“There’s been another murder?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“Who?”
“Roland Burr.”
“Have the police made an arrest?”
“Yes.”
“Adams?”
“No. Our esteemed contemporary, John L. Witherspoon. Think that one over.”
They stopped in at Drake’s office. Mason talked, while he kept his eye on the minute hand of his wrist watch. “Get this straight, Paul, and get it fast. There’s been another murder. Roland Burr. The police have arrested John L. Witherspoon. Looks as though they have something of a case.”
“Know what the evidence is?” Drake asked.
“Not yet. Here’s the angle that interests me. Diana Burr, Roland Burr’s wife, originally came from Winterburg City. She was eighteen or nineteen years old at the time of the murder. Latwell and Horace Legg Adams had a fist fight the day Latwell was murdered. Latwell went home, got a gun, and disappeared. That was the last his wife ever saw of him. Looks as though it may have been self-defense.”
“Fight over a woman?” Drake asked.
“Mrs. Dangerfield gave me the information. She wouldn’t say. She’s going to play her cards close to her chest, won’t let me use that statement except privately. But it’s something to work on.”
“Only that we can’t prove it except through her.”
Mason nodded impatiently, said, “All this is preliminary to the point I’m making.”
“What’s that?”
“Diana Burr was a local product. She kept going away and getting married and coming back in between marriages. Roland Burr was her third venture, perhaps her fourth. Now then, if she’d been playing around, there’s just a chance she might have come back to one of her first lovers for her final marriage. Just on the off-chance, Paul, look up Roland Burr. See if he doesn’t have a Winterburg City background.”
“What would it mean if he does?”
“Then see if he knew Corine Hassen,” Mason said.
“Isn’t that all pretty much of a coincidence?” Drake asked.
“Coincidence, hell! If it’s what I think it is, it was careful, deliberate planning. Witherspoon was wide open. Anyone could have laid the foundation to play him for a sucker. His pride in the things he owns, his desire to show them, his enthusiasm for fly-fishing and color photography. Hell’s bells, Paul, it all checks.”
“Checks with what?” Drake asked.
“A design for deliberate, premeditated murder.”
Drake said, “I don’t get you.”
“I haven’t time to explain,” Mason said, starting for the door. “You’ll get it as you dig out the facts.”
“What were you doing with Allgood?”
Mason grinned. “Putting a little pressure on him. The guy gave himself away. Bet you a hundred to one, he’s running that Hollywood scandal sheet. It feeds him business, gives him a chance to utilize the information he gets in his business, and is laying the foundation for a big chunk of money when he gets ready to let go.”
“Then this blonde was acting under his instructions?”
“Darned if I know. They all may have been working on an individual double-cross, but you can bet one thing. He’s the one who published that dope in the scandal sheet. I called on him and gave him something to think about, so he handed it right back to me by cutting out the portion of the column relating to Witherspoon and sending it on to me. If it hadn’t been for my call, he’d probably have sent it on to Witherspoon direct. Witherspoon would have called Allgood to find out about it, and Allgood would have sold him on another investigation at some fabulous price.”
Drake said, “I’ve heard talk about Allgood playing both ends against the middle, but you went pretty far with him, didn’t you, Perry? You can’t prove any of that stuff and...”
“The hell I can’t,” Mason said. “Let him sue me. I’ll start taking depositions, looking at books, and I’ll prove it fast enough.”
“If you’re right,” Drake said, “he won’t sue.”
“He won’t sue,” Mason remarked positively. “Come on, Della. We’re headed for El Templo.”
Chapter 16
John L. Witherspoon, held temporarily in custody at the sheriff’s office, was permitted to talk with his lawyer privately in a witness room which opened off from the courtroom.
“The damnedest, most absurd thing you ever heard,” Witherspoon stormed. “And it all started with my identification of that damned duck.”
“Suppose you tell me about it,” Mason said.
“Well, I told the police about the duck. And I told them about Marvin having taken that duck from the ranch. The whole thing was as plain to me as the nose on my face. Hang it, it still is.”
“What did you tell the police?” Mason insisted.
“I told them that Marvin Adams had taken a duck from my place. I identified it as being my duck — the one that Marvin Adams had taken. That was all the police needed. They decided to grab Marvin Adams. They caught him as he got off the train in Los Angeles.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said.
“Apparently Adams told a pretty straightforward story. He said he’d taken a duck and put him in his automobile and that the duck had vanished, and that was all he knew about it. He admitted that he hadn’t searched the car completely, but felt sure the duck was gone. The police thought so, too. They got in touch with the police here, and they went out and searched the car Marvin was driving — and what do you think they found?”
“What did they find?” Mason asked.
“Found that damn duck over in the back of the car. The little son-of-a-gun had flopped over the back of the front seat somehow, got down on the floor and crawled under the foot rest.” Witherspoon cleared his throat, shifted his position uncomfortably in the chair. “A damnable combination of peculiar coincidences put me in something of a spot,” he said.
“How so?” Mason asked.
“Well, after you left the house last night, I wanted to catch up with you, just as I told you, but I didn’t tell you exactly what happened after that — that is, I told you but I didn’t tell it in its proper sequence.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said noncommittally.
“I chased in after you. I missed you when you were off by the side of the road changing a tire. I told you that I looked around uptown to try and find you, and thought I saw Mrs. Burr and went off on a tangent trying to find her. Well, that’s true. The thing that I didn’t tell you about was something that I thought might embarrass me personally.”
“What was it?”
“Immediately on reaching town, I drove to Milter’s apartment. I told you that I didn’t see your car parked near there, so I kept on going. That isn’t true. I didn’t pay any attention to cars. I was too steamed up. I slid my car into a parking place at the curb, got out, and went directly to Milter’s apartment, and rang the doorbell. Naturally, I thought you were up there. Not having overtaken you on the road, I thought you’d kept ahead of me.”
“You went to Milter’s apartment then?”
“Yes.”
“Immediately on reaching town?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do?”
“I rang the doorbell.”
“Then what?”
“No one answered, but I saw the door hadn’t been closed all the way. I pushed against it impatiently, and the door came open. The spring lock hadn’t clicked into place.”
“What did you do?” Mason asked.
“I walked part way up the stairs and someone heard me coming — a woman.”
“You saw her?”
“No, I didn’t, not her face, at least. I was halfway up the stairs when this woman came to the head of the stairs. I could see a leg and some underthings — felt embarrassed as the devil. She wanted to know what I was doing, breaking into the apartment. I said I wanted to see Mr. Mason, and she told me Mr. Mason wasn’t there and to get out. Naturally, under the circumstances, I turned around and went downstairs.”