“How do we arrange it?” Della asked.
“Bust right in the side door as big as Life. We’ve got to make a hit-and-run play. I want to see Sims and get out before the District Attorney arrives on the scene.”
They started up the walk which led to the back of the house, and reached the side door. Mason tried it, found it unlocked, and walked in; then, using Della Street’s flashlight, went back toward the kitchen.
Lights were on here, and they could hear the sound of voices. They heard Nell Sims say angrily, “Now you look at that bag, Pete Sims. That’s been opened and a whole lot of the stuff taken out.”
Sims said, “It isn’t my fault, Nell. I tell you—”
Mason opened the door, said, “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I asked a few questions.”
They turned to face him in surprise, Nell Sims holding a paper bag in her hand.
“Is that the arsenic?” Mason asked.
She nodded.
“Sitting in there next to the sugar container?”
“Well, not right next to it, but pretty close.”
“What’s that written on it?”
Sims said hastily, “That’s something I wrote on there so nobody would make a mistake. You can see for yourself. I printed on here: ‘GUARD CAREFULLY. PETE SIMS. PRIVATE.’”
Mason stretched out his hand. “Pete,” he said, “I want to ask you a few questions. I—” Abruptly he stopped and frowned down at the printing on the bag.
“I want you to be my lawyer,” Pete said. “I’m in awful bad, Mr. Mason and...”
The swinging door abruptly slammed open.
Mason whirled as he heard Della Street’s gasp.
Sheriff Greggory was standing in the doorway. For a moment, there was anger on his face. Then he smiled triumphantly.
“And now, Mr. Mason,” he said, “I am in my own bailiwick, vested with the full authority of the law. The District Attorney is waiting in his office. Either you can come along and make a statement, or I’ll hold you in jail, at least until you can get a writ of habeas corpus.”
Mason hesitated just long enough to make an accurate appraisal of the determination in Sheriff Greggory’s face. Then he turned to Della Street and said quietly, “You can drive the car up to the courthouse, Della. I think the sheriff prefers that I ride with him.”
Chapter 21
District Attorney Topham was a cadaverous man with hollow cheeks, a haunted expression of nervous futility, and restless mannerisms. He fidgeted slightly in the big leather-backed swivel chair behind his office desk, regarded Perry Mason with large lackluster eyes, said in the voice one uses in reciting a memorized speech, “Mr. Mason, there is evidence indicating that you have committed a crime within the limits of this county. Because you are a brother attorney who has achieved a certain prominence within the limits of your profession, I am giving you an opportunity to explain the circumstances before any formal action is taken against you.”
“What do you want to know?” Mason asked.
“What have you to say to the charge that you committed larceny of a paper?”
“I took it.”
“From the desk of Banning Clarke in his residence in this county?”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Mason, surely you must understand the damaging effect of such an admission?”
“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Mason said. “What’s all the commotion about?”
“Surely, Mr. Mason, you understand that, entirely apart from the statute making it a crime to alter or deface an instrument of such a nature, the law provides that an instrument is property; that the taking of such an instrument constitutes larceny; that because the degree of the larceny is determined by the value of the property to be distributed by the instrument—”
“Now listen,” Mason interrupted. “I didn’t spring this before because I didn’t want to have to produce the will at this time and explain the terms of it; but I’ll tell you this: It is my position that this is a genuine will made by Banning Clarke in his handwriting, and dated the day prior to his death. I am named executor of that last will and testament. As such, it was my duty to take that will into my custody. In fact, if any other person had discovered that will — even you yourself — I could have demanded that you turn it over to me as the person named as the executor, or that you turn it over to the clerk of the probate court. Now then, try and find some flaw in the legality of that reasoning.”
Topham ran long bony fingers over his high forehead, glanced at the sheriff, twisted his position in the chair which had apparently learned to squeak a protest against the constant fidgeting of its occupant. “You are named as executor?”
“The sheriff’s own witness admits that.”
“May I see that will?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I will produce it at the proper time. I believe that under the law, although I haven’t looked it up, I have thirty days.”
The swivel chair squeaked again, this time a high-pitched drawn out sque-e-e-e-ak. The district attorney faced the sheriff. “If that’s the truth, there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“No matter if he entered the house and surreptitiously removed this from the desk?” the sheriff insisted.
Mason smiled as the chair gave forth a whole series of short, sharp squeaks.
“You see,” Topham explained, “if he is executor, then he is entitled to take charge of all of the property of the deceased. It was not only his right, but his duty, to go through the effects of the decedent, and I believe that he is absolutely correct in regard to the provision of the law that the will must be surrendered either to the executor or to the county clerk.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Greggory demanded of Mason.
“You didn’t ask me.”
“Well, you weren’t dumb, were you?”
Mason said apologetically, “Sometimes when I’m embarrassed, Sheriff, I find myself a little tongue-tied. You’ll remember, Sheriff, you have threatened me with drastic action on several occasions. That embarrassed me. I became a little diffident.”
The sheriff flushed. “You’re not a damn bit diffident now,” he said angrily.
Mason smiled at the district attorney. “Because I am not a damned bit embarrassed, Sheriff.”
Chapter 22
Mason found Della Street parked in his automobile in front of the courthouse.
“How did you come out?” she asked anxiously.
“I squeezed out,” Mason said, “through the front door, and it was a close squeak.”
“The legal wolf is chained?” she asked.
“Not chained — roped. Because the sheriff thought he had a cinch case against me on taking that will, he went after me on that. I made him so mad he forgot all about the stock certificate. But it won’t take long for him to start off on that as a new angle of approach. Hang it, at the time endorsing that stock certificate so that Moffgat couldn’t trap my client seemed the only logical thing to do. Now it seems a terrible blunder to have made.”
“How long a period of grace do you suppose we have, Chief?”
“Half an hour perhaps.”
“Then let’s start for Salty’s camp.”
“Not right away,” Mason said. “You see, Della, in that half hour we’ve got to find out who killed Banning Clarke, all about the poison and who was prowling around in the grounds the night Velma heard the drowsy mosquito. When the sheriff finally starts looking for us, we’ll be in the one place he’ll least expect to find us.”
“Banning Clarke’s house?” she asked.
Mason nodded.
“Hop in,” she said, “and hang on.”
Mrs. Sims answered the bell. “Oh, hello,” she chirped. “You’re back just in time. Long Distance is trying to get you from Castaic. I didn’t think they’d hold you long.”