“ ‘Some days earlier, Lacey had fired a bullet into the water from the .38 with which Mrs. Shelby was to be framed. He had recovered this bullet and put it in another shell. He had previously experimented with his “adapter” by which he could fire a .38 caliber cartridge from a sixteen gauge shotgun... Shelby became suspicious. Lacey tapped him over the head with an oar, shot him in the neck with the bullet he had so carefully saved for just this occasion, then calmly picked the body up in his arms, waded out to where the boat was floating in some eighteen inches of water, deposited the body, sculled out to midstream, dumped the body overboard, and returned to Ellen Cushing’s car, which he had “borrowed” for his “important appointment”.
“ ‘He made one mistake after that. He returned the car to the garage. The wet blanket had been thrown on the cushions of the back seat. He intended to dispose of that later. He had taken the precaution of carrying along a change of trousers and dry shoes. He carried his wet trousers up to his apartment with him, but the shoes and blanket he concealed in a corner of the garage, intending to return for them the next morning.
“ ‘He had committed the perfect crime — thanks to the cooperation of his victim... And then, on the next day, Friday the thirteenth, came retribution. For a moment it must have seemed to Lacey that all was lost, and then the quick wit of Ellen Cushing offered him a way out — at a price.
“ ‘The interesting thing about the crime is that Lieutenant Tragg actually had the culprit in his hands, actually had the evidence which, properly construed, would have sent the man to the death chamber — and he let himself be talked out of it. For this he is taking a bit of quiet ribbing from his associates in the Homicide detail, a bit of kidding which is relished all the more because it is the first time that his associates have been able to get anything on the capable Lieutenant.’ ”
Mason looked up at Della Street, grinned. “Imagine how Tragg feels this morning. Remember what he called to me when he drove away from Ellen Cushing’s apartment, ‘Good-by — Sherlock!’ ”
Della nodded, smiled, “I’m charitable this morning. I couldn’t even feel peeved at Sergeant Dorset.”
Mason started browsing through the pages until he came to the classified real estate. He ran down the column dealing with suburban properties, said suddenly, “Right here it is, Della. Listen to this. ‘Four hundred acres, marvelous country estate within sixty minutes of the heart of the city, completely isolated, timber, lake fed by spring. Rural relaxation within commuting distance of your city business. Priced for a quick sale at twenty thousand dollars. Ellen Cushing Lacey, real estate.’ ”
Mason put down the paper. “Della, how about it? We could buy the property in your name.”
“Would you,” she asked archly, “put the sale through Ellen Cushing Lacey?”
Mason smiled. “I’m afraid that this is a deal on which Mrs. Lacey is going to lose her five per cent commission. When you stop to think how small a time margin there was between our two picnics that Friday! They must have left not over an hour before we arrived. And I wonder just how deep in all this George Attica is. He may have been the one who advised them to rush out with a camera, get some picnic pictures, plant some food refuse and then dash back. Then, of course, he used Lawton Keller as his tool to get Marion Shelby to fire me. That property has become a spot that’s filled with pleasant associations for us, Della. Let’s buy it. We could have it for a little hideaway. I could put up a bungalow out under those trees back from the lake. Perhaps some day...”
Mason stopped to regard the horizon with dreamy eyes.
Della Street smiled. “Go ahead, Chief,” she said. “Even if you are just daydreaming, it’s a swell idea.”