The Case of the Backward Mule

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “Well, if I can … You know, anything, just let me know.”

  Clane thanked him and walked out.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AS CASUALLY AS THOUGH he hadn’t heard that Cynthia Renton was not to be round in her apartment, Terry Clane directed a taxi to her apartment and rang the bell. When he turned away after receiving no answer, he was conscious of the car which had pulled up to the kerb. There were two men sitting in that car. The one on the right-hand side opened tie door.

  “Hi, Buddy.”

  “Good evening,” Clane said.

  “Looking for someone?

  “Yes.

  “She ain’t there.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Guess we’d sorta better check up on you. Name maybe, and perhaps a driving licence and a social security card. You know, just a routine check-up.”

  “How would a passport do?” Clane asked.

  The officer frowned. “Well, now, I guess That’s all right.”

  Clane produced a passport. The officer made notes. “You been in China?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “About three hours ago.”

  “Oh, oh, and came right here?”

  “Not directly here, no.”

  “Where ya been?”

  “At police headquarters.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How”d you happen to go there?”

  “I was escorted.”

  “By whom?”

  “Detectives who met me at the boat.”

  The officer grinned. “Okay,” he said. “On your way.”

  Terry Clane found Alma Renton, Cynthia”s sister, in her studio apartment. She opened the door to his knock, took a quick backward step as though to get him at proper perspective. Then with a glad cry she flung herself into his arms. “Terry, oh, Terry!” she sighed.

  She gave him tremulous lips, her eyes fluttered shut. For a moment she relaxed. Then she was laughing half hysterically. “Oh, how I’ve been waiting for you, Terry,” she said. “I didn’t dare to meet the boat. Detectives were there. The most terrible things have been happening …”

  “I know,” Clane said.

  “The officers are absolutely furious. If they could get Edward Harold, I think … gosh, Terry, I think they’d kill him. Do they do that sometimes? You know, claim a man was resisting arrest?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Clane said, and then added reassuringly, “and I doubt if anyone else would. You probably hear lots of rumours, but you can take them with a whole barrel of salt.”

  “Apparently an escape was the last thing on earth they were looking for. It’s made the police seem inefficient and exposed them to a lot of censure. They’re absolutely furious. It’s a deadly cold fury. They’re leaving no stone unturned. I’m scared.”

  “Who engineered the escape?” Terry asked.

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Cynthia and a friend of Ed Harold’s, a man named Bill Hendrum. You don’t know him. he’s one of these barrel-chested he-men who believe in direct action. It was a crazy thing to do and I’m just sick over Cynthia. They’ll catch her, of course, eventually—and when they do, they’ll throw the book at her. The officers told me that. They said I could tell her in case she communicated with me. They’re absolutely furious. And they said orders were out to get Ed Harold alive or dead. Oh, Terry, I’m just limp with fright. You know Cynthia. Her idea of loyalty and all that. She told me she’d kill herself the day they executed Harold, a sort of protest to society. She isn’t… oh, Terry, why couldn’t you have got here sooner!”

  “I did the best I could. I tried for a plane, but they red-taped me to a steamer, and if I’d missed that that’d never have let me go. You see, there were some things they wanted me to check on en route. It was that or nothing. You’ve heard from Cynthia?”

  “Not a word. Of course, Terry, I’m hoping she’s playing it smart, that she’ll either show up with an alibi, or else just sit tight and let them try to prove it on her. But I’m afraid she and Ed have gone away to hide as long as they can and then shoot it out with the officers.

  “There’s nothing one can do except go on living the same as though nothing had happened. They’re shadowing every move I make. They’ll be following you, too, I guess.”

  “Well, the best thing we can do is pretend to carry on our regular routine. How about dinner?”

  “It’s a date. How soon?”

  “Soon. I’ve been thinking of a good thick steak with baked potatoes and lots of butter ever since we left Hong Kong.”

  “Did you stop in Honolulu?”

  “No, we came right through.”

  She said “I wrote you care of the boat in Honolulu. I didn’t know whether it would stop or not. I guess you didn’t get my letter.”

  “No.”

  “Did you know anything about … about the escape before you arrived?”

  “No. The police broke the news to me. Did that give you a lie-detector test, Alma?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “They may do it,” he said.

  “My gosh, Terry, would I betray myself… ?”

  “Probably,” Clane said. “I’ll give you a recipe for making it a little bit difficult for them to evaluate the readings.”

  “Don’t you want a drink, Terry? I’ll have to put on a little war-paint. It’ll take me two or three minutes and I can fix you one as easily as not.”

  “No, we’ll have a cocktail at the cafe,” Clane said. “I’ll look around while you get fixed up.”

  He moved slowly around the studio, studying some of the finished and unfinished paintings. When she joined him some five minutes later, he said simply “You’ve improved in your work, Alma.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your technique always has been good. Now you’re getting a depth, a certain sweep of power into your work. It’s hard to define.”

  She said simply “It comes through suffering.”

  “Suffering?”

  “Yes. I’ve found that out. Suffering is a large part of life, and you can’t understand life until You’ve suffered. I keep dunking of that figure on the mule and the story you told me about it.”

  “Do we ride or walk?” Clane asked, holding the door open for her. “The police are also interested in that figure. Did it enter into the case?”

  “No, not directly. The case was terrible. Let’s walk. It’s only a couple of blocks.”

  “When did you see that figure last?” Terry asked.

  “Cynthia had it on her mantel. She was very much attached to it. It was a tie that bound her to you. And then she appreciated the philosophy behind it.”

  “The last time I saw it,” Clane said dryly, “the police suddenly thrust it under my nose. It had blood spots on it.”

  “Terry! It couldn’t have.”

  “It did,” Clane said. “At least the spots looked to be blood.”

  “Oh, Terry! How did that happen?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I want to find out.”

  “I don’t see how … Cynthia considered it one of her most prized possessions. You wanted to break off with her when you went to the Orient on that dangerous mission. Some crazy idea about giving her her freedom. You shouldn’t have done it, Terry.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh … because.”

  “Because she fell in love with Edward Harold?”

  “I’m not so certain she is in love with him, Terry.”

  “If she isn’t she’d better be,” Clane said grimly. “She’s certainly in a mess now, and I guess he is too.”

  Alma choked back a sob. “Don’t, Terry. You know Cynthia. She isn’t like other people. She’s wild and impulsive and unconventional. Life is really a cage of deadly routine, and Cynthia is like a wild thing that can’t be caged.”

  “Tell me what you can about the case,” Terry Clane said in a low voice when they were seated in th
e restaurant. “Cover as much ground as you can before the food arrives, then we’ll quit talking about the case and quit thinking about it.”

  She said “You know Horace Farnsworth, Terry. He was like an uncle to Cynthia. He simply worshipped the ground she walked on. He was worried about the way Cynthia tossed money around and he wanted to have her take care of it. He said that inside of five years she’d have gone through the fortune she inherited and be absolutely broke.”

  “So Cynthia turned it over to him?”

  “Certainly not. Cynthia is wildly impulsive and unconventional but she wouldn’t put all of her financial eggs in one basket. She gave him five thousand to invest and then later on another five thousand.”

  “Did she keep a close check on where he was making her investments?”

  “No. She considered this to be only a drop in the bucket. She gave it to Horace and then forgot about it. She wanted it for a nest egg. And Horace wanted to run it up to a million dollars and surprise her. I think he took some chances with it on that account.”

  “Go ahead. What happened?”

  “Well, after you left for China and told Cynthia you wanted her to be free and that you were going on a dangerous mission and all that… Well, the poor child was completely heartbroken for a while and then Edward Harold came along. He was just what she needed to cheer her up. He was as scatter-brained as Cynthia in some ways, and conservative in others. he’s strong for the underdog. He appealed to her.”

  Terry kept his eyes on the tip of the fork with which he was making designs on the table-cloth. “Were they engaged?” he asked.

  “Don’t be silly,” Alma said. “Cynthia was waiting. But she liked Edward and that went places together and he became just absolutely utterly infatuated with her. He just worshipped the ground she walked on.”

  “And became jealous of Horace Farnsworth?”

  For a moment there was a long silence, then Alma said “I don’t know.”

  “You never were very good at lying,” Clane said.

  She met his eyes then. “Yes, he was intensely jealous.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, Edward Harold kept wanting Cynthia to get her money back from Horace Farnsworth, or to have him make a detailed accounting. And Cynthia laughed at him and told him Horace was absolutely dependable and honest and skilful. Well, you know how these things build up.”

  “So Harold went to Farnsworth?”

  She said “Edward Harold did a little investigating. You remember that I wrote you that Horace had gone into partnership with Stacey Nevis, Ricardo Taonon and George Gloster?”

  Clane nodded.

  “It was an unfortunate association,” she said. “Terry, I distrust that Ricardo more man I can tell you. He gives me the creeps. There’s something devious and mysterious about the man.”

  Clane smiled. “He’s a Eurasian,” he said. “He is sensitive. He feels his mixed blood. Has enough of the Oriental in him to make him retire within himself when he gets hurt. He’s like a cat that wants to crawl away by itself when It’s sick. A dog will seek human companionship, but a cat wants only to get away from everything and everybody.”

  “I know. I try to make allowances for that. But nevertheless the man is a … Terry, he’s evil.”

  “Well, we’ll pass that for a minute. Tell me what happened. Did Horace Farnsworth put Cynthia’s money in the partnership?”

  “No. He put it in oil—and it didn’t pan out.” The waiter drew aside the green curtain and, with something of a flourish, deposited two dry martinis and a bowl of green olives.

  Clane said “I think you can duplicate these martinis in about five minutes. Okay, Alma, That’s enough for now. We quit talking about the case and talk about something else.”

  They clicked the tips of their glasses together, sipped the drink. Then Clane said “There’s one more question. Has it ever occurred to you that Cynthia might have gone to … friends of mine?”

  “Chinese?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve thought of that.”

  “All right,” Clane said. “Try not to think of it. The police have ways of reading your mind. And refuse to take any lie-detector test in case they ask you if you’re willing to do so. Tell them your nerves are too unstrung. And now let’s eat.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHERE SAN FRANCISCO’S CHINATOWN SEPARATES ITSELF from the rest of the city, the line of demarcation is sharp. It is as though the Chinese, mindful of the fact that a Western author had observed that East was East and West was West and never the twain might meet, had endeavoured to offer visible proof of the logic of that statement.

  Terry Clane, emerging from the Stockton Street tunnel, found himself surrounded by the atmosphere of the Orient as effectively as though he had stepped from a ship to the wharf at Hong Kong.

  Here were expensive shops, beginning to show once more in the windows those objects of Oriental patience which are so in-conceivable to the Western mind. Here was a sampan carved from ivory beginning to turn with age, a sampan loaded heavily with sacks of merchandise, peopled with miniature ivory figures bent with the toil of a lifetime of labour, so cunningly fashioned they were complete even to the smallest detail. One could see the wrinkles about the tired eyes of the stooped man who worked the sculling-oar back and forth by the aid of a rope so arranged that it kept the blade of the oar turned at just the right angle to yield greatest efficiency. This ivory masterpiece had taken years of work by a clever craftsman. It was so marvellously complete that the observer looking at it might well have felt he was standing on a dock at the Whangpoo, looking through the wrong end of a telescope at one of the typical sampans passing by. Yet the price at which it was to be sold was such that an affluent Westerner could well buy it, place it carelessly on top of the mantel as an ornament and forget about it, little realizing that in the capacity for taking such infinite pains over such a long period of time lay the key to China’s indestructibility.

  Over these stores were offices, apartments, lodge-rooms where the various tongs held their meetings, and down the side streets one could catch glimpses of figures moving silently along the line of shops where merchandise was sold by Orientals only to Orientals Chinese drug-stores where one might find weird remedies concocted from various animals and reptiles grocery stores where one might find Chinese delicacies, birds’ nests for soup, son keou tow with its peculiar pungent inimitable flavour that is like nothing else on earth, “petrified eggs” which had been buried in mud until that had solidified into a dark jelly with a flavour that few Occidental palates could appreciate.

  Terry Clane moved through these side streets, opened a plain, unmarked door which disclosed a flight of grimy stairs lighted by a dispirited bulb which seemed about ready to give up its inadequate struggle against the dark shadows that were forever closing in upon it.

  Terry Clane closed the door behind him, walked with swift, sure steps up the dusty stair treads. He came to an upper hall-way where his feet echoed from uncarpeted boards, where lines of solid wooden doors remained closed, sombre and silent, masking whatever might lie behind them with the inscrutable secretiveness of the Orient.

  Terry climbed another flight of stairs, moved down another corridor, paused at a door so old that the varnish on it had turned black and had granulated, a door which with age had collected all of the grime and dirt of a big city.

  Uninitiated fingers could never have found the bell-button, which was to one side of the door, concealed in the shadows. Clane pressed the button twice. There was no sound of a signal from within.

  Clane waited patiently. The noise of the city did not penetrate to this corridor. So far as any audible evidence was concerned, the building might have been entirely vacant, holding its breath, waiting for a victim to walk into its sinister embrace.

  There was a faint, all but imperceptible sound as somewhere a sliding panel moved cautiously backward far enough to enable invisible eyes to appraise the visitor standing there in the dim lig
ht of the corridor.

  Abruptly from the other side of the door came the sound of a heavy bar being slid back by some smooth-running, electrically propelled mechanism then the door swung inward on heavy ball-bearing hinges such as are used to support the weight of the steel door of a vault.

  That door itself was as interesting and as deceptive as the other surroundings. Behind the layer of cheap, stained wood with its decomposing varnish was a layer of toughest steel, and on the inner side of this layer of steel was a surface of carved teakwood inlaid with intricate designs that were pleasing to the eye.

  An old Chinese servant stood on the threshold. His motionless face might well have been carved from old ivory by the same artisan who had fashioned the sampan in the window of the expensive art shop farther down the street. Only the eyes of the old man showed emotion. They were dancing with pleasure.

  He bowed deferentially, stood to one side.

  “Will you deign to honour this dwelling?” he asked in Chinese.

  Clane entered, dropped a hand affectionately upon the old man’s shoulder.

  “My eyes are being feasted,” Clane said in Chinese.

  The old servant made no reply, but under his hand Terry Clane could feel the frail body trembling with excitement and emotion.

  Wordlessly the man turned, led the way down a corridor carpeted with an Oriental rug so soft and springy, that the visitor might well have felt that his feet were walking on moss. On each side of the reception hallway were chairs of dark Chinese wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl in artistic scenes of gardens, of figures posing in stately dignity on ornamental bridges across canals. Overhead lights scintillated through purest rock crystal, cut and polished into prisms that transmitted the light in deflected rays to each corner of the room.

  The Chinese servant opened a door and stood back to one side. Sou Ha came to meet Terry Clane with outstretched hand and the calm, self-contained dignity of the Oriental. Half-way to him she lost her self-control and ran with a squeal of delight to fling herself in his arms, a trembling, vibrant bundle of silk-clad femininity.

  “Terry!” she sighed, and then tilted her head back, her eyes closed. The long lashes swept her cheeks.