The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece (7 page)

"Where is he now? This is a serious business, Mason. Don't try to stall. We want to question your client."

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

"Look here," Blaine threatened, "if you don't dig up your client now, we're going to find out where he is and drag him in."

"Go ahead," Mason remarked, "drag him in."

"Who knows where he is?" Blaine asked.

For a moment there was silence, then Maddox said, "I happen to know that Mr. Jerry Harris, Miss Edna Hammer, and Miss Helen Warrington, Mr. Kent's secretary, all left last night upon a mysterious errand. I think they went to Santa Barbara. There's a chance Mr. Kent went with them."

"Santa Barbara, eh? What are they doing in Santa Barbara?" Blaine asked.

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

Blaine turned to Sergeant Holcomb, said in a low voice, "I don't think we're going to get anywhere this way. We'd better talk with these people one at a time and we'll want the servants as well. Will you please have everyone leave the room but remain available for questioning?"

Sergeant Holcomb nodded importantly. "The patio," he announced, "is the proper place. You folks all go out in the patio and don't start talking among yourselves… Hadn't we better finish with Perry Mason and keep him away from the rest? He's representing Kent. We might find out a lot more if we get through with Mason first."

Blaine said, "Good idea. What do you know about this, Mason?"

Mason waited until the shuffling confusion of moving feet had ceased, then said, "I was negotiating an agreement between Kent and Maddox. For certain reasons, which I won't bother to discuss at present, it became advisable to postpone the negotiations. I remained here last night. I slept in a room in the upper floor with Dr. Kelton. This morning Peter Kent left on a business trip. I may say that that trip was taken at my suggestion. I have no intention of disclosing his destination. After he left, Miss Hammer called my attention to the fact that the carving knife was missing from the sideboard. I happened to know that Peter Kent had previously walked in his sleep. I believe it is a matter of record that he picked up a carving knife on that occasion."

"Where's the record?" Blaine interrupted.

"In a divorce case filed against him by his wife, Doris Sully Kent."

"Where?"

"In Santa Barbara."

"Go on. What did you do?"

"I went with Miss Hammer to Mr. Kent's bedroom. I raised the pillow on his bed and found the knife under his pillow."

"Under his pillow!" Blaine exclaimed.

Mason nodded coolly. "The knife was, and is now, under the pillow of Peter Kent's bed. I didn't touch it. But as soon as I saw it, I suspected what had happened. Therefore, I aroused Dr. Kelton, and, in company with Miss Hammer, we made a round of the guests. We found Mr. Rease lying in bed, the covers up around his neck. Apparently he had been stabbed through the covers. I didn't make a close investigation. As soon as I found the body I left the room and telephoned police headquarters."

"Why the devil didn't you tell Sergeant Holcomb about this before?"

"He wouldn't let me. He was in examining the body. I tried to go in and he told me to stay out."

Blaine said to Sergeant Holcomb, "Send a couple of men up to look under that pillow. Don't let anyone touch that knife until we have a fingerprint man go over the handle… How long have you been here, Sergeant?"

"About ten minutes before I telephoned you," Holcomb answered.

"And I got here in ten or fifteen minutes," Blaine said. "That makes less than half an hour… What's this lawyer's name… oh, yes, Duncan, I'll get him and take a look at that coffee table."

Blaine walked out toward the patio. Sergeant Holcomb called two men and ran up the stairs to Kent's bedroom. Mason followed Blaine, saw him speak to Duncan. They walked toward the center of the patio. Duncan paused uncertainly, went to one of the coffee tables, shook his head, moved over to the one under which Edna Hammer had placed the coffee cup and saucer. "This the table?" Blaine asked.

"I believe it is."

"You said the top came up?"

"It seemed to. He raised what looked like the top and then let it drop back with a bang."

Blaine looked the table over and said, "There seems to be an oblong receptacle under this table top… Wait a minute, here's a catch."

He shot the catch and raised the top of the table.

"Nothing in here," he said, "except a cup and saucer."

"Nevertheless, this is the place," Duncan insisted.

Edna Hammer said very casually, "I'll take the cup and saucer back to the kitchen."

She reached for it, but Blaine grabbed her wrist. "Wait a minute," he said, "we'll find out a little more about that cup and saucer before we take it anywhere. There may be fingerprints on it."

"But what difference does that make?" she asked.

The voice of the butler from the outskirts of the little group said, "Begging your pardon, sir, but I happen to recognize that cup and saucer… That is, at least I recognize the saucer. You see, it has a peculiar chip out of it. I knocked that chip out this morning."

"What time this morning?"

"Shortly after five o'clock."

"What were you doing with a saucer shortly after five o'clock?"

"Serving breakfast to Mr. Kent, Miss Lucille Mays, and Mr. Mason."

"Then what did you do?"

"Then I brought up the Packard and Mr. Kent, Miss Mays and Mr. Mason drove off. After an hour or so, Mr. Mason returned the car."

"You don't know where they went?"

"No, sir, but I think they were going to get married."

"And what have you to say about this cup and saucer?"

"This saucer, sir, went with the cup out of which Mr. Mason was drinking his coffee. I didn't have time to replace the chipped saucer. They seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, and Mr. Kent had told me to see that breakfast was ready to serve at twenty minutes past five on the dot. He was most punctual."

"So you drank out of this saucer, Mason?" Blaine asked.

Mason shook his head and said, "Certainly not."

"You didn't?"

"No," Mason said. "I never drink out of a saucer when I'm visiting." Blaine flushed and said, "I meant, you had the cup and saucer. If you want to be technical, you drank out of the cup."

"That's what the butler says," Mason said. "Personally I wouldn't be able to tell one cup from another. I admit that I drank out of a cup this morning."

"Then what happened?"

"Begging your pardon, sir," the butler said, "Mr. Mason walked out with the cup and saucer. I couldn't find it afterwards and asked him what he'd done with it and he said he couldn't remember; that he thought he'd set it out in the patio some place."

"At five-twenty this morning?"

"That would have been approximately five-thirty, or five-forty."

"What was he doing out in the patio at five-thirty?"

The butler shrugged his shoulders.

Blaine turned to Mason, and asked, "What were you doing out here at five-thirty?"

"I may have been out here," Mason said slowly, "but I have no independent recollection of it."

"Did you put that cup and saucer under the top of the table?"

"I did not."

"Do you know who did?"

"I think," Mason said, "you're making a mountain out of a molehill. Here's a saucer with a chip out of it, and you're wasting valuable time inquiring how I happened to drink my coffee and where I was standing when I did it, when the crying need is for a solution of this murder. It isn't a question of who drank the coffee. The question is who stuck the knife…"

"That'll do," Blaine interrupted, "I'm thoroughly capable of carrying on this investigation." Mason shrugged his shoulders. "It may be well for you to remember," Blaine said significantly, "that, according to the testimony of this disinterested witness, Mr. Peter Kent, who apparently is your client, deposited something in this receptacle at around midnight. Now then, we find that thing is gone, and in its place a cup and saucer which, concededly, had been in your possession."

"I haven't conceded it," Mason replied. "It may or may not have been the cup and saucer I was using. As I mentioned, cups look alike to me, and Duncan didn't identify the sleepwalker as Peter Kent, either."

"It's the saucer that has the distinctive chip out of it," Blaine pointed out. Mason shrugged his shoulders, lit a cigarette and smiled. Blaine said, "Very well, Mr. Mason. I think we'll take your statement in front of the Grand Jury. I know you only too well. We won't get anywhere by trying to interrogate you when we haven't any power to make you answer questions. You're trying to stall things along. You're just leading us around in a circle."

"You mean that you're finished with me?"

"Do you know anything more about the murder?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, we're finished with you. When we want you we know where to get you, and," he added significantly, "we know how to get you with a subpoena."

Mason bowed and said, "Good morning, everyone."

He caught Edna Hammer's eye and saw that she was pleading with him, trying to express some unspoken message. He moved toward her and Blaine interposed. "I said that you could be excused, Mason," he said. "I think this inquiry will progress a lot faster and a damned sight more efficiently if we examine the witnesses before they have had the benefit of your very valuable suggestions."

Mason smiled and bowed mockingly. "I wish you luck," he said.

"Plenty," Mason told him. "A fellow by the name of Rease was killed. He was stabbed in bed, evidently while he was asleep. The covers were up around his neck. The night was rather warm. There were only two light blankets over him. The knife was shoved down through the blankets."

"Any motive?"

Mason lowered his voice and said, "There's damn near a case of circumstantial evidence against Peter Kent. He's my client."

"Where's he now?"

"Gone bye-bye."

"You mean he's running away?"

"No, he's on a business trip."

"Are you going to surrender him, Perry?"

"It depends. I want to find out first whether he's guilty. If he is, I don't want to handle the case. I think he was walking in his sleep. If he was, I'm going to try to get him."

"What kind of a man was the chap who was killed?"

"Sort of a crank. He was always worrying about his health."

"Did Kent have some particular motive for killing him?"

"No, but he had plenty of motive for killing the man in whose bed the victim was sleeping!"

The detective gave a low whistle. "Got the wrong man, eh?" he asked.

"I don't know. You stick around and see what you can uncover." Mason looked at his watch, then opened the door of Drake's car and said, "You can drive me down to the boulevard. I'll pick up a cab there."

"Headed for your office?"

"I don't know."

"You were there," Drake said, starting the car; "didn't you have a chance to do anything before the police came down on the place?"

"Nothing. There's another attorney there, a bird by the name of Duncan."

Drake deftly avoided a car which cut in, stepped on the throttle to beat a traffic signal and said, "Duncan cramped your style, eh?"

"I'll say he did. I wanted to find out something more about the murder, but that old fossil started messing around. Moreover, he claims he saw my client prowling around about midnight."

Drake said, "Watch your step, Perry."

"What makes you say that?"

"Just the look in your eye. You look to me as though you were pulling a fast one."

Mason grinned. "I'm pulling half a dozen fast ones," he replied. "I'm like a juggler on the stage who's got six billiard balls in the air all at once, only I'm not juggling billiard balls, I'm juggling dynamite bombs. I've got to keep moving."

"I'll find out all I can," Drake promised. "By the way, you wanted me to put a man on duty in Santa Barbara to relieve some chap who'd been watching a house up there. I got one of my men on the job, and everything's all fixed up. Just thought I'd let you know, in case you were worrying about it."

Mason nodded and said, "Good work, Paul. You'd better send another man up to work with him. I want her shadowed now, and I want as smooth a job as possible. And put a tail on anyone who leaves Kent's place after the officers get finished with their investigation… This is a good place, Paul. There's a taxicab. I'll take it. You can telephone from the cigar store there on the corner."

Mason flagged the taxi as Drake swung in close to the curb. The driver was alert and efficient, and Mason reached his office by ten minutes after nine. Della Street, as crisply fresh as a chilled lettuce leaf, perched informally on the corner of Mason's desk and rattled a barrage of information into his ears while he was washing his hands, combing his hair, and adjusting his necktie in front of the mirror. "Jackson telephoned just a few minutes ago. One of the judges had a jury trial scheduled at half past nine, and a default matter which he had to take up. So he called court at eight-thirty and Jackson explained the circumstances to him and got his signature on the final decree of divorce. I called the Winslow Hotel at Yuma to talk with Mr. Kent and Mr. Kent hadn't arrived. I called the courthouse. They hadn't heard anything of Kent. No marriage license had been issued for him this morning, and…"

"Wait a minute," Mason said, looking at his watch, "that information doesn't have any particular significance. The courthouse hasn't been open but a few minutes. It's just after nine and…"

Her calmly efficient voice interrupted him incisively. "It's after ten o'clock there. Yuma is on Mountain Time."

Mason closed the door of the closet which contained the washbowl and medicine cabinet, made her a little bow, and said, "You win, Miss Efficiency. What else?"

"I called up the airport, found the number of the plane Kent chartered to take him to Yuma, and got Drake's office to rush a Yuma detective down to the airport there to see if that plane had landed. I'm expecting a call any moment."

"I don't know why I don't stay out of the office and let you run the business," Mason told her. "You've handled things more quickly and efficiently than if I'd been here."

She smiled her appreciation, but continued to snap information at him. "They're trying their best to get you to handle that Anstruthers will case. I told them I couldn't give them an appointment but I'd see if you were interested."

"Who wants me to handle it?"

"The attorney who's representing the contestants wants to have you put on the case. He says he has it all prepared and all you'll have to do is examine the witnesses and present the case to the jury…"

Mason interrupted her. "Can't take it," he said. "It comes up for trial this week, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"I'm not taking on any additional responsibilities until I get this case straightened out. Tell them I'm sorry. Anything else?"

"Myrna Duchene was so grateful it was positively pathetic."

"Myrna Duchene?" he asked, his forehead puckered into a frown. "Who's she?"

"The girl who was swindled by the man who's at the Palace Hotel under the alias of George Pritchard," she explained.

Mason laughed. "I'd forgotten about her. She thinks my advice will work?"

"She's positive of it. She says she'll pay you just as soon as…"

"Didn't you tell her there was no charge for the advice?"

Della Street nodded. "I told her, but she just couldn't seem to believe it. She…" The telephone bell rang. Della Street lifted the receiver to her ear, said, "Hello," listened for a few moments and said, "Stay there. Report at once by telephone, if you hear anything of it." She slipped the receiver back on the hook and said, "Kent's plane – it hasn't landed at the Yuma airport."

Mason drummed with his fingertips on the edge of his desk. "Now that's a complication," he said.

"Shall we report them as missing and have a search plane sent out?"

He slowly shook his head, said, "Ring up the airport, Della, and charter a plane. Have it ready to leave within half an hour. Don't tell them the destination. Tell them I just want to cruise around a bit."

"Charter it in your name?" she asked.

He nodded, and said, "You might as well. I'll get more service in my own name, and if the officers are prowling around the airport they've found out about Kent's plane by this time anyway."

"You think they'll figure on a plane?"

"Sure they will – sooner or later. It's just a question of time. The butler spilled the information that they were going to get married and that I'd driven them somewhere in an automobile. It won't take much of a detective to put two and two together on that."

The telephone rang again. Della listened at the receiver, handed the telephone over to Perry Mason and said, "It's Jackson again at Santa Barbara. You take the call on this line, and I'll go out in the other office to telephone the airport."

Mason said, "Hello," and heard Jackson's voice on the line. "Hello, Jackson, everything okay? Della tells me you have the decree."

"That's right, the decree's signed and duly entered. What do I do now?"

"Who's watching the woman up there?"

"One of Drake's men. He relieved Harris."

"Della said you had something to tell me you didn't want to spill over the telephone."

"I didn't dare to. I'm talking through the courthouse exchange. I haven't been able to leave here yet. I'm afraid there may be a leak through the switchboard. Later on I can go to the main telephone office and call you from there.

"What's the nature of the information, generally?" Mason asked. "Use language that won't mean anything to an outsider."

"It relates to a consolidation of adverse forces."

Mason frowned thoughtfully and said, "Can you tell me anything more than that?"

"Apparently," Jackson answered, "arrangements are being consummated by which the plaintiff in this divorce action is planning to cooperate with certain other parties who are in an adverse position to the divorce defendant." Mason made a little humming noise between his tightly closed lips. "You get what I mean?" Jackson asked.

"I think I do. I don't want you to spill any of that over the telephone. Get down here just as quickly as you can."

"I can start right away."

"How about the others?"

"All ready to go any time I say the word."

"Where's Miss Warrington?"

"She's here with me. Harris is waiting out front in the automobile."

Mason said, "Climb in the car and beat it down here. Tell Harris to step on it. Now, Jackson, an unforeseen and unfortunate occurrence took place at Kent's residence last night."

"Can you tell me what it was?"

"A Philip Rease was murdered." Jackson gave a low whistle. "Therefore," Mason said, "it wouldn't be particularly advisable for Harris and Miss Warrington to jump into the arms of the police detectives until they've had a chance to prepare themselves somewhat."

"You mean you want me to bring them to the office before they…"

"That's exactly what I don't want," Mason interrupted. "I don't want the police to think I've been coaching the witnesses. I'm in this thing deep enough already. And I don't want you to let on to them that you know Rease was murdered. But suggest to them that, because they may be questioned by Mrs. Kent's lawyer as to what happened during the evening, they'd better make certain their recollections check."

"Harris is the one who has the information concerning the matter I was trying to explain to you a few moments ago," Jackson said.

"About the consolidation of forces?"

"Yes."

"Just the same, I don't want Harris to come here before he's questioned by the police. Go over any information he has. Get Miss Warrington to take it down in shorthand and transcribe it later, if it's necessary. Do you get the sketch?"

"I think so, yes."

"Okay," Mason said, "get started. I may not be here when you arrive. If I'm not, wait for me."

He hung up the receiver, started pacing the floor of his office. Della Street appeared in the doorway. "The plane's all ready," she said. "I have a fast car ordered. It'll be at the curb by the time you get there." Mason jerked open the door of the coat closet, pulled on a light topcoat, paused to adjust his hat in front of the mirror. "When you get to the airport," Della Street instructed, "go out to the far end of the field. A two-motored cabin job will be warming up. I told the pilot to be sure to be at the far end of the field. I figured detectives might be hanging around."

Mason nodded, said, "Good girl," and made for the elevator.

The automobile which Della Street had ordered arrived at the curb just as Mason was emerging from the building. The driver knew how to make time through traffic. "Go to the far end of the field," Mason said.

"Yes, sir, I've already been instructed."

Mason leaned back against the cushions, his eyes entirely oblivious to the whizzing scenery. Twice he had to brace himself as the car swerved to avoid a collision, but the hour indicated on his wristwatch when he climbed into the cabin plane more than compensated for any inconvenience on the road.

Mason gave the pilot terse instructions. "A plane took off for Yuma about daylight this morning. It hasn't arrived. Keep on the charted route to Yuma, and keep your eyes on the ground below as much as possible. I'll be watching."

"If we find it down, what do you want me to do?"

"Circle down as close to it as you can. Don't take any chances on making a landing unless someone's hurt and there's something we can do. If it's a crash and they're dead, we'll report to the authorities. If someone's in need of medical attention, we'll take a chance on landing."

The pilot nodded, climbed into the pilot's compartment. The plane roared into motion, zoomed smoothly upward. Mason looked down at the airport to see if he could make out a police car parked near the entrance, or see Sergeant Holcomb hanging about, but the plane swept overhead too fast for him to make an accurate survey. The ship climbed smoothly upward in a long curve, until the rows of white buildings glistening in the brilliant California sunlight gave way to the darker green of checker-boarded orange groves. Then, with a snowcapped mountain on both the right and the left, the plane shot through a narrow pass, rocked violently in bumpy air, and then flattened into steady droning flight. Almost as sharply as though marked by a line drawn with a ruler, the land of the fertile orange groves gave place to desert, a sandy waste dotted with greasewood, sagebrush and cacti. Over on the right, Palm Springs appeared, nestled against the base of the towering mountains. A few minutes more, and beyond the date palms of the Coachella Valley, the sun glistened on the Salton Sea. Mason peered steadily downward, looking first from one side of the plane, then from the other. He saw no sign of any grounded plane. The Salton Sea slipped behind. Below was a vast, tumbled aggregation of eroded mountains, huge hills of drifting sand, a country rich in its lore of lost mines, a hard-bitten, mirage-infested, thirsty country which had claimed a hideous toll of venturesome prospectors. The Colorado showed ahead as a yellowish snake winding turgidly through the desert. Yuma sprawled in the sunlight. The pilot turned to Mason for instructions.