“Thanks,” Mason said. “I’m afraid I’m going to be pretty busy.”
“I’ll sure try to keep you busy.” Vandling told him. “Good luck. I think you’re going to need it. Perhaps we both are.”
Chapter 9
Mason found Mrs. Davenport waiting for him in a small, office-like room which contained comfortable chairs and a small table. Aside from the peculiarly stale atmosphere, permeated with the sweetish smell of disinfectant, there was nothing to indicate the environment of a jail.
Myrna Davenport looked quickly at Mason, then came toward him and put her hand in his. The fingers somehow seemed to cling to the lawyer’s hand as though drawing strength from him.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said in her characteristic low monotone. “They told me you were here. The district attorney is very nice.”
“Did you talk with him?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“As much as I knew of what had happened.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“No.”
Mason said, “From now on quit talking. Let the other people do the talking.”
“What shall I say if they ask me questions?”
“Refer them to me. Say that I’m answering all questions.”
“But, Mr. Mason, I’d like to get this thing cleared up. I’d like to—”
“Sure you’d like to get it cleared up,” Mason said. “Who wouldn’t? But when you get this cleared up they’re going to drag you back to Los Angeles and try you for the murder of Hortense Paxton.”
“Won’t they do it anyway? Won’t they—?”
Mason shook his head.
“Each county is hoping the other one will take the first crack at you. If you get convicted of anything in either county you’ll get the death penalty in the other. Let’s be frank. Let’s put the cards on the table and face the facts.”
Myrna Davenport sat down abruptly in one of the chairs as though her knees had lost their strength.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked.
“What?” Mason asked.
“Death by gas.”
Mason eyed her sharply. “They say it’s completely painless. You take one whiff and pass out in a tenth of a second.”
“Well,” she said, “that’s a relief. Someone told me they choked and strangled and coughed and suffered.”
“Who told you that?”
“One of the people in here.”
“One of the officers?”
“No. An inmate.”
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
Mason said, “Stay away from her. Don’t talk with anybody. Don’t form any friendships. Sit tight. Leave things in my hands.”
“You’re going to continue to represent me?” she asked.
Mason nodded.
“I was afraid you’d .. - afraid you might back out.”
“I don’t back out.” Mason told her. “Even if you’re guilty you’re entitled to a fair trial. You’re entitled to all of your rights under the law. It’s my business to see that you get them.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you guilty?”
“No.”
“Of poisoning Hortense Paxton?”
“No.”
“Of poisoning your husband?”
“No.”
“You’ve got some things to explain,” Mason said wearily, drawing up a chair and sitting down across from her.
“I know.”
Mason watched her sharply, “Your friend, Sara Ansel turned against you.”
“She’s back in my comer now.”
“How do you know?”
“She telephoned.”
“Did they let you take a telephone message?”
“From her, yes.”
Mason said angrily, “They were monitoring the conversation. What did she say? Anything?”
“Only that she had doubted me and turned against me and had told the police everything she knew and a lot of things she didn’t know, and then she started thinking things over and had become thoroughly ashamed of herself.”
Mason said, “She had told police she watched you digging a hole and burying some poisons.”
Myrna Davenport’s eyes raised to Mason’s. For a moment there was a distinct flicker of panic in them.
“She told the police that?”
Mason nodded.
Myrna folded her hands on her lap, looked down at them, and said, “Well, of course, she had every reason to doubt me.”
“You packed your husband’s bags when he went on trips?”
“Oh yes.”
“He carried candy with him?”
“Yes, always.”
“You bought that candy?”
“Yes.”
“The candy in his bag was poisoned.”
“I know. They told me,”
“You didn’t poison it?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“You had been living in the house in Paradise?”
“Yes.”
“And after your uncle, William Delano, became ill, you went to live with him?”
“Yes.”
“And what did your husband do?”
“He stayed up in Paradise most of the time, but he would come and visit us.”
“Your husband didn’t like the idea of you moving down to Los Angeles?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He said that I was letting myself in for a lot of drudgery and making a nursemaid out of myself, that when Uncle William died I’d never get a dime out of the estate.”
“What made him say that?”
“He thought it was all fixed for Hortense to get it all. Even after she died Ed didn’t want me there. He didn’t like Aunt Sara. For some reason Ed thought Aunt Sara would manage to get the bulk of the money some way.”
“If you get convicted of murdering Hortense Paxton, she may do it yet,” Mason said. “There’s a peculiar legal question involved.”
“I didn’t murder Hortie. I loved her.”
“Your husband never moved down to the house in Los Angeles, did he?”
“Not until after Uncle William died. After that he did. But of course, he kept a lot of things up there in Paradise. He turned that into his office. It was easier to run his mining deals from up there.”
“You packed his bags,” Mason said. “Do you remember packing them when he left for Paradise the last time?”
“Yes.”
“What did you pack?”
“Not many clothes because he kept most of his wardrobe in Paradise. I packed some shirts, socks, pajamas—“
“You remember the pajamas?”
“Yes.”
“What were they?”
“White, with red figures.”
“What sort of figures?”
“Something like a fleur-de-lis.”
“Have you seen the pajamas he was wearing when the body was found?”
“No.”
“They haven’t shown those to you?”
“No.”
“They haven’t asked you to look at the body?”
“No.”
“They probably will,” Mason said. “You’ll have to steel yourself for the shock.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Think you can do it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why do you say of course?”
“I’m not very emotional.”
“I’ll say you aren’t,” Mason said angrily. “You can’t seem to understand the predicament you’re in.”
“I understand it.”
“Now when you packed up your husband’s bag the last time he left, you put a box of candy in it?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get that candy?”