The shovel made more noise.
"Scraping dirt back to fill up the hole," Mason remarked.
The beam from Glassman's flashlight stabbed through the darkness.
A startled figure jumped back and thrashed about in the vine, which, under the illumination of Glassman's flashlight, resolved itself into a climbing rosebush. Glassman said, "Come out, and be careful with your hands. This is the law."
"What are you doing here?" asked a muffled voice.
"Come on out," Glassman ordered.
The figure showed itself first as a black blotch in the midst of the glistening leaves, the wet surfaces of which reflected the illumination of the flashlight. Then, as it broke through the vine, Perry Mason caught a glimpse of the man's face and said to Burger, "It's Frank Oafley."
Burger moved forward. "What's your name?" he asked.
"I'm Oafley—Frank Oafley. I'm one of the owners of this place. Who are you and what are you doing here?"
"We're conducting a little inquiry," Burger said. "I'm the district attorney. This is Tom Glassman, my associate. What were you digging for?"
Oafley grunted, pulled a telegram from his pocket and held it out to the district attorney. The beam of the flashlight illuminated the telegram, a torn coatsleeve, a scratched, dirtcovered hand.
"You frightened me with that flashlight," he said. "I jumped right into the middle of those thorns. But it's all right. I was pretty well scratched up anyway. I guess my clothes are a wreck."
He looked down at his suit and laughed apologetically.
The four men paid no attention to him, but studied the telegram, which read:
THE KOLTSDORF DIAMONDS ARE HIDDEN IN ASHTON'S CRUTCH STOP MORE THAN HALF OF YOUR GRANDFATHERS MONEY IS BURIED JUST UNDER THE LIBRARY WINDOW WHERE THE CLIMBING ROSEBUSH STARTS UP THE TRELLIS WORK STOP THE SPOT IS MARKED BY A LITTLE STICK STUCK IN THE GROUND STOP IT ISN'T BURIED DEEP STOP NOT OVER A PEW INCHES
The telegram was signed simply "A Friend."
Glassman said in a low voice, "Looks like a genuine telegram. It cleared through the telegraph office."
"What did you find?" Burger asked.
Oafley, stepping forward to answer him, caught sight of Mason for the first time. He stiffened and said, "What's this man doing here?"
"He's here at my request," Burger said. "He's representing Charles Ashton, the caretaker. I had some questions I wanted to ask Ashton, and I wanted Mason to be along. Did you find anything where you were digging?"
"I found the stick," Oafley said, pulling a small stake from his pocket. "That was sticking in the ground. I dug clean through the loam and down to gravel. There wasn't anything there."
"Who sent the telegram?"
"You can search me."
Burger said in a low voice to Glassman, "Tom, take the key number of that message, get on the telephone and have the telegraph company dig up the original. Find out all you can about it. Get the address of the sender."
"Did you come out because of that telegram?" Oafley asked. "It's a rotten night. I shouldn't have gone out and dug, but you can realize how I felt after I got that message."
"We came out in connection with another matter," Burger said. "Where's Sam Laxter?"
Oafley seemed suddenly nervous. "He's out. What did you want to see him about?"
"We wanted to ask him some questions."
Oafley hesitated for a moment, then said slowly; "Have you been talking with Edith DeVoe?"
"No," Burger said, "I haven't."
Mason stared steadily at Oafley. "I have," he said.
"I knew you had," Oafley told him. "It's a wonder you wouldn't mind your own business."
"That'll do from you," Burger said. "Come on in the house. What's this about the Koltsdorf diamonds being hidden in Ashton's crutch?"
"You know just as much about it as I do," Oafley said sullenly.
"Sam isn't in?"
"No."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know—out an a daze, I guess."
"Okay," Burger said. "Let us in."
They climbed up to the tiled porch. Oafley produced a bunch of keys and opened the door. "If you'll excuse me a minute, I'll wash some of this mud off and slip on another suit of clothes."
"Wait a minute," Glassman said. "There's a million bucks involved, Buddy. We aren't doubting your word any, but we'd better frisk you and see…"
"Glassman," Burger warned, "Mr. Oafley isn't to be handled that way."
He turned to Oafley. "I'm sorry Mr. Glassman used exactly those words, but the thought is something which has occurred to me, and will doubtless occur to you. There's a large sum of money involved. Suppose the person who sent that telegram should claim you had been in the garden and found some or all of that money?"
"But I didn't find any. If I had, it would have been mine—half of it, anyway."
"Don't you think it might be better to have some corroborative evidence?" Burger asked.
"How could I get that?"
"You could submit to a voluntary search."
Oafley's face was sullen. "Go ahead," he said, "and search." They searched him.
Burger nodded his satisfaction. "It's just a check," he said, "on the situation. Perhaps you'll be glad later on you cooperated with us."
"I'll never be glad, but I'm not raising any very strenuous objections, because I can appreciate your position. May I go get my clothes changed now?"
Burger slowly shook his head. "Better not. Better sit down and wait. You'll dry out quickly."
Oafley sighed. "Well," he said, "let's have about four fingers of whiskey apiece. You look as though you chaps might have been out in the rain. Bourbon, rye or Scotch?"
"Whichever you come to," Mason said, "just so it's whiskey."
Oafley flashed him a speculative glance, rang a bell.
A man with a livid scar across his right cheekbone, which gave to his face a peculiar expression of leering triumph, appeared in a doorway. "You rang?" he asked Oafley.
"Yes," Oafley said. "Bring some whiskey, James. Bring some Scotch and soda and some of the Bourbon."
The man nodded, withdrew.
"Jim Brandon," Oafley said in an explanatory tone. "He acts both as chauffeur and butler."
"How was he hurt?" Burger inquired.
"Automobile accident, I believe… You're Mr. Burger, the district attorney?"
"Yes."
Oafley said slowly, "I'm sorry that Edith DeVoe said what she did."
"Why?"
"Because that fire wasn't started by the fumes from an automobile exhaust. It's impossible on the face of it."
Glassman said, "Where's your telephone?"
"There in the hallway. I'll show you… or James will show you."
"Never mind. You sit there and talk with the Chief. I'll find it all right."
Burger said, "Did you ever hear of carbon monoxide poisoning, Mr. Oafley?"
"Of course I have."
"Do you know that carbon monoxide is generated by an automobile engine when it's running?"
"But what's carbon monoxide got to do with it? It isn't an inflammable gas, is it?"
"It's a deadly gas."
Something in the grim finality of Burger's voice sent Oafley's eyebrows arching.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean that?… Why, it's unthinkable!.. Why, I can't believe…"
"Never mind what you can or cannot believe, Mr. Oafley. We want certain information. We stopped in the garage on the way up, and looked through Sam Laxter's machine. We found a long, flexible tube."
Oafley said without surprise, "Yes, Edith said she saw it quite distinctly."
"Just where is Sam Laxter now?"
"I don't know. He went out."
"How did he go out? His car's in the garage."
"Yes," Oafley said, "his car is. He didn't want to take it out and get it wet. The chauffeur drove him uptown in the Pontiac, then brought the Pontiac back. I don't know how Sam will come back, unless the Chevvy is uptown som
ewhere."
"The Chevvy?"
"Yes. It's a service car. Ashton usually drives it. We keep it for hauling things and running errands."
"You have a car?" Burger asked.
"Yes, the Buick in the garage is mine."
"And the big Pontiac?"
"That's the car my grandfather bought shortly before his death."
"The cars were saved when the house burned?"
"Yes, the garage was in the corner. It was one of the last things to go."
"In other words, the fire was started at some point removed from the garage?"
"It must have been started near grandfather's bedroom."
"Have you any ideas as to how it was started?"
"Not one… Look here, Mr. Burger. I would much prefer that you talked with Sam about this. My position is rather delicate. After all, Sam's related to me. Frankly, I had heard Edith DeVoe's story before, but I hadn't given it any attention. The carbon monoxide was, of course, a new thought to me. I simply can't believe it's possible. There must be some explanation."
Glassman entered the room carrying the telegram in his left hand. He stood in the doorway and made his report. "It's a genuine telegram all right. It was telephoned in. It was to be signed 'A Friend, but the telephone number of the sender was Exposition 62398. The phone's listed under the name of Winnie's Waffle Kitchen."
Mason got to his feet and said, "Baloney!"
"That will do, Mason," Burger told him. "You keep out of this."
"Like hell I will," Mason retorted. "You can't boss me, Burger. Winifred Laxter never sent that telegram."
Oafley stared at Tom Glassman. "Why," he said, "Winnie wouldn't send a telegram like that. There's some mistake."
"She sent it, all right," Glassman insisted.
"The hell she sent it!" Mason exploded. "It's a cinch to send a telegram over the telephone in someone else's name."
"Yeah," Glassman remarked. "Your clients always have someone conspiring against them."
"She isn't my client," Mason said.
"Just who is your client?"
Mason grinned, and remarked, "I think it's a cat."
There was a moment of silence. The noise of an automobile engine could be heard as a car climbed the incline. Headlights flashed for a moment against the window, then a horn blared its imperative summons. Jim Brandon, entering the room with a tray on which were whiskies and glasses, also syphons of soda, hurriedly set the tray down and started for the door as the horn blared again.
"That's Mister Sam," he said.
Burger caught the man's sleeve as he hurried past. "Don't be in too big a hurry," he suggested.
Glassman strode through the corridor, jerked open the front door just as the horn sounded again. "Go on out, Jim," he said, "and see what's wanted."
Jim Brandon switched on a porch light, stepped out to the porch. Sam Laxter called, "Jim, I've had a bit of an accident. You come and put the car away."
Burger pulled aside some drapes. The brilliant light from the porch illuminated a somewhat antiquated Chevrolet, with a broken windshield, a dented fender, and smashed bumper. Sam Laxter was climbing from the driver's seat. His face was cut. His right arm was bandaged with a bloody handkerchief.
Burger started for the door. Before he reached it, headlights again illuminated the drizzling night. A smoothly purring automobile swung into view, circled the driveway and came to a stop. The door of a big sedan opened. A slender figure jumped to the driveway, turned and ran excitedly toward the house, saw Sam Laxter and came to a surprised stop.
Perry Mason chuckled, and said to Burger, "We have with us none other than our esteemed contemporary, Mr. Nathaniel Shuster. During the course of the next half hour you can endeavor to discover whether he followed Sam Laxter because he knew you were going to be here or merely put in an accidental appearance."
Burger, muttering an exclamation of disgust, strode to the porch.
Shuster called, in a voice which was shrill with excitement, "Have you heard about it? Have you heard about it? Do you know what they're doing? Do you know what happened? They got an order to dig up your grandfather's body. They went out in the cemetery and dug it up."
Sam Laxter's bloodstained countenance showed surprised consternation. Frank Oafley, standing near Burger, said, "What the devil's this?"
"Take it easy," Glassman warned.
"I just found out about the order. I've made an investigation. They dug the body up already. Do you want me to take legal steps to…"
His voice trailed away into silence as he caught sight of Burger's figure standing in the light of the porch.
"Come in, Shuster," Burger said. "You'll get wet standing out there."
Rain glistened on Sam Laxter's face. The cut on his cheek dripped blood, unheeded. His lips were twisting with emotion. "What's the big idea?" he asked.
"I'm just making an investigation," Burger said, "and I wanted to ask you a few questions. Have you any objection?"
"Certainly not," Laxter replied, "but I don't like the way you're going about this thing. What was the idea digging up…"
"Not a question! Not a question!" Shuster shouted. "Not unless I am present, and not unless I tell you you should answer."
"Oh, bosh, Shuster!" Laxter said. "I can certainly answer any question the district attorney wants to put to me."
"Don't be foolish," Shuster screamed. "It's not an investigation by the district attorney, it's stirred up by that busybody, Mason. It's all over this damned cat. Don't answer them. Don't answer anything. The first thing you know, you'll be outside in the cold, and then what? All your inheritance gone. Mason sitting in the saddle. Winifred inheriting your property. The cat laughing…"
"Shut up, Shuster," Burger said. "I'm going to talk with Sam Laxter, and I'm going to talk with him without having to put up with a lot of your insane interruptions. Come in the house, Laxter. Do you need a doctor to dress those wounds?"
"I don't think so," Laxter said. "I skidded and hit a telephone pole. It shook me up a bit and I've got a bad cut on the right forearm, but it only needs washing with a good antiseptic and a clean bandage. I may have a doctor look at it later, but I won't keep you waiting."
Shuster ran toward him. "Please!" he said. "I beg of you! I implore you! Don't do it!"
"Shut up," Burger said once more, taking Sam's arm as Sam walked up the steps toward him.
Laxter and Burger entered the house, closely followed by Glassman. Shuster slowly climbed the stairs, moving like an old man whose every step was an effort.
Mason watched the three men cross the living room and disappear through a door. He entered the living room and sat down. Drake pulled a cigarette from his pocket, sat crosswise on an overstuffed chair and said, "Well, that's that."
Jim Brandon stood in the doorway and said to Shuster, "I don't know if you're supposed to come in or not."
"Don't be silly," Shuster told him, and then lowered his voice, saying something which was inaudible to Mason and the detective. Brandon also lowered his voice. The two men engaged in a conversation conducted in a low monotone.
The telephone rang repeatedly. After several minutes, a fat woman with sleepswollen eyes came shuffling down the corridor, wrapping a bathrobe about her. She picked up the telephone, said «Hello» in a drowsy, uncordial voice, then, her face showing surprise, she said, "Oh, yes, Miss Winifred… Why, I could call him. He's asleep, of course… Tell him to have Mr. Mason call you at once at…"
Perry Mason crossed toward the telephone. "If that's someone asking for Mr. Mason," he said, "I'm here and will talk on the telephone."
The woman handed him the receiver. "It's Miss Winifred Laxter," she said.
Mason said «Hello» and heard Winifred's voice, hysterical with excitement. "Thank God I was able to reach you. I didn't know where to get you so I called for Ashton to leave a message for you. Something terrible has happened. You must come at once."
Mason's voice was guarded. "I'm rather occupied here at presen
t. Could you tell me generally what has happened?"
"I don't know, but Douglas is in serious trouble… You know Douglas, you met him… Douglas Keene."
"And what has happened to him?"
"I don't know, but I must see you at once."
"I'll leave here," Mason told her, "within ten minutes. That's the best I can do. There's another matter here I'm interested in. Where will I find you?"
"I'll be at the waffle place. There won't be any lights on—just open the door and come in."
Mason said crisply, "Okay, I leave here in ten minutes."
Mason hung up the receiver as Shuster, leaving Brandon at the door, crossed the hallway with quick, nervous strides. He grabbed the lapel of Mason's coat.
"You can't do it!" he said. "You can't get away with it! It's outrageous. I'll have you brought up before the Grievance Committee. It's pettifogging."
Mason placed the flat of his hand against the man's chest, pushed him out at arm's length and said, "You should go in the lecture business, Shuster. No one could ever accuse you of delivering a dry lecture."
Mason pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face. Shuster jumped about as excitedly as a terrier barking at a steer. "You knew you couldn't break the will; that will is as good as gold. So what did you do? You started in trying to frame up a murder charge on my clients. You can't make it stick! You and your caretaker are going to find yourselves in plenty of trouble. Plenty of trouble! You hear me? You…"
He broke off as District Attorney Burger, accompanied by Tom Glassman, reentered the room. Burger's features were puzzled. "Mason," he said, "do you know anything about diamonds your client Ashton has?"
Mason shook his head. "We can ask him," he suggested.
"I think we want to talk with him," Burger said. "Apparently he's mixed up in this thing."
Mason nodded.
Shuster said, "A damned outrage! A frameup! Mason cooked this up in order to bust the will."
Mason's smile was tolerant as he remarked, "I told you, Shuster, that I always hit in an unexpected place."
"Do you wish me to call the caretaker?" the flabby woman in the wrapper asked, as Oafley, in bathrobe and slippers, shuffled into the room.
"Who are you?" Burger inquired.
"The housekeeper," Oafley interposed. "Mrs. Pixley."
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