The Case of the Runaway

Chapter 1

Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, entered the lawyer’s private office and said, “There are two women in the outer office who say they have to see you at once.”

“What about, Della?”

“They won’t discuss it with a mere secretary.”

“Then simply say that I can’t see them.”

“They’re quite a team,” the secretary said.

“In what way?”

“They’re carrying suitcases, keep looking at their watches, apparently are catching a train or a plane and feel they simply must see you before they leave.”

“What do they look like?” Mason asked, his curiosity aroused.

“Mrs. Davenport is very, very mousy, a quiet, almost furtive, plain young woman.”

“How old?”

“Somewhere in the late twenties.”

“And very mousy?”

Della Street nodded.

“And the other?” Mason asked.

“If I describe Mrs. Davenport as being very, very mousy I’ll have to describe Mrs. Ansel as being very, very catty.”

“How old?”

“Fifty odd.”

“Mother and daughter?“

“Could be.”

Mason said, “The dear, devoted daughter has had to put up with too much from a brute of a husband. The daughter’s mother has come down to remonstrate and the husband called her a lot of vile names. She and her daughter are leaving him forever. They want their rights protected.”

“Probably,” Della said, “but they’re quite a team, any way.”

“Tell them I don’t take domestic relations cases,” Mason said, “and that they’d better hurry to see some other lawyer before their plane leaves.”

Della Street seemed reluctant.

Mason picked up several letters from the file marked “Urgent” which Della Street had placed on his desk. “You want me to see them,” he charged, “so that you can gratify your feminine curiosity. On your way, young woman.”

Della Street dutifully left the office, only to return within some thirty seconds.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“I told them,” she said, “that you didn’t take cases involving domestic relations.”

“And what did they say?”

“The mousy one said nothing.”

“And the catty one?” Mason asked.

“The catty one said that this was a murder case and she understood you liked murder cases.”

“And they’re still waiting?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. The catty one suggested I tell you they had a plane to catch.”

“That does it,” Mason said. “Send in the cat and the mouse with their murder case. My own curiosity has now been aroused.”

Della Street hurried from the office, returned in a few moments to hold the door open. Mason heard the sound of steps, of a suitcase bumping against a bookcase. Then a slender, demure-looking woman with downcast eyes entered the office carrying a suitcase. She looked up briefly, said, “Good morning,” then moved quietly along the wall and was lowering herself into a straight-backed chair when another suitcase banged vigorously against the door. An older woman pushed her way into the office, dropped the suitcase with a bang, looked at her wrist watch and said, “We have exactly twenty minutes, Mr. Mason.”

“Very well,” Mason said, smiling. “Please be seated. I take it you’re Mrs. Ansel.’

“That’s right.”

“And this is Mrs. Davenport?” Mason asked, indicating the young woman who sat with her hands folded on her lap.

“That’s right,” Sara Ansel said.

“Your daughter I take it.”

“No, indeed,” Sara Ansel said. “We never even saw each other until a few months ago. She’s been out of the country a lot—her husband’s a mining man—and I’ve been in the Orient, in Hong Kong. I’m sort of her aunt by marriage. My sister’s husband was her uncle.”

“My mistake,” Mason told her. “Do I understand that you want to see me about a murder case?”

“That’s right.”

Mason studied the two women thoughtfully.

“Did you ever hear the name of William C. Delano?”

Mrs. Ansel asked.

“Wasn’t he a big mining man?”

“That’s right.”

“He died, I believe”

“Six months ago. Well, my sister’s husband, John Delano, was his brother. John and my sister are both dead now. And Myrna here, that is Mrs. Ed Davenport, is a niece of John and William Delano.”

“I see. Now suppose you tell me what it’s all about and about the murder.”

“Myrna’s husband, Ed Davenport, has written a letter accusing Myrna of planning to kill him”

“And to whom did he send the letter?”

“He hasn’t sent it to anyone yet. He left it addressed to the district attorney or the police, we don’t know which, and it was to be delivered in the event of his death. It accuses his wife of poisoning Hortense Paxton, the niece who would have inherited the bulk of William’s money, and then Ed Davenport has the temerity, the unmitigated gall to state that Myrna suspects he knows what she’s done and may be planning to poison him, that in the event of his death he wants the whole thing investigated.”

Mason glanced curiously at Mrs. Davenport, who sat perfectly still. Once, as though sensing his gaze, she raised her eyes, then lowered the lids again and continued to regard her gloved hands.

“What in the world,” Mason asked, “gave him any such idea as that? Does he have any grounds for such accusations, Mrs. Davenport?”

“Of course not!” Sara Ansel said.

Mason continued to look at Mrs. Davenport.

She said, “I spend most of my time in my garden. I have some sprays, some pest controls. They’re highly poisonous. My husband has a besetting curiosity. Twice now I’ve had to warn him those sprays are not to be tampered with. That may have given him ideas. He’s very unreasonable. He gets ideas and they become fixed in his mind.”

“He’s neurotic,” Sara Ansel explained. “He broods. He drinks. He flies into rages, and then he gets strange ideas.”

“Apparently,” Mason said, “there’s rather a complicated picture here. I’ll have to know something more about it, and I take it you’re leaving on a plane.”

“That’s right. We have a taxicab waiting. The driver has given us a deadline. We’re going to have to make the airport in time for the 11:00 A.M. plane to Fresno.”

“Perhaps,” Mason said, “under the circumstances it would be better if you took a later plane and—”

“We can’t. Ed’s dying.”

“You mean Ed Davenport, this young woman’s husband?”

“That’s right.”

“And he’s left this letter to be delivered to the authorities in the event of his death?”

“That’s right.”

“That,” Mason said, “complicates the situation.”

“Doesn’t it?” Sara Ansel said impatiently.

“What is he dying from?” Mason asked.

“Dissipation!” Sara Ansel snapped.

“Perhaps,” Mason went on, “it would be better if you tried to give me a more complete outline of the background.”

Sara Ansel settled herself in the client’s big, overstuffed chair, giving a series of wiggling motions that expressed aggression rather than relaxation.

“Now you’ll have to listen carefully,” she warned, “because I’m not going to have time to repeat.”

Mason nodded. “My secretary, Miss Street, is taking notes. I can study those later.”

“William C. Delano was a very rich man and a very lonely man. During the past two years of his life his niece, Hortie—that’s Hortense Paxton—came to live with him. He was dying by inches and he knew it. His will left most everything to Hortie. She was nursing him. It was a terrific job. She wrote Myrna and Myrna and Ed came to help with the nursing.

“After they’d been there a short time Hortie became very ill. She died after a week’s sickness. Ed Davenport didn’t say anything at the time. Later on he told Myrna he thought Hortie had been poisoned. Where he got that idea no one knows. It’s typical of Ed Davenport—a neurotic, addlepated mass of selfish pigheadedness.”

“What was the cause of death?” Mason asked.

“Overwork. Her death was a terrible blow to William. She was his favorite niece. Under his will he had planned to leave her four-fifths of his estate and one-fifth to Myrna.”

“He left you nothing, Mrs. Ansel?”

“Eventually he did. He and I never got along too well. After Hortie died he changed his will.”

“You seem positive Miss Paxton’s death was a natural death.”

“Of course it was. She had this intestinal flu that’s going around. Only Hortie was so run-down she couldn’t fight it off.”

“Did you see her before her death?”

“Yes. I came there when I heard she was sick to see if I could help. I got there three or four days before she died, but I didn’t stay long after that.

“William Delano and I were fond of each other but he irritated me to death and I guess I clashed with him. Myrna insisted she could get along all right, what with the house-keeper and a practical nurse they called in, so I left.”

“And when did you return?”

“Shortly after William’s death.”

“Was there any autopsy at the time of Miss Paxton’s death?”

“Of course not. There was an attending physician and he signed the death certificate. She was buried and that was all there was to it until Ed Davenport started this talk of his. If you ask me the man simply isn’t all there. What’s more he’s trying to divert attention from what he’s done with Myrna’s money.

“Ed has these crazy ideas, and now he’s gone so far as to write that letter to be opened in the event of his death. The fool has high blood pressure. He may go any minute, and yet he’s written this dastardly letter. In the event of his death there’s no telling what may happen.”

“Where is that letter?”

“Up in his office somewhere.”

“Where’s the office?”

“In Paradise.”

“How’s that?”

“That’s the name of a place up near Chico in the northern part of the state. His office is in a house there. It’s the house where he and Myrna lived for a while after they came back from South America. Ed got hold of this mine on a shoe-string deal. After he and Myrna came down to Los Angeles to live with William, Ed fixed the house up in Paradise as an office for his mining company.

“That is, he says it’s an office. Two rooms are fixed up as offices, but he has a bedroom and a kitchen. He spends a lot of time up there. He’ll be gone for a week at a time, sometimes two weeks. Since I’ve been with Myrna he’s spent most of his time up in that place he calls his office—and in gallivanting around the country, playing he’s an economic big shot, the great mining magnate.”

“May I ask,” Mason inquired, “how it happens that you are so intimate a part of the picture—that is, I take it there was no love lost between you and William Delano. You—”

“After all, I’m fond of Myrna. Under the new will, I own a one-fifth interest in that big house of William’s. I’m riot going to let Ed Davenport put me out of my own house. After I saw how he was treating Myrna I became terribly indignant, but I’ve tried to keep my place and not say anything. I haven’t, have I, Myrna?

“Then we got this telephone call this morning that Ed is in Crampton and—”

Mason said, “I gather he had been taken ill?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you—he’s dying and we only have a few minutes left. The very idea of any man writing a fool letter like that to be delivered to the authorities in the event of his death, accusing his own wife of murder.”

‘Is that what’s in the letter?”

“As nearly as we can tell, putting two and two together, that’s what’s in the letter.”

“And how do you know what’s in the letter, Mrs. Davenport?” Mason asked.

Myrna said in a voice that was so low it was difficult to understand her, “He said as much. He got mad and accused me of poisoning Hortie and said since I knew he knew what I’d done, he didn’t feel safe himself.”

“And Mr. Davenport is in Crampton now?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. He started down here from Paradise and got sick. He’s in a motel. The doctor is quite alarmed about him—thinks he won’t live.”

“And if he does live?” Mason asked.

Sara Ansel said, “Well, of course. I’m not one to give advice. Myrna can do just as she wants, but as far as I’m concerned Ed Davenport has been juggling her money, mixing it all up with his. I’m absolutely certain he’s going to try to cheat her out of it. I know what I’d do if I were in Myrna’s place.”

“And if Ed Davenport dies?” Mason asked.

Sara Ansel looked across at Myrna Davenport.

“If he dies,” Myrna Davenport said in her soft, almost inaudible voice, “that letter will be delivered to the district attorney and heaven knows what will happen.”

“And what do you want me to do?” Mason asked.

“Get the letter,” Sara Ansel snapped.

Mason smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I can’t steal that letter.”

“It contains slanderous matter,” Sara Ansel said.

“Nevertheless,” Mason said, “the letter is his property during his lifetime.”

“How about after his death?”

“Undoubtedly he left instructions for it to be mailed to the police.”

“As it happens,” Sara Ansel said, “all of the property that he has is community property. It was all acquired with Myrna’s money, regardless of the fact that Ed Davenport has been busily engaged trying to juggle funds around so that no one can tell where the money came from.”

Mason’s face showed interest.

“Now then, suppose he does die. Myrna, as the widow, is entitled to step into possession of the property. Isn’t that right?”

“For the purposes of administration and to conserve it for the administrator,” Mason said guardedly.

“Then she’s entitled to the possession of that letter.”

“Go on,” Mason said, smiling.

“I don’t think it’s fair for that letter to fall into the hands of the police and the district attorney without Myrna knowing what’s in it.”

“Of course,” Mason said, “a great deal depends on how the letter was written, or, rather, I should say, how the envelope is addressed—whether it’s addressed to the police to be opened in the event of his death, or whether it’s addressed to his secretary with instructions to her to mail the enclosure to the district attorney in the event of his death.”

“That would make a difference legally?” Sara asked.

“It might,” Mason said. “I’m not in a position to render an offhand opinion.”

Abruptly Sara Ansel got up from the chair. “Give me your key, Myrna.”

Wordlessly, Myrna opened her gloved hand, handed Sara Ansel a key. She, in turn, walked across and dropped it on the plate glass on Mason’s desk.

“What’s that?” Mason asked.

“The key to the office in Paradise.”

“And what do you want me to do with it?”

“In case Ed Davenport should die, we want you to get that letter.”

“Is there any element of truth in Ed Davenport’s accusations?”

“Don’t be silly! Myrna wouldn’t hurt a fly. She came there to help Hortie. Those two girls slaved their fingers to the bone. Hortie’s death was brought about purely and simply by overwork.”

“And Mr. Delano?”

“He had been dying for months. His heart was shot. The doctors gave him six months to live and he lived twelve. He’d have lived longer than that if it hadn’t been for Hortie’s death. That broke him all up.”

“Then why not let the letter be delivered?” Mason asked.

“If his charges are so absurd on their face why not simply explain to the police?”

The women exchanged glances, a brief flicker of an expressive signal that Mason was unable to interpret.

“Well?” he asked.

“It happens,” Sara Ansel said, “that the situation isn’t that simple. There are complicating factors.”

“In what way?” Mason asked.

“Someone telephoned the coroner. It was one of those anonymous calls. This person suggested the coroner had better check the death of Hortense Paxton.

“Of course it was just some busybody, unless it was Ed Davenport himself, but it may make trouble.”

Mason thought that over. “Myrna is Ed Davenport’s wife,” he said. “In case he should accuse her of poisoning Miss Paxton he might be jeopardizing the money his wife inherited—and which I understand he’s using. Have you thought of that?”

“We have. Ed hasn’t. He doesn’t think. He reacts. There’s no logic in what he does. Why would he write such a fool letter as that, particularly when he knows he may pop off any minute?”

Mason said, “He must be a psychopathic personality.”

“He’s a nut. You can’t tell what he’ll do. He may kill us both. If he had any idea we were here talking with you he certainly would.”

Mason reached an abrupt decision. “I’m going with you this far,” he said. “If Ed Davenport should die I’ll try to find out what’s in the letter. If, in my opinion, the letter is the work of a psychopath I’ll look into the case, and if everything seems to be in order I’ll surrender the letter to Mrs. Davenport. If, on the other hand, there is anything at all that’s suspicious about the case I’ll turn that letter over to the police, but I’ll try and do it under such circumstances that everyone gets a fair break.”

“If you only knew Ed Davenport,” Sara Ansel said. “He’s selfish, neurotic, completely engrossed in his own affairs, his own symptoms, his own feelings, and yet with it all he’s shrewd.”

“You haven’t known Mr. Davenport very long,” Mason pointed out.

“Well, I’ve known him long enough,” she snapped. “I’ve talked with Myrna, and I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Mason.”

Mason thought the matter over, then abruptly said to Della Street, “Della, dictate a letter which Myrna Davenport is to sign, giving me complete authority to represent her in connection with any matters pertaining to her domestic relations or her property rights and to take such action as I may see fit in connection with safeguarding these property rights. In the event her husband should die—and you’d better mention in the letter that it’s understood he is seriously ill at the moment—I’m to represent Mrs. Davenport in connection with the estate and all matters in connection with the estate. I am to act in her name and on her behalf in taking possession of any property of any sort, nature or description, and do whatever I think may be for her best interests.”

Mason glanced at Myrna Davenport. “You’re willing to sign such a letter?”

It was Sara Ansel who answered, “You bet she’ll sign it.”

Mason, however, continued to look at Myrna Davenport.

At length she met Mason’s eyes and said in a low voice, “Of course, Mr. Mason. My husband no longer loves me. He’s interested in my money, and he’s stealing that. Right now and as of this very moment he’s trying to scramble my property so completely we’ll never be able to straighten things out.”

Sara Ansel looked at her watch. “Well, what are we waiting for?” she demanded.

Perry Mason nodded to Della Street.