The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece (10 page)

"I am."

There was no sign of petulance on her face, but she crushed the cigarette into an all but shapeless mass as she viciously ground it into the ashtray. "Too damned ethical, and it isn't like you," she said, and, getting to her feet, went at once to the corridor door without giving Mason so much as a backward glance.

Mason hardly glanced up. "Go home, Della," he said. "There's nothing you can do."

She shook her head. "I'll stick around. Something may turn up."

Knuckles tapped on the corridor door. She glanced inquiringly at Mason, who nodded to her. At his nod, she moved quickly across the room to open the door. Paul Drake said, "Thanks, Della," and gave Mason a quick glance. "Walking another marathon, Perry?"

"I'm trying to walk a solution out of this damned case."

"Well," Drake said, "perhaps I can simplify things a little. I've traced that call to Mrs. Doris Kent. It was sent in from a pay station in the Pacific Greyhound Stage Depot at 1629 North Cahuenga Boulevard. The connection was made at one minute past three o'clock in the morning, and the conversation terminated three and a half minutes later. Maddox put in the call, using his own name. It was a person-to-person call."

"Get photostatic copies of those records," Mason ordered. "You're keeping Mrs. Kent shadowed?"

"I'll say we are. What did she want here?"

"Wanted to have us give her the earth with a fence around it."

"Meaning?" Drake asked in his slow drawl.

"Meaning she wanted me to agree not to contest her action, but let her have the divorce set aside and assume control of the property as Kent's wife. She'd swear to anything necessary to have him declared incompetent. That, of course, would simplify our defense to the murder case."

Drake drawled, "Nice of her, wasn't it?"

"Very."

"Isn't the case against Kent pretty much one of circumstantial evidence?" Della Street asked.

Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket. "Duncan," he said, "has given out an interview to the newspapers. He swears absolutely that it was three o'clock when he saw the sleepwalker in the patio. He says the person he saw was Kent; that Kent had something in his hand which glittered. It might have been a knife, he can't be positive."

Della Street interrupted to exclaim indignantly, "How's he going to get away with changing his story like that?"

"Cinch," Mason said. "He'll claim that when he first told his story to the officers he was a little rattled; that he said the time was either quarter past twelve or three o'clock; that I didn't understand him correctly; that he didn't positively identify the sleepwalker as Kent because he was afraid his motives might be misconstrued; that the more he thinks of it, the more positive he's become that it was Kent, and that it makes no difference what we may think of his motives, it's his duty to tell the truth. Then he'll make a lot of wisecracks on cross-examination."

"You mean he's going to commit deliberate perjury?"

"No, the old fossil will think he's telling the truth. That's the hell of it. But this telephone call gives me an opportunity to take him to pieces. He wasn't asleep at three o'clock in the morning."

"Isn't there a chance Maddox might have put in the call without Duncan knowing anything about it?"

"I don't think so. I don't think there's one chance in a hundred. The fact that they were all in conference this morning proves that Maddox wasn't trying to slip anything over on Duncan. I thought at first Maddox might have figured he could cut Duncan out on the deal, but that doesn't check with the other facts."

Drake consulted his notebook again. "Here's something else," he said. "Do you know what time Harris claims he noticed the knife wasn't in the sideboard drawer?"

"It was some time during the evening," Mason remarked, "I don't know just when. Why?"

"Because," Drake said, "I think we can show the knife was in the drawer when it was locked."

"How?"

"By the butler. One of my men posed as a newspaper reporter and talked with him. He was all swelled up with importance and only too willing to spill everything he knew. He says that before he went to his room he went to the sideboard to look for something, and distinctly remembers that the knife was in the drawer at the time."

"What time?" Mason asked.

"He can't tell exactly. It was some time after the dishes were all done and put away, but, and here's the significant part of it, he thinks it was after Harris left for Santa Barbara. Now if that's true, the knife might have been missing from the sideboard, but it was returned before Kent's niece locked the sideboard drawer."

Mason frowned. "Why would anyone want to take it out and then put it back?" Drake shrugged his shoulders. Mason said, "That testimony doesn't make sense, Paul. I wouldn't trust the butler too much, myself. Harris has to be telling the truth. If the knife was in the drawer when the drawer was locked, Kent couldn't have taken it out. There was only one key."

"Of course," Drake drawled, "people have been known to pick locks."

Mason said irritably, "I don't dare to advance that theory, Paul."

"Why not?"

"A sleepwalker wouldn't pick a lock. If he had a key or knew where the key was, he might unlock the drawer, but I don't think he'd pick a lock. There's something about that which doesn't fit in with a sleepwalking theory… Where did Doris Kent go after she left here, Paul?"

"Straight to her lawyer's office."

"Then where?"

"Then she started back for Santa Barbara."

"You have men shadowing her?"

"Two of them."

"You said there weren't any fingerprints on that knife handle?" Mason asked abruptly.

"None they can pin on Kent. There were prints, but they were badly smeared. The officers figure that either they were smeared by rubbing against the sheet and pillow-case, or else that you and Edna Hammer managed to 'accidentally' obliterate them. But there are no prints they can positively identify as Kent's. A newspaper man got the information directly from the fingerprint expert and passed it on to me."

"But if Kent's fingerprints weren't on it," Della Street said, "how are they going to hold him? Just because the knife was found under his pillow doesn't prove he's guilty of murder."

"The whole thing," Mason said, "gets back to Duncan. If I can break down Duncan's identification I can win the case in a walk. If I can't break Duncan's testimony, I've got to rely on sleepwalking. If I rely on sleepwalking I must prove how Kent got possession of that knife. If he took it from the drawer in the sideboard before he went to sleep it shows premeditation and indicates that the sleepwalking defense was a fake. If he didn't take it from the sideboard before he went to sleep then he couldn't have got it afterwards, because the sideboard drawer was locked and Edna Hammer had the only key in her exclusive possession all night."

Mason resumed his steady pacing of the floor.

"I thought you'd be tickled to death about the butler's testimony," Drake said moodily. "I figured that and the record of the telephone call would be enough to put the case on ice."

"The telephone call's okay, Paul," Mason said. "Something seems to tell me that's going to be a life saver, but I can't figure out the knife business. Somewhere along the line, there's something that doesn't click. There's something…" He came to an abrupt stop, his eyes wide with startled surprise. Slowly he gave a low whistle.

"What is it?" Drake asked.

Mason didn't answer the question immediately, but stood for several seconds staring moodily at the detective. Then he said slowly, "It's a theory, Paul."

"Will it hold water?" the detective asked.

"I'm damned if I know," Mason told him. "It won't until after I've plugged up a few holes in it."

He turned to his secretary. "Della," he said, "you and I are going to make a build-up."

"Doing what?" she asked.

Mason grinned at her and said, "I'll tell you after Paul Drake leaves."

"That bad?" Drake asked, slowly sliding his body over the smooth arm of the big leather chair until his feet touched the floor. He stretched his long legs, reached the corridor door, opened it.

"Wait a minute," Mason called after him. "There's one thing you can do. I want to talk with Helen Warrington. Do you suppose you could get her in here right away?"

"Sure, I've got men trailing everyone in the case."

"That chap she's engaged to – Bob Peasley – runs a hardware store, doesn't he?"

"I think so, yes. Why?"

"Never mind why," Mason said. "Rush Helen Warrington up here."

"And that's all I'm to know?" Drake asked.

Mason nodded, "The less you know of what's going to happen, Paul, the less your conscience will bother you."

Drake drawled, "Hell, if I had a conscience you wouldn't even speak to me, let alone employ me." And, still grinning, he slowly pulled the door shut behind him.

"Of course I'm willing to."

Mason, staring steadily at her, said, "You're nervous."

She laughed, and the laughter caught in her throat. "Yes, I'm nervous," she admitted. "Who wouldn't be! A man tapped me on the shoulder, said he was a detective and that you wanted to see me right away. Before I had a chance to get my thoughts together, he bundled me into a car and brought me here."

"You're engaged to Bob Peasley?" Mason asked.

For a moment there was defiance in the dark eyes. "Does that enter into the situation?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Very well, then, I'm engaged to him."

"Why haven't you married him?"

"I prefer not to discuss that."

"I thought you wanted to help Mr. Kent."

"I don't see how it's going to help Mr. Kent to have you prying into my private affairs."

"I'm afraid," Mason told her, "you'll have to take my word for that."

"We haven't married because of financial reasons."

"He has a hardware store, doesn't he?"

"Yes."

"Business poor?"

"He's overstocked with obsolete merchandise. He picked up a place at a receiver's sale. It'll take him months to get the old stuff turned into money – if it's any of your business."

"Take it easy, sister," Mason told her, drumming with his fingertips on the edge of his desk. She said nothing, but her eyes showed indignation. "You're living in Kent's house?"

"Yes, of course; what's that got to do with it?"

"Any detectives there now?"

"No, they made photographs, diagrams, and took measurements. They were there nearly all the afternoon."

"As your accepted suitor, there wouldn't be anything unusual in Peasley coming to call on you?"

"Certainly not."

Mason said, "Perhaps I'd better give you my theory of this case: Peter Kent is in a spot. Under the law, he can't be convicted of a murder until he's proven guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. I don't think the Prosecution could make a case if it wasn't for Duncan's testimony. Personally, I think Duncan's a pompous old fossil who's going to consider the facts of the case secondary to the appearance he makes on the witness stand."

"Well?" she asked, her tone more conciliatory.

"An ordinary witness might be trapped on cross-examination, but Duncan's a lawyer. As such, he's more or less familiar with courtroom technique. He knows something about the ordinary traps he'll have to avoid. There's enough circumstantial evidence in the case to corroborate Duncan's testimony. If I can't shake him on cross-examination I'll have to rely on a defense of sleepwalking. That defense isn't too hot. I may get by with it, and I may not. A great deal will depend. The burden of proof is going to shift once I start to build up an affirmative defense.

"Now then, the former Mrs. Kent is very apt to prove herself a stumbling block to a sleepwalking defense. She may testify that Kent isn't a sleepwalker but is fully conscious of what he's doing when he pretends to be asleep, and uses the sleepwalking business to camouflage the fact he's a murderer. She can't give this testimony in so many words, but she can convey the impression all right.

"Well?" she asked, her voice showing interest.

"The murder was committed with a carving knife. It's a carving knife which matches a fork in the sideboard drawer in Kent's residence."

"Well?" she repeated.

Mason said slowly, "If the Prosecution should be able to prove that Kent had taken the carving knife from the sideboard drawer before he went to sleep, it would knock my sleepwalking defense into a cocked hat. The case is going to be close enough so that this would be the determining factor." He hesitated, to look at her searchingly. She returned his stare, her eyes curious but slightly defiant. "Now then," Mason said, "I'm going to be frank with you. I'm going to put my cards on the table. I'd like to get a carving knife which would be the exact duplicate of the knife with which the murder was committed."

"But how could you do that?"

"It would be possible," he said, "to duplicate the knife if a hardware man got the maker's name and the model number from the fork." He paused again.

She said slowly, "And because Bob Peasley's in the hardware business he could secure a knife which matched the identical set and then… Well, then what?"

"That would be all he needed to do," Mason said. "I wouldn't want him to do any more."

"What would he do with the knife?"

"Give it to you."

"What would I do with it?"

"Give it to me."

"What would you do with it?"

He shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said, "I might use it to lay the foundation for a cross-examination."

"Wouldn't this be a crime of some sort – compounding a felony – or something like that?"

"Possibly."

"I wouldn't want to get Bob into any trouble."

"I can assure you," Mason said, "that I would do everything in my power to protect you both."

"Bob," she explained, "is rather… well, rather peculiar. He's rather emotional, intent, and actuated by very high motives. He disapproves of the lives of what he calls the 'idle rich.'" Mason lit a cigarette and said nothing. Helen Warrington changed her position in the chair, laughed nervously and said, "You're putting me in something of a spot, aren't you, Mr. Mason?" He removed the cigarette and blew a smoke ring. She abruptly got to her feet. "Very well," she said; "when do you want the knife?"

"As soon as I can get it."

"You mean this evening?"

"By all means."

"Where can I reach you?"

"I'll be here in the office at ten o'clock."

She looked at her wristwatch and said, with tightlipped determination, "Very well, I'll see what I can do."

"One other thing," Mason said; "I want to ask you a couple of questions."

"What about?"

"About Edna Hammer's bedroom door." Her face showed her surprise. "I happened to have occasion to drop into Edna's room," Mason said, "and I noticed there was an expensive spring lock on the door."

"Well," she asked, "what about it? Certainly a girl has a right to lock her bedroom door, hasn't she?"

"Why did she put that lock on there?" Mason asked.

"I'm sure I couldn't tell you."

"When did she put it on?"

"As nearly as I can remember, about a month ago."

"Did she give any reason why she was putting it on?"

"No. Does a person have to give a reason for putting a lock on a bedroom door?"

"It's rather unusual," Mason pointed out, "for a person to put a spring lock on a bedroom door unless that person is either nervous or has been molested. Do you know whether there were any… well, let us call them unpleasant experiences, which made Edna feel a spring lock was necessary on her door?"

"I know nothing whatever about it. Why don't you ask Miss Hammer about it?"

"I thought perhaps you could tell me about it."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"I can't, Mr. Mason."

Mason inspected the smoke which curled upward from the end of his cigarette. "All right," he said; "be back here at ten o'clock with that knife."

"I'm not certain that we can… can duplicate the knife."

"Do the best you can," he told her. "I want a knife which looks as though it matched the set."

"Very well," she promised. "Understand that I'm doing this for Mr. Kent. I'd do anything for him. He's been very sweet and very considerate."

Mason nodded and escorted her to the door. As her heels clicked down the corridor toward the elevator Della Street, her face grave with concern, entered the office. "Did you take notes of the conversation?" Mason asked, switching off the intercommunicating loud speaker.

She indicated the notebook in her hand. "Every word," she said. Mason grinned. "Chief," Della Street said, crossing over to him and placing her hand on his arm, "aren't you putting yourself absolutely in the power of this girl? She's crazy about this boy she's going with. The minute it looks as though he was going to get into any trouble, she'll turn against you like a flash." Mason got to his feet and started pacing the floor. "Please, Chief," Della Street pleaded, "your other cases have all been different. You were representing some one who was innocent. In this case you're representing the man who probably did the killing. The only defense you have is his lack of intent. After all, you know, we may be fooled on this thing."

Mason paused in his pacing, said, "So what?"

"So why put yourself in their power?"

Mason whirled to face her. "Look here, Della," he said, "I never tried a case in my life but what I didn't leave myself wide open to attack. You know that."

"But why do it?"

"Because that's the way I play the game."

"But can't you see what it means…"

He walked over to her, slipped his arm around her waist, drew her close to him and said tenderly, "Listen, kid, quit worrying. Take me as I am. Don't try to make me the way I should be, because then you might find I was guilty of that greatest sin of all – being uninteresting. Let me give you my recipe for success – move fast and keep one jump ahead of your opponents."

"I know, but suppose they catch up with you?"

"That's no reason I should start looking over my shoulder, is it?"

"What do you mean, Chief?"

"I'm like a football player who has the ball," he said, "and is in the clear. Behind me are a whole swarm of enemy tacklers. Any one of them can tackle me. If I run the ball across the goal line for a touchdown, the stands go wild and no one stops to think of how I got it there. But if I start looking over my shoulder and wondering which of the tacklers may get me, I slow down enough so they all get me."

Her laugh was throaty and tender. She looked up at him with misty eyes and said, "Okay, you win. I won't doubt you any more. Perhaps, after all, I'm too much of a restraining influence. Let's carry the ball, and forget the ones that are trying to catch us."

"That's better," he said. "Keep moving. One jump ahead of the field and never look back, that'll be our motto."

She raised her right hand in a little salute. "Goal posts or bust," she told him.

With something of solemnity in his manner, he drew her closely to him. Her right arm slipped around his neck. Her half parted lips raised to his eagerly and naturally. It was Della Street who pushed away. "Somebody at the door," she said.

Mason, becoming conscious of the tapping knuckles on the panels of the corridor door, said, "That damned detective can drop in at the most inopportune times. Let the son-of-a-gun in. And get Edna Hammer on the line and tell her to be here at nine-forty-five on the dot. Tell her to come alone and not let anyone know where she's going when she leaves the house."

Della Street's handkerchief, wrapped around the tip of her forefinger, wiped lipstick from his mouth. She laughed nervously. "Remember, you're going to be talking with a detective… Comb your hair down in back. I mussed it. Sit over there at the desk and act important. Pull out a lot of papers and look busy as the devil."

"What the devil," Mason protested; "it isn't a crime, you know. He'd be a hell of a detective if he didn't know a busy executive kissed his secretary once in awhile. Go on, open the door. To hell with all that funny stuff."

She opened the door, and Drake, standing on the threshold looked at Mason with glassy, protruding eyes. His lips were twisted into the perpetually droll smile which characterized his face when in repose. "Your hair's mussed up in back, Perry," he said tonelessly.

"For God's sake," Mason exclaimed irritably, "did you come in here to discuss my hair?" He ran his fingers through his hair, roughing it into a tangled mass. "Now it's all mussed," he said. "You can quit worrying about it… And, if you could possibly manage to use an equal amount of detective ability on the problems I pay you to solve that you do in affairs which are none of your damned business, I could finish my cases in half the time."

Drake assumed his favorite position in the leather chair, crossed one long leg over another and drawled, "Then you'd only get half the fee, Perry."

"What's it this time?" Mason asked, grinning.

"I've been checking the various reports of my men. Thought you might be interested to learn that Maddox and Duncan went to great lengths to cover up their dealings with Doris Kent and her lawyers."