“Were you over in Leslie Milter’s apartment that night?” Judge Meehan asked.
“Well — yes. I was. I went over to have a talk with him, and he was fixing me a hot buttered rum. He didn’t expect Sally Elberton until right around midnight. Then the doorbell rang, and he got sore and said, ‘I gave that little brat keys to my apartment so she wouldn’t have to stand out in front of it ringing a bell with all the world to see. I suppose she’s lost her keys. You skip over to your apartment, and within half or three-quarters of an hour I’ll give you a signal that the coast is clear.’”
“What did you do?” Mason asked.
“I went out the back door and across to my apartment. I heard him lock the back door after I left. Then I heard him going toward the front of his apartment.”
“Did you look to see who was coming into the apartment?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. She’d have been in by the time I got to my window, anyway. I went in, sat down and listened to the radio.”
“Then what?”
“After a while I began to get nervous and just a little suspicious. I tiptoed out to the back porch, and I couldn’t hear a thing; then I put my ear to the wall and I thought I could hear someone moving around very quietly. Then I thought I heard voices. Well, I made up my mind I’d go and stand at the window and look down at the door and see exactly when she left. I went into the front room and stood by the window. I saw there was a car parked in front of the apartment, and then this man” — she pointed to Witherspoon — “came out and got in the car. I didn’t know that he was expecting any man, and I thought perhaps it might have been an officer.”
“Why an officer?” Mason asked.
She said, “Oh, I don’t know. Leslie was inclined to take chances at times. I — well, he’d had some trouble. Anyway, I took down the license number.’
“And then what?” Mason asked.
She said, “I thought I’d go down and ring Leslie’s bell. I thought that would make him come to the door, and anyone that was upstairs would remain upstairs. I–I wasn’t dressed, just had a robe on over some underthings. So I went back into my bedroom and dressed. Well then, I thought I’d try to peek in through the window in the back door. So I went out to the back porch again, climbed over the rail, and gently tried the back door. It was locked. There was a little diamond-shaped glass window up near the top. By standing on tiptoe, I could look through it. I could see that the kitchen was pretty well filled with smoke. I dragged a box over, and stood on it and looked through the diamond-shaped window. I could see a man’s feet with the toes pointed up, and could see that the pan of sugar and water had boiled dry. I pounded on the door, and got no answer. I tried the knob, and the door was locked. Well, I moved the box back, climbed over the porch rail, back to my apartment, and went downstairs as fast as I could. You were ringing the bell of his door, and so I didn’t dare to show too much interest, or try to force my way in. As soon as I could get away from you, I walked down the street and telephoned the police that something was wrong up at Leslie Milter’s apartment. Then I went to the bus depot, and waited — and so help me, that’s the truth and every bit of it.”
Judge Meehan looked down at Perry Mason. “Any further questions?” he asked.
“None, Your Honor,” Mason said.
District Attorney Copeland answered the judge’s inquiry by a somewhat dazed shake of his head.
“That’s all,” Judge Meehan told the witness. “You are excused.”
It wasn’t until she heard the kindly note in his voice that Alberta Cromwell burst into tears. Sobbing, she groped her way down from the witness box.
The bailiff walked over to District Attorney Copeland, tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him a folded note.
Copeland studied the note with a puzzled expression, then said to Judge Meehan, “Your Honor, I think I have uncovered a very strange and unusual situation. If the Court will permit me, I would like to call a hostile witness.”
“Very well,” Judge Meehan said.
The district attorney got up, walked across the railed-off enclosure, and paused to stand looking at the black-garbed, heavily veiled figure of Mrs. Roland Burr, who was sitting in the front row of the spectators. He raised his voice and said dramatically, “If the Court please, I now wish to put on the stand Diana Burr, the widow of Roland Burr. She will be my next witness. Mrs. Burr, will you please come forward and be sworn?”
Mrs. Burr was surprised and indignant, but at Judge Meehan’s order to come forward, she walked to the witness stand, managing to look very tragic and dainty in her black mourning, and held up her hand and was sworn. She gave her name and address, then waited expectantly while District Attorney Copeland glanced around the courtroom to make certain that he had the undivided attention of the spectators. “Did you ever see a duck drown?” he asked dramatically.
This time there was no levity from the courtroom. It needed but a glance at Mrs. Burr’s countenance to make it plain that this was a moment filled with tense drama.
“Yes,” Mrs. Burr said, in a low voice.
In the silence which descended upon the courtroom, it was possible to hear the sounds of breathing and rustling garments as people moved uneasily in their chairs, straining to get a better view of the witness.
“Where?” District Attorney Copeland asked.
“At the home of John L. Witherspoon.”
“When?”
“About a week ago.”
“What happened?”
She said, “Marvin Adams talked about a drowning duck. My husband laughed at him, and Adams brought in a young duck and a fish bowl. He put something in the water, and the duck began to sink.”
“Did the duck drown?”
“Mr. Adams took him out before the duck had completely drowned.”
The district attorney turned triumphantly to Perry Mason. “And now you may cross-examine,” he said.
“Thank you very much,” Mason said with exaggerated politeness.
For a long moment, Mason sat perfectly still, then he asked quietly, “You formerly lived in Winterburg City, Mrs. Burr?”
“Yes.”
“You first met your husband there?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
She hesitated, then said, “Thirty-nine.”
“Did you ever know a Corine Hassen in Winterburg City?”
“No.”
“Did you ever hear your husband speak of a Miss Corine Hassen?”
She avoided Mason’s eyes.
“What is the object of all this?” the district attorney interrupted. “Why don’t you cross-examine her about the duck?”
Mason ignored the interpolation. “Did you ever hear your husband speak of a Miss Corine Hassen?” he asked again.
“Why — yes — it was years ago.”
Mason settled back in his chair, was silent for several seconds.
“Any more questions?” Judge Meehan asked of Mason.
“None, Your Honor.”
District Attorney Copeland said with a sarcastic smile, “I was hoping you’d ask some questions which would throw a little more light on that drowning duck.”
“I thought you were,” Mason said, smiling. “The drowning duck now becomes your problem, Mr. District Attorney. I have no further questions of this witness.”
The district attorney said, “Very well, I’m going to call Marvin Adams as my next witness. I will state, Your Honor, that I hadn’t expected to do this, but the Court will understand I’m simply trying to get at the true facts of this case. In view of what this witness has said, I think that it’s...”
“The district attorney needs make no statement,” Judge Meehan said. “Simply call your witness.”
“Marvin Adams, come forward,” the district attorney said.
Marvin Adams, obviously reluctant, came slowly forward to the witness stand, was sworn, and sat down facing the hostile eyes of the district attorney.