The Case of the Queenly Contestant

“I may say one thing to you, Mr. Mason, and that is that this dodge of putting incriminating evidence in a letter and sending it by post to a party at General Delivery is an ingenious device which smacks a little bit of legal counsel.

“Of course, I’m not making any accusation, but it has been done before, and it may interest you to know that as a part of police procedure now whenever a person is represented by counsel in a matter of this sort we make it a rule just as a part of general procedure to go to the post office and see if there’s any package addressed to that person at General Delivery. If there is, we take steps to get a search warrant from the state courts and an order from the United States postal authorities, in order to open the package and see what’s in it.

“I hope for your sake and the sake of your client that when we open that package addressed to Ellen Adair at General Delivery we don’t find a diary kept by Agnes Burlington — but I’m just a little afraid, judging from the evidence that we have at hand, that that’s what we’re going to find.

“And now. Miss Adair, if you will kindly accompany me to Headquarters, we’ll try to make the formalities of booking as painless as possible — that is, of course, unless you want to change your mind and explain your actions to me. If there’s any logical explanation, we’re willing to listen.”

“There’s no explanation,” Mason said, “logical or otherwise. We are standing on our rights to remain silent.

“I want five minutes to confer with my client, Lieutenant. Would you mind waiting in the outer office? Then I’ll surrender her and you can take her to Headquarters.”

“After they’re once arrested you’re supposed to have your conferences with them in a conference room at the detention ward,” Tragg said.

“That’s after they’re booked,” Mason told him. “Of course, if you want to adopt the position that you’re refusing to let me confer with my client, then I...”

“No, no, not at all,” Tragg said; “we’re not walking into any trap today — not if we can help it. You want five minutes?”

“Five minutes.”

“I’ll give you five minutes,” Tragg said, and, bowing sardonically, stepped out into the other office.

Mason turned to Ellen Adair. “Is Agnes Burlington’s diary in that envelope?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Out of the top bureau drawer.”

“All right,” Mason said; “now, you went there earlier. You found her dead. You made a search. You picked up the diary.”

“Yes.”

“Was there a gun anywhere there?”

“No.”

“Do you own a gun?”

“Why, yes.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A thirty-eight-caliber Colt.”

“Where is it now?”

“Heavens, I don’t know. Somewhere in my apartment I guess. I... no, I remember now. I loaned it to Wight. He wanted to do some target practicing. He was taking a girl out on a picnic and — well, he’s an awfully good shot and I guess he wanted to show off a little bit.”

“What did he do with the gun? Did he give it back?”

“No, he still has it, unless... oh, my God!”

“What now?” Mason asked.

“I remember now. He told me that he was going to put it in the glove compartment of my car when he got done with it.”

“Do you know if he did it?”

“No, but I presume he did.”

“Then when the police impounded your car they could have found a thirty-eight-caliber revolver in it?”

“I guess they could have.”

Mason said, “If it should turn out that that revolver is the fatal weapon, there’s nothing anybody can do that will save you. A jury is going to bring in a verdict of first-degree murder.”

“I... I guess you think I’ve been rather stupid, don’t you, Mr. Mason?”

“That,” Mason said, “is a very good appraisal of the situation. You’ve tried to be smart, and all you’ve done is outsmarted yourself.”

The lawyer stepped to the door of the outer office.

“Only three and a half minutes,” Tragg said cheerfully.

“That’s good,” Mason told him grimly. “Keep the change. You can have what’s left.”

Chapter Fifteen

Mason sat in his office, shirt open at the neck, the remnants of a cup of coffee in front of him.

Paul Drake sat in the client’s overstuffed chair, making notes. Della Street opened a sealed package, put a new charge of coffee in the percolator.

Mason, dog-tired, said, “I’m stuck with this woman, Paul. I walked into the case blind and I can’t get out.

“Now, then, I can’t tell you all that the police have on her because probably I don’t know, but the big thing I have to find out is whether the police have located the fatal weapon.”

“Your client have a gun?” Drake asked.

“That,” Mason said, “is only part of the question. She has a thirty-eight-caliber Colt revolver which was bought in an open market at a reputable gun store, and the store’s firearm record will show she has that gun.”

“Where is it?” Drake asked.

“Probably in the hands of the police,” Mason said. “Now, then, Paul, the thing I absolutely have to find out is whether that gun fired the fatal bullet.”

“And if it did?” Drake asked.