The Case of the Runaway

Chapter 13

The sun was low as Mason’s chartered plane droned over the high plateau country.

Down below the desert stretched interminably. The tall, weird shapes of the Joshua palms cast long, angular shadows. Over on the right snow-capped mountains turned to a rosy glow in the rays of the setting sun. Then the desert gave way to mountains, piling up in jagged, tumbled peaks until the crests became covered with dark green pines. A lake flashed into view, bordered by many sumptuous houses. A paved road ran around the lake. Buildings were scattered through the dense pines.

Abruptly the whole country seemed to drop away and far below in the valley San Bernardino clustered in an orderly array of straight thoroughfares and houses which seemed to have been carved from miniature sugar lumps topped with pink roofs and then viewed through the wrong end of a telescope.

The plane tilted sharply.

“It’ll be a few miles to town from the airport where I want to land,” the pilot explained.

“That’s all right,” Mason said. “We’ll rent a car.”

Lights came on in the valley below. The pilot skimmed over orange groves and prosperous ranches, then taxied the plane into a landing.

“I can’t fly you back tonight,” he said. “I’m not licensed for night flights.”

“Never mind,” Mason told him. “We’ll get back, don’t bother about us.”

Mason paid off the aviator, and took a taxicab to a place where he could rent a car, then rang the number Paul Drake had given him and explained who he was.

“You’re in luck,” the operative told him. “We located your party just about twenty minutes ago.”

“Where is she?”

“Staying at the Antlers Hotel, and this is one for the book.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s registered under the name of Mabel Davenport.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “You have her under surveillance?”

“Yes. She’s been out most of the afternoon. She came in shortly after we had her located and she’s in her room now.”

“You have a man on duty there?”

“Yes.”

“How will I know him?”

“He’s wearing a gray suit, about thirty-five years old, five feet ten and a half, a hundred and seventy pounds, with a blue and red necktie and a gold horseshoe tiepin.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “He’s expecting us?”

“He’ll be expecting you. He’ll be in touch with me within the next few minutes and I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said, and hung up. “Well, Della, we’ve got our party located. She’s at the Antlers Hotel, registered under the name of Mabel Davenport.”

“And that’s Mabel Norge, the secretary?”

Mason nodded.

“The only person,” Della said, “who could possibly have known that Ed Davenport was going to be taken sick shortly after leaving Fresno.”

“And how would she have known that?” Mason asked.

“Do I have to spell it out for you? She drove down to Fresno with him. She spent the night in the motel. Just before he left in the morning she saw that he took something that would make him violently ill and—”

“But he didn’t register a woman with him,” Mason said. “If a woman had been spending the night he’d have registered as Frank L. Stanton and wife. He was alone when he drove up and he—”

“And he had a visitor,” Della Street said.

“Exactly.”

“And after this visitor left, Mabel Norge joined him. She’d been waiting.”

“And you think she poisoned him?”

“That’s the part I can’t understand. She must have given him something that made him sick.”

“Just as he was leaving?”

“Just as he was leaving in the morning.”

“Under those circumstances,” Mason said, “he would have been as apt to have turned back and called for a doctor from Fresno as to have gone on and become sick in Crampton where the grave was so conveniently waiting.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’ll tell me in your own good time.”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I know, Della, but right now I have a theory—and that’s all.”

“Well, don’t be such a clam. According to your theory there was only one person who knew he was to be taken sick as soon as he left Fresno and that he’d get as far as Crampton and then stop. It wasn’t—good heavens, you don’t mean it was Ed Davenport himself?”

“That’s right.”

“But why on earth? Why would he want—?”

Mason said, “We’ll know some of the answers in a few minutes if Mabel Norge talks, and under the circumstances I rather think she will. It’s going to be rather embarrassing to her when we step in and find her registered as Mabel Davenport.”

“And you mean that Ed Davenport deliberately planned to get sick so that—?”

“Ed Davenport was the only person on earth who could have known definitely, positively and absolutely that he was going to get sick in Crampton—that is, Della, if it was planned out in advance.”

“Well, it had to be planned out because of the grave.”

“That at least is the theory of the prosecution,” Mason said.

Della Street was silent for a few moments, trying to figure it out, then she shook her head and said, “It’s too deep for me.”

“I think,” Mason told her, “we’re going to get some information that will enable us to unravel the puzzle. Remember that telephone call we received in Paradise, Della. The man didn’t ask for any kind of identification. As soon as you said hello he gave you the information about the motel in San Bernardino, then hung up.”

“I get it,” Della Street said, “and Mabel Norge came by the place in Paradise not simply because she was driving by but because she was waiting for a phone call that would tell her where to go.”

“That’s right.”

“And because she didn’t get that phone call she didn’t know where to go and—but she knew it was somewhere in San Bernardino, and so she went to San Bernardino and waited.”

“That’s right.”

“But why didn’t she go back to the place in Paradise after we had left and—?”

“She probably did,” Mason said. “She went back there and sat waiting for a telephone call that didn’t come. The reason it didn’t come was because you had taken the telephone call earlier. There had probably been some alternate instructions. If Mabel hadn’t received the call by a certain time, say midnight, then she was to go to San Bernardino, register at the Antlers Hotel as Mabel Davenport, and await instructions there.”

“But how would that account for her having embezzled money out of—?”

“Who said she embezzled money?” Mason asked.

“Well, she drew out virtually everything there was in the account in Paradise, and then disappeared.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “That’s not embezzlement.”

“Well, it looks like it to me.”

“We’ll see what Mabel Norge has to say about it,” Mason said.

He parked the car at the parking lot by the Antlers Hotel, entered the lobby, and had no difficulty identifying the man in the gray suit with the blue and red tie.

The man, who had been lounging by the cigar counter, sauntered over to Mason and said, “She’s in the cafe. She just went in for dinner. Do you know her when you see her?”

Mason nodded.

“Do you want to wait until she comes out or—?”

“No,” Mason said, smiling. “We’ll join her for dinner.”

“Okay, you want me to stay on the job?”

“I think so,” Mason said. “Come on, Della, we’ll drop in on Mabel.”

“She’s in the second booth to the right, sitting alone,” the detective said.

“Okay, we’ll join her.”

Mason held the swinging door open for Della Street. They entered the restaurant, turned to the right. Abruptly Mason paused, said, “Well, well, Della, here’s someone we know.”

Mabel Norge, who had been studying the menu, glanced up curiously and then suddenly panic filled her eyes.

“Good evening,” she said coldly.

Mason moved over and extended his hand. “Well, well, Miss Norge! How are you tonight? I heard you were here.”

“You heard I was here?” she asked after hesitating a moment in extending her hand.

“Why, yes,” Mason said. “You notified the authorities in Butte County, didn’t you?”

Her face colored. “They weren’t supposed to tell anyone.”

Mason easily and quite naturally seated himself opposite her, and Della Street slid in beside him.

“Well,” Mason said, “it’s nice finding you here where we can talk and—”

“I don’t care to talk.”

“Then it may be necessary to notify the newspapers after all, Della,” Mason said to Della Street.

“The newspapers?” Mabel Norge echoed.

“Why certainly,” Mason said. “You haven’t kept abreast of developments up in your part of the country. You’re a young woman who is very much sought after.”

She bit her lip and said suddenly, “Mr. Mason, I have nothing to discuss with you. I came in here to eat. I don’t care to be disturbed.”

“Okay by me,” Mason said. “Della, call the newspaper here. Find out who is the representative of the AP and who represents the UP. We’ll get the wire services to work on this angle—”

“Mr. Mason, I told you I didn’t care to be disturbed.”

“It isn’t what one wants in a murder case,” Mason said, “particularly when the newspapers get started.”

“But I have nothing to do with any murder case.”

“You probably think that,” Mason said, “but the facts indicate the opposite.”

“There are no facts indicating the opposite. I did what I did on the definite instructions of my employer.”

“Sure,” Mason said, “but the definite instructions of your employer now are going to become evidence in the case.”

“Mr. Halder told me it would be all right,” Mabel Norge said.

Mason laughed, said, “Halder is very much on the periphery. He doesn’t even know what’s going on. Now Mr. Vandling is the district attorney at Fresno. He’s the one who’s trying the case. You ring him up and see what he has to say.”

Mabel Norge was silent.

“She evidently doubts my word, Della,” Mason said. “There’s a telephone booth down by the cashier’s cage. Get Vandling on the line. Tell him that Mabel Norge is here registered under an assumed name and ask him what he wants to do about it. Perhaps it’s better to let him work through the local police and then the newspapermen can pick the thing up from the local police.”

Della Street arose.

“Got plenty of quarters?” Mason asked.

“I can get some at the cashier’s cage.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Mason said. “Get him and—”

“Don’t.” Mabel Norge said, and suddenly began to cry.

“Now wait, wait.” Mason said. “We don’t want to upset you. Miss Norge, but, good Lord, you can see the plain implications of the case. You know what Mr. Vandling will do. He finds you here registered under the name of Mabel Davenport, so it’s quite natural to assume that you were to join Mr. Davenport here. Or, rather, that he was to join you, as Mr. and Mrs. Davenport—”

“How dare you say a thing like that?”

“Why, your own conduct—good Lord, you don’t think there’s any other interpretation that the press would place upon it, do you?”

“If the press intimates anything like that I’ll … I’ll sue them.”

“Sure,” Mason said. “You can sue but what good would that do? You get up in front of a jury and some attorney starts examining you, you have to admit that you disappeared from Paradise, that you looted the Paradise bank account before you left, that you came down here and registered under the name of Mabel Davenport, and that you were waiting for Ed Davenport to join you.”

“You forget that I knew he was dead before I left Paradise.”

“No, you felt that he wasn’t dead.”

“What gives you any grounds for saying that?”

“Come, come,” Mason said. “Now let’s be grownup. Della, I guess Miss Norge doesn’t realize what we know.”

“Well,” Mabel Norge said, “what do you know?”

Mason said, “Now let’s see. You were supposed to make some deposits on Monday. Then you were supposed to draw virtually all of the cash out of the account and you were to be at the office that night, awaiting a telephone call. That telephone call was to tell you where to take the money. It was to someplace here in San Bernardino. In the event you didn’t get the telephone call by a certain hour you were to come to San Bernardino, register at the Antlers Hotel here under the name of Mabel Davenport and await instructions.”

“I don’t know how you know all this,” Mabel Norge said.

“Well,” Mason said, “those are the facts. Why try to deny them?”

“Those aren’t the facts, that is, that’s not exactly the way it happened.”

“It’s close enough to it,” Mason said, “so that I know what to tell the district attorney at Fresno and how the newspapers will write it up. Of course, they’ll adopt the attitude that you were Ed Davenport’s mistress, that he wanted to get a lot of cash together and disappear with you.”

“Why, that’s absurd, that’s utterly ridiculous. That’s absolutely libelous, Mr. Mason. I can never—why—he had a mining deal that he wanted to put across and he had to have a large sum of cash. I don’t have to talk to you.”

“That’s right,” Mason said, “but what are you going to do now? You’re in a very peculiar position. If you take any of that money and use it for yourself you ‘re guilty of embezzlement. If you return to Paradise you’ll be questioned as to where you went and what you did and why. You’ve got to tell your story sooner or later. If you’re picked up here under the name of Mabel Davenport with Ed Davenport’s cash in your possession it looks as though you have been caught in the act of embezzling money.”

“Well, I didn’t embezzle any money,” she said, “and I know exactly what I’m doing. I’ve had the assurance of the district attorney at Oroville that everything I do is all right, and I’m going to call him and tell him I don’t want to be annoyed.”

Mason nodded to Della Street. “This time, Della,” he said, “I’m not bluffing. I’ll call Vandling myself.”

Mason and Della Street left the table. Mason walked down to the cashiers desk, secured some quarters, went to the telephone booth and Mason called Vandling at Fresno.

“Hello,” Mason said when he had Vandling on the line. “This is Mason. How’s your case coming?”

“Our case you mean.”

“Don’t tie me up with it,” Mason said, laughing. “Are you going to dismiss?”

“Well,” Vandling said, “I still haven’t made up my mind as to what I’m going to do, but Los Angeles says it doesn’t want to pull my chestnuts out of the fire for me. I started the thing and I seem to be stuck with it. I can get the defendant bound over for trial all right. I may have to dismiss and start a new preliminary. That’ll give me time to think and perhaps turn up some new evidence.”

“That’s fine,” Mason told him. “Perhaps I can turn up some new evidence. Mabel Norge, the secretary to Edward Davenport, was instructed to make some last-minute deposits and then draw out everything in the Paradise account. She’s here at the Antlers Hotel in San Bernardino registered under the name of Mabel Davenport. She’d have quite a story to tell if you grabbed her as a material witness. She won’t talk voluntarily and she’s getting ready to skip out.

“It may interest you to know that she’s told a part of her story to the district attorney at Oroville and he gave her his official blessing. She thinks she’s sitting pretty. But she didn’t tell him the whole story. If she tells it to you it may help.”

“What are you trying to do? Make a case against your client?” Vandling asked.

“I’m trying to make a case against the murderer,” Mason replied. “Perhaps we can walk into court tomorrow morning and clarify the situation.”

“You slay me,” Vandling said. “In other words, Mason, I fear the Greeks when they’re bearing gifts.”

“No,” Mason said, “it’s an unfortunate trait of human nature. You accept all kinds of phony tips from touts and never win, then some day a quiet, sedate individual comes along with a straight tip on a dark horse in the fifth race and you pass it up because you’re too smart to fall for any more of that stuff. After the fifth race you kick yourself all over the lot.”

Mason abruptly hung up the telephone.

“Mabel Norge left the restaurant hurriedly,” Della Street reported.

“That’s fine,” Mason said, grinning. “If she resorts to flight, it will look like the devil.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Della Street asked.

“If she doesn’t, Vandling will get her,” Mason said. “He’ll think it over for ten or fifteen minutes, then he’ll be afraid not to act. He’ll get hold of the authorities here and tell them to pick up Mabel Norge and question her as a material witness.”

“And what will we be doing?” Della Street asked.

“We,” Mason told her, “will be driving to Los Angeles in order to catch a night plane back to Fresno so we can be on hand in the morning and blow the lid off in case Vandling wants any more action in court.”