They entered a combined living room and bedroom. A wide, mirrored section of the wall was arranged to pivot so as to conceal a wall bed. The furniture was plain, somewhat faded. A door at the far end of the room was closed. A plain table in the center of the room held some magazines. Over at the far side was a big round goldfish bowl. In the bottom of the bowl was a little castle and some sort of green water grass. Some colored shells were strewn along the bottom of the tank. A couple of goldfish swam lazily about. In the tank, so far submerged that only the top of its head and part of its beak were protruding upward, a duck was struggling feebly.
The officer followed Mason’s eyes, saw the tank, turned away, then stopped.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong with that duck?”
Mason glanced at the duck, said quickly, “I suppose this door leads to another room.”
“We’ll take a chance,” the officer said.
He knocked on the door, received no answer, and opened the door. He turned back to look at the fish tank. “Funny about that duck,” he said. “He’s sick.”
A peculiar odor seeped into the room which the officer had just entered, a very faint acrid odor. The room itself was evidently intended to be used as a dining room. There was a big table in the center, a pine sideboard, and chairs of the conventional dining-room type.
Mason said, “Let’s open these windows. I don’t like this smell. What brought you up here? Specifically, what did that woman say?”
“Said there was something wrong up here. Let’s take a look in this other room.”
The officer opened the door which led to a bathroom. It was empty. Mason crossed the room and flung the windows wide open while the officer opened another door which apparently led to the kitchen.
Mason, watching his chance, doubled back quickly to the living room, and reached his hand down into the goldfish tank.
The little duck had quit struggling. Mason lifted him out, a soggy, almost inert bundle of wet feathers.
The lawyer whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the bird dry, squeezing the water out of the feathers. The little duck made feeble motions with his feet.
Heavy steps sounded on the floor. Mason thrust the duck into his coat pocket. The officer, his face gray, came staggering toward Mason. “Kitchen... dead man... some kind of gas. I tried...” The officer stumbled, then collapsed into a chair.
Mason, glancing toward the kitchen, could see a partially opened door, the sprawled figure of a man on the floor.
The lawyer held his breath, ran to the kitchen, slammed the door shut, returned to the living room, said to the officer, “Put your head out the window. Get some fresh air.”
Haggerty nodded. Mason supported him to the window, left the officer leaning on the sill.
Moving swiftly, the lawyer dashed back, picked up the goldfish bowl, darted into the bathroom, and dumped the water down the washbowl. He turned on fresh water from the bathtub tap, until the goldfish that had been flapping around on the bottom of the bowl, began once more swimming around in the tank. When the tank was once more filled with water, Mason crossed the dining room, replaced the tank on the table. The officer was still leaning out of the window. The little duck which Mason took from his pocket was stronger now, able to move about. Mason again dried the feathers, put the duck back in the water, crossed over to the window. “How’s it coming?” he asked the officer.
“All in — got a whiff of that—”
Mason said, “We’ve got the windows open. This part of the house will air out. We’ve got to get those kitchen windows open. It’s some deadly gas. The best thing to do is to get the fire department and smash in the windows.”
“Okay... I’ll... be all right in a minute. Sort of got me for a second.”
“Just take it easy,” Mason told him.
“What is that stuff?” the officer asked. “It isn’t stove gas.”
“No, apparently some sort of chemical. How about getting downstairs?”
“There’s a man in there. We’ve got to get him out.”
“That’s a job for the fire department. Have they got gas masks?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s put in a call.”
Mason walked over to the telephone, called Operator, and asked the policeman, “Do you feel well enough to talk to ’em?”
The officer said, “Yes,” took the telephone, and explained the situation to the fire department. He hung up the phone, came back, and sat down by the window. “I’m feeling better now. What the devil was wrong with that duck?”
“What duck?”
“The one in the goldfish bowl?”
“Oh, you mean the one that was diving?”
“He looked damn funny,” Haggerty said. “Guess the gas got him.”
Mason motioned toward the bowl. “The one over there?”
“Yes.”
The duck was sitting on the surface of the water looking rather weak and groggy, preening his feathers.
“I guess the fresh air revived him,” Mason said.
“Uh huh. What did you want to see Milter about?”
“Oh, nothing in particular.”
“Yeah? At this hour of the night?” the officer asked skeptically.
“I heard he was out of a job. I thought I might have some work for him.”
“What’s his line?”
“He was a detective.”
“Oh... Working on something down here?”
“I don’t think so. I heard he was out of a job.”
“Where’s he been working?”
“Man by the name of Allgood in Hollywood,” Mason said. “You might ring Allgood up and find out about him.”
Sirens announced the arrival of the fire department. A fireman in a gas mask entered the kitchen, raised the windows, dragged out the inert body. Ten minutes later, a doctor pronounced that the man was stone dead, gave it as his opinion he had died of hydrocyanic poisoning.
More policemen arrived, a man from the sheriff’s office. They discovered a small water pitcher half full of liquid on the back of the gas stove.
“That’s it,” the doctor exclaimed. “Put hydrochloric acid in that pitcher, toss in a few lumps of cyanide, and you liberate a deadly gas. It’s the same kind they use to execute criminals in a gas chamber. The effect is practically instantaneous.”
“We’ll look that glass over for fingerprints,” the officer said.
Mason stretched, yawned. “Well, I guess there’s nothing more I can do to help you.”
The officer said gratefully, “You just about saved my life. If you hadn’t got those windows open and got me out of here, I’d have keeled over. Gosh, that stuff is powerful.”
“Glad to do what I could,” Mason said.
“Where are you staying down here? At the hotel?”
“No. I’m visiting a friend — a man by the name of Witherspoon who has a ranch out here...”
“Oh, yes, I know him,” the deputy sheriff said. “I get out there every once in a while for some dove or quail shooting. Will you be there for a while?”
“No, probably not longer than tomorrow. I think you’d better telephone Allgood and let him know about this man. Allgood might have some information that would help.”
“That’s a good idea,” the sheriff said,
“You could put through the call from this phone,” Mason observed. “Allgood probably has a night number where he can be reached.”
The deputy sheriff consulted for a moment with the policeman, then put through the telephone call. Mason walked over by the window and lit a cigarette. He had taken only a few puffs, when the operator, spurred on by the statement that it was a police emergency call, located Allgood in Hollywood. Mason heard the El Templo end of the conversation.
“Hello, is this Allgood?... You have a detective agency there... Uh huh. that’s right... This is the sheriff’s office at El Templo. Did you have a man working for you named Milter, Leslie L. Milter...Uh huh...He’s dead. Found dead in his room... Maybe murder. Some kind of gas... Who would have been interested in bumping him off?... Don’t know anyone, eh?... Wasn’t working on any case for you?... How long?... Why did you let him go?... Just no more work for him, eh?... How was he, a good man?... Know anything about his affairs?... How about women?... I see... Okay, let us know if you turn up anything. Just ring El Templo — either the sheriff’s office or the chief of police. Okay, g’by.”