“Time really is nothing but a huge circle. You divide a circle of three hundred and sixty degrees into twenty-four hours, and you get fifteen degrees of arc that is the equivalent of each hour.”
“You’re getting too complicated for me,” Drake said. “I don’t get it.”
Mason said, “It’s simple enough, once you get the idea. What I’m trying to point out is that by using sidereal time, astronomers know the exact position of any given star at any given moment.”
“How?”
“Well, they give each star a certain time position in the heavens, which is known as its ‘right ascension.’ Then, by knowing the right ascension, looking at a clock and getting the sidereal time, they can know the exact position of the star. That’s the way they work the astronomical telescopes. They get the position of the star at a given moment, turn the telescope so that the angle is exactly right, set it for latitude on another graduated circle known as the star’s ‘declination,’ look in the finder telescope — and there’s the star.”
“All right,” Drake grinned, “there’s the star — so what?”
Mason said, “So, it’s a newspaper headline.”
Drake thought that over. “I believe you’ve got something there, Perry — if we could make it stick. What makes you think this clock was geared according to this sidereal time you’re talking about?”
Mason said, “Look at it this way, Paul. Twice during the year, sidereal time must agree with civil time — once when it hits it right on the nose, and again when it’s gained twelve hours, which would have the effect, on a twelve-hour clock, of—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Drake said. “I can figure that out.”
“One of these times when sidereal time agrees with civil or sun time, is at the time of the equinox on September twenty-third.”
“And then the clock goes on gaining four minutes a day?” Drake asked.
“That’s right.”
“But this clock was twenty-five minutes slow.”
“Thirty-five minutes fast,” Mason said, smiling.
“I don’t get you.”
“You’ve forgotten that our time has been advanced an hour. Therefore, our war time is an hour ahead of sun time, so that a clock that was twenty-five minutes slow on our war time would be thirty-five minutes fast on our sun time... That gives us something to think about.”
“Something to think about is right,” Drake said. “If we can tie this murder in with astrology, or even astronomy, we’ll give it so much notoriety the district attorney of Kern County will grab at it like a hungry dog grabbing a bone.”
Mason said, “Well, it’s an angle to think over. All it is, is just a publicity gag for the newspapers, but it’ll give them a handle — a tag line.”
“I’ll say it will,” Drake said. “When can I go to town with that, Perry?”
“Almost any time.”
Della Street’s knock sounded on the door. “Everybody decent?” she called.
“Come on in, Della.”
Della Street entered, grinned a salutation at the detective, and walked across to slip a folded piece of paper into Mason’s hand.
Drake, whose eyes apparently were centered with fixed interest on some object at the far end of the room, said, “You’re ruining that girl, Perry.”
“How so?”
“It’s the legal training. She’s getting so she doesn’t trust anyone. You tell her to get some information, and she knows you’ll be in here talking with me, so she writes it out on a piece of paper and slips it to you.”
Mason laughed, said, “She knows you have a one-track mind, Paul. She doesn’t want to distract it.” He unfolded the paper.
Della Street had written merely a name on a sheet of paper torn from her notebook. “Dr. Jefferson Macon, Roxbury.”
Drake said, “There’s a story going around that Hardisty had been dipping into funds at the bank. I suppose you’re not going to tell me about that. You—”
The telephone rang.
Drake said, “This is probably one of the boys with a report.” He picked up the receiver, placed it to his ear, said, “Hello,” and then let his face become a mask while he digested the information which was distinguishable to the other occupants of the room only as harsh, metallic noises emanating from time to time from the receiver.
“You’re certain?” Drake asked at length. Then, evidently being assured that there was no doubt about the matter, added, “Stay where you are. I may call you back in about five minutes. I’ll want to think this over.”
He hung up the receiver, turned to Mason and said, “The report of the autopsy surgeon shows Jack Hardisty was killed sometime after seven o’clock, probably around nine o’clock. The time limits are fixed as being between seven o’clock and ten-thirty.”
Mason pushed his hands down deep in his trousers pockets, studied the pattern on the faded hotel carpet intently, suddenly snapped a question at the detective. “Was the fatal bullet in the body, Paul?”
The question jarred expression into Drake’s face, shattering the mask of wooden-faced disinterest with which the detective customarily masked his thoughts. “Perry, what the devil put that idea in your mind?”
“Was it?” Mason asked.
“No,” Drake said. “That’s the thing the autopsy surgeon can’t figure. That’s one of the reasons he held up his report until he’d made a double check. The man was undoubtedly killed with a bullet, probably from a thirty-eight caliber weapon. The bullet didn’t go clean through the body — and the bullet isn’t there!”
Mason nodded slowly, thoughtfully digesting that information.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Drake said.
“What do you want me to do — throw up my hands and say ‘my, my’?”
Drake said, “Bunk! You can’t fool me, Perry. You anticipated that very thing.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Your question.”
“It was just a question.”
“And I’ll bet this is the only murder case in which you ever asked it.”
Mason said nothing.
“Well,” Drake told him, “in any event that lets Milicent out.”
“What does?”
“The fact that the murder took place after she left the cabin.”
Mason shook his head slowly. “No, Paul, it doesn’t let her out; it drags her in. I’m sorry, but I’m having to pass up dinner. Take Della — on the expense account.”
Drake said, “There are times, Perry, when you get some very commendable ideas.”
“Do I know where I can reach you, in case anything turns up?” Della Street asked Perry Mason.
He nodded.
“Where?”
The lawyer merely smiled.
Della said, “I get you.”
“And I don’t,” the detective protested.
Della Street placed her fingers on his arm. “Never mind, Paul. We’re going to dinner — on the expense account... Do your dinners include cocktails, Paul?”
“They always have when they’ve been on an expense account,” Drake said, “although Perry probably doesn’t know it.”
Mason grinned, took the sliver of glass from his pocket.
“A piece of a spectacle lens, Paul,” he said, handing the sliver to the detective.
Drake turned it over in his fingers. “What about it?”
Mason started for the door. “That’s what I’m paying you for, Paul.”
Chapter 11
Roxbury’s main street seemed strangely surreptitious with its unlighted neon signs, its shielded illumination, making the figures of pedestrians appear vague, shadowy and unreal.