail of it and I doubt if anyone else can.”

“Why, Paul!” Mason said. “As it now stands there’s only one person in the world who could have murdered Edward Davenport.”

“You mean Myrna?” Drake asked.

Mason smiled. “How would Myrna have gone about murdering him?”

“That’s easy,” Drake said. “After she arrived in Crampton she could have given him a dose of cyanide of potassium, then called Dr. Renault to come down on an emergency.”

“Then how would she have removed the body?”

“By having some male accomplice slide the body out of the window and then put on the red-spotted pajamas and jump out when he was certain a witness was watching—a witness who was far enough away so he could see the man’s figure but couldn’t see his face.”

“Very interesting.” Mason said. “But how would she have known that her husband was going to get sick when he reached Crampton?”

“She didn’t care when he got sick,” Drake said. “She was an opportunist. She simply administered the poison because she found him sick. She wouldn’t have cared whether he’d been taken sick in Crampton, Fresno, Bakersfield, Paradise or Timbuktu.”

“That’s fine.” Mason said. “But you’re overlooking the grave. How did Mrs. Davenport know there was a grave waiting out there three miles out of town?”

“Because she’d dug it.”

“When?”

“She’d probably gone up the week before and dug the grave, or else had her male accomplice do it.”

“Then,” Mason said, “she must have known he was going to get sick at the exact moment he reached Crampton.”

Drake started scratching his head. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said.

“Who did murder him?” Della Street asked.

“Someone who knew that he was going to be sick when he reached Crampton,” Mason said.

“But who could that have been?”

Mason said, “I have an idea but it’s going to take a little checking. As nearly as I can tell only one person was in a position to know what was going to happen.”

“Who?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “I won’t make any predictions at present. We’ll go out and look for some additional evidence while our friend, Talbert Vandling, is having an argument with the district attorney in Los Angeles.”

“An argument?” Drake asked.

“Sure,” Mason said. “Don’t think the district attorney of Los Angeles is going to be anxious to take over now.”

“Why not?”

“Because Fresno started in on the case. It made a pass at convicting Myrna Davenport and then suddenly backed up when it found the facts were all cockeyed.

“If the district attorney of Los Angeles could have had her convicted of any crime in Fresno, even the crime of being an accessory after the fact, or of having negligently administered poison, he’d have been only too glad to have prosecuted her for the murder of Hortense Paxton. Then when she took the stand he’d have impeached her by showing she’d been convicted of a felony and shown what the felony was. After that she wouldn’t have stood a ghost of a chance.

“As it is now the district attorney in Los Angeles can show that Hortense Paxton died from poison, that Myrna Davenport was in a position to benefit by her death, that Myrna Davenport had some poison in the house and that she tried to conceal that poison after it was learned that the body of Hortense Paxton was being exhumed.”

“It’s a strong case,” Drake said.

“It’s a strong case but it’s not a convicting case,” Mason replied. “Just one or two additional facts and they’d be sure of a conviction. On the other hand, just one or two little additional facts in favor of the defense and the best they could hope for would be a hung jury.”

“What facts could you get in favor of the defense?”

Mason grinned. “The poisoning of Ed Davenport.”

“How do you mean?”

“The person who poisoned him would presumably be the person who poisoned Hortense Paxton.”

“Could you bring that in?” Drake asked.

“Under other circumstances the district attorney would try to one way or another. If he thought Myrna Davenport could be shown to be guilty, he’d use the old dodge of showing that these were crimes of a similar pattern and all of that. As it is now, the defense would claim it was entitled to bring the facts in in the same way. At least the defense could try to bring them in and if the prosecution fought to keep these facts out the jury would become so suspicious of the whole thing that it wouldn’t convict.”

“Well,” Drake said, “that means that the D.A. in Los Angeles will tell Vandling that he started this thing and to go ahead and finish it.”

Mason nodded.

“So what will Vandling do?” Drake asked.

“Try to get some additional evidence. If he doesn’t he’ll have to dismiss.”

“Why?”

“Look at it in this way,” Mason said. “Myrna Davenport put candy in her husband’s bag. The candy was poisoned. It contained arsenic and cyanide of potassium. Dr. Renault can swear the man told him he had symptoms of arsenic poisoning but he didn’t die of cyanide of potassium. He can’t swear of his own knowledge that the man had any symptoms of arsenic poisoning He only knows that from what Davenport told him, and that’s hearsay and not admissible.

“Dr. Hoxie will swear that the man must have died from cyanide of potassium poisoning but he can’t find any trace of candy in the stomach. Therefore he couldn’t have died from eating poisoned candy. The only thing they can really connect Myrna Davenport with is the poisoned candy.”

“So what do we do?” Drake asked.

“We drive out to the site of the grave up near Crampton,” Mason said, “and we look for something.”

“For what?”

“Where a six-wheeled vehicle has been parked.”

“A six-wheeled vehicle?” Drake asked.

“That’s right.”

“What do you mean?”

“A four-wheeled automobile and a two-wheeled house trailer.”

“I don’t get it,” Drake said.

“And then,” Mason went on, “We try to find Mabel Norge.”

“Why?”

“Because we want to question her.”

“How do we go about looking for her?”

Mason said, “You have her description. Tall, brunette, twenty-seven or twenty-eight; well-formed but not heavy; slategray eyes; narrow, black, penciled eyebrows. In order to find her you go to San Bernardino and start looking through the hotels and the motels. You also have someone keep in touch with the district attorney in Butte County or try to get a line into his office.”

“How come?”

“I think she’ll be communicating with him.”

“Why? What gives you that idea?”

“Because she doesn’t want to be a fugitive and she doesn’t want to have her absence misconstrued. I think probably she’ll telephone the district attorney and tell him where he can reach her but ask him to keep the address confidential.”

“You think the D.A. in Butte County will protect her?” Drake asked.

“I think he’ll try to.”

“Why?”

“Because he’ll use her either as a red herring or an ace in-the-hole, depending on which will better suit his purpose, and if he alone knows where she is it strengthens his hand.”

“Okay, Perry.” Drake sighed. “What do you want me to do now?”

“Right at the moment,” Mason said, “get your men covering San Bernardino. I want to find Mabel Norge. I’m particularly anxious not to disturb her complacency. My best guess is that she’s telephoned or will telephone the D.A. at Butte County. He’ll tell her to stay where she is. I don’t want anyone to know that we’re looking for her. It shouldn’t be too difficult a job. People who go to motels are usually transients. They’re there for one day. A young, attractive woman who stays over for a longer period should attract attention.”

“Okay. What next?”

“Della and I are going out to the location of the grave. We’re going to look around. We should be back shortly after you have this San Bernardino angle covered.”

“What about Sara Ansel?” Drake asked. “She’s been pestering me, trying to see me, trying to explain that she’s Myrna’s good friend and that she wants to patch everything up.”

“Leave her alone,” Mason said. “Leave her severely alone, Paul.”

“That’s all very well,” Drake retorted, grinning, “but how am I going to get her to leave me alone?”

“Probably,” Mason said, “you’ll have to club her over the head. Come on, Della, let’s go.”

Mason and Della Street left the hotel, drove to Crampton, then turned off on the road, which had been indicated in the maps shown by Vandling, to the location of the grave.

Quite a few curiosity seekers had been on the ground. There were evidences of cars having been parked. Empty film containers bore mute testimony to the amount of amateur photography that had taken place. Dozens of feet had tramped the ground around the shallow grave.

Mason said, “Della, if my theory is correct, there was a car with a house trailer parked within a very short distance. It probably was here for two or three days. I’d like to find where it stayed.”

Della Street raised her eyebrows. “If your theory is correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And what, may I ask, is your theory?”

Mason said, “Come, come, Della. Don’t deprive me of my triumph.”

“What do you mean?”

“If it turns out I’m right,” Mason said, “I will point out to Paul Drake the simple, elemental steps of reasoning that made it absolutely imperative that certain events should have happened in a certain sequence.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“If I’m wrong,” Mason said, “and I don’t give you my theory in advance, I can say casually, ‘Well, I had a theory but that theory doesn’t seem to be borne out by the facts so I won’t waste your time mentioning it.”

“That’s all right for you to say to Paul Drake,” Della Street said, “but aren’t you going to put me on a little different footing?”

“That’s exactly it,” Mason said. “I want to make an even better impression on you than I do on Paul Drake.”

“You don’t have to. You have already made it.”

“After all, Della, you wouldn’t expect a magician to tell you how he expected to perform the trick before he performed it. It would take away all of the glamour and all of the mystery.”

“You can’t take away any of your glamour by taking away the mystery,” Della Street said, “but if you want me to cooperate, tramping around through this country looking for a place where a house trailer parked, you’d better tell me why.”

“Let’s look at it this way, Della. The whole scheme of murder depended on the fact that someone must have known that Edward Davenport was going to be taken seriously ill immediately after leaving Fresno, that by the time he had driven to Crampton he would be so sick he couldn’t possibly continue his journey. He would have to move into a motel and call a doctor. Otherwise, there couldn’t have been any murder. There couldn’t have been any planning for a murder, at least to the extent of having a grave all ready.”

“That’s true. You’ve said that before. Chief.”

“Well,” Mason said, “who was the person? Who was the one person who could have known that Davenport would be taken sick at that particular place at that particular time?”

“Mabel Norge, the secretary?” Della Street ventured.

Mason laughed. “I’ve given you all the clues I’m going to, Della. You go look for the place where the house trailer was parked over on the east side of this hill. I’ll look over on the west side. But don’t go far. Don’t get out of the sound of my voice. It should be around here within a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards. If you see anyone or if you think you’re being watched, don’t be afraid to let out a whoop. I’ll be listening.”

Della Street hesitated a moment. “I get no more clues?”

“Not unless you find them,” Mason said. “After all, if I pull a rabbit out of the hat I don’t want to have the audience yawn in my face. I’m enjoying myself tremendously, Della.”

“You’re being a prig,” she said and, turning, walked down the hill and into the patch of brush.

Mason waited a few seconds, then went down on the other side, walking slowly in long zigzags, looking for wheel tracks.

Fifteen minutes later Mason was back on the hill, whistling for Della Street.

For a few anxious moments he waited, then was just starting down the hill when he heard her call some distance away.

Mason whistled once more, then hurried through the brush. At length he picked up Della Street’s tracks, and, whistling again, once more heard her call.

Again Mason walked a distance of some fifty yards, again he whistled and again received an answer.

“Heavens, Della,” he said. “I didn’t want you to go so far away. What would have happened if you’d met some—”

“I’m on a hot trail,” she said.

Mason hurried up to her and Della Street pointed to automobile tracks in the soft ground.

“Oh-oh,” Mason said.

“They’re narrow jeep tracks,” Della said. “Does that mean anything?”

“It may.”

“Would that eliminate the necessity of a house trailer?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I think not. Let’s follow the tracks.”

“Which direction?”

“Where did you pick them up, Della?”

“Within—oh, I don’t know—a hundred feet of the hill, I guess.”

“All right, let’s follow them away from the hill then.”

Mason and Della Street followed the tracks for a hundred yards, then suddenly came to a little clearing in the brush where a rather vague but quite passable roadway led out toward the highway. Here there was a cleared space where it was evident that a house trailer had been parked. Not only were the tracks visible but there was a little hole in the ground, washed by drain water from a sink just back of the left wheel.

Della Street made a little bow. “Very well, Mr. Mason,” she said, “you have now pulled the rabbit out of the hat. You have found the location of the house trailer. Now what do we do?”

“Now,” Mason said, “we carefully mark the place. We go back to Fresno. We have Paul Drake get a couple of his most trusted and observant men and we have them come out here and go over this place with a fine-toothed comb, listing every article.”

“Article?” Della Street asked.

Mason pointed to a small pile of empty tin cans.

“Everything,” he said. “Every single article. We want a complete inventory of this spot before anything happens to it.”

“Can’t we take the inventory while we’re here?”

“We have other work to do,” Mason told her. “We’ll be starting for San Bernardino within the next hour.”

“But after you’ve duly dazzled everyone by pulling the rabbit out of the hat, will you tell us how you knew the rabbit was in the hat?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “You haven’t answered my question yet, Della.”

“What question?”

“Who was the person? Who was the one person who could possibly have known that Edward Davenport was going to leave Fresno at around seven o’clock in the morning, that he was going to be taken violently ill as soon as he started driving, and that by the time he reached Crampton he would be so completely ill that he wouldn’t be able to go on, that he’d have to go to bed and call for a doctor?”

“There just wasn’t any such person,” Della Street said. “There couldn’t have been.”

“Then it couldn’t have been premeditated murder.”

“But it had to be, otherwise—why, Chief, the grave was dug two or three days in advance. It’s the most cold-blooded, diabolical crime you can think of. That is, if that grave was intended all along for Ed Davenport.”

“It was,” Mason told her. “Come on, Della. We’re going back to Fresno. We’re going to charter a plane to take us to San Bernardino. By the time we get there Drake’s men should have located Mabel Norge.”

“And if they haven’t?”

“If they haven’t we’ll try locating her ourselves, but I think they’ll have her spotted. In the meantime we’ll have Drake’s men get busy and cover every inch of the ground out here, looking for clues. For instance, Della, notice these cans. Now here’s a can that held baked beans. It was opened smoothly with one of those can openers that cuts around the rim of the can, leaving the edges nice and smooth and taking the top all the way off. Notice the inside of the can.”

“What about it?”

“The remnants of the beans are dried and hard.”

“Meaning that the can has been there for some time?”

“A week or ten days probably.”

“Very well, Mr. Magician,” she told him. “I know my place. I’m supposed to put on very short skirts and tights and stand bowing and smiling and looking awed while you pull the rabbit out of the hat. I believe that’s the function of the magician’s assistant, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “Her games distract the attention of the audience.”

“But not of the magician?” Della Street asked lightly.

“Sometimes even the magician.” Mason conceded.