I'll get an order permitting us to exhume the body."
Chapter 7
Rain seeped silently down prom the midnight sky, dripped in mournful cadences from the glistening leaves of the trees, gave forth hissing noises as the drops struck against the hot hoods of the gasoline lanterns which illuminated the scene.
A grassy slope studded with marble headstones stretched from a circle of vivid illumination into a mysterious border of dripping darkness.
There was no wind.
Hamilton Burger, a big overcoat covering his broad shoulders, the wide collar turned up about his ears, was plainly impatient. "Can't you fellows speed it up a little bit?" he asked.
One of the shovelers cast him a resentful glance. "There ain't room enough for any more men," he said, "and we're working at top speed. We're almost there, anyhow."
He wiped a perspiring forehead with a soggy coat sleeve, and fell once more to rapid shoveling. A moment later the blades of one of the shovels gave forth a peculiar sound as it struck something solid.
"Take it easy," the other shoveler cautioned. "Don't let him rush you. We've got to get the dirt from around the edges before we can raise it up. Get ropes on the handles, and then these fellows that are just standing around can get some exercise."
Burger ignored the sarcastic comment, to lean forward and look down into the oblong hole.
Perry Mason lit a cigarette and stamped his soggy shoes. Paul Drake, sidling up to him, said, "Won't your face be red if the medico says the guy really burned to death?"
Mason shook his head impatiently.
"All I did was to report facts. Personally, I think they're going at this thing backwards. If they'd get Edith DeVoe and then drag Sam Laxter in for questioning they'd stand more chance of getting somewhere."
"Yeah," Drake said, "but then Burger would be out in the open investigating Peter Laxter's death. He's afraid that's just what you want him to do, so he'll sort of sneak up on the case from the back way and convince himself he's got a case before he makes any overt moves. He's played with you before, you know. He's a burnt child who dreads the fire."
"Well," Mason said disgustedly, "he's too damn cautious. This case is going to slip through his fingers if he isn't careful. He may dread the fire, but he can't cook dough into cake without using fire, and even then he can't eat his cake and have it too."
Tom Glassman, chief investigator for the district attorney, blew his nose violently. "What's good to keep from taking cold at a time like this, Doc?" he asked.
Dr. Jason said, unsympathetically, "Staying in a warm bed… They would have to pick a rainy night to do this. The man's been buried for days, but no one takes any interest in him until it starts to rain."
"How long will it take you to tell what you want after examining the body?"
"It may not take very long. It will depend somewhat on the extent to which the body was charred by heat."
"Bring out that coil of rope," one of the men in the grave ordered, "and get ready to pull. We can get the rope around the handles now."
A few moments later, with everyone straining on ropes, the coffin jerked, and started its uneven journey upward.
"Pull steady on them ropes, now; don't get it tilted up at one end, and take it easy."
The coffin reached the surface. Boards were shoved under it. Then the coffin slid along the wet, muddy boards until it rested on the firm ground.
One of the men produced a cloth and wiped the soil from the top of the coffin. A screwdriver made its appearance. After a moment, the lid of the coffin was swung back and a voice said, "Okay, Doc, it's all yours."
Dr. Jason stepped forward, leaned over the coffin, gave an exclamation, and tugged a flashlight from his pocket.
The men shuffled around in a circle, but, as yet, no one had picked up the gasoline lantern, so that the interior of the coffin was plunged in shadow.
"What's the verdict, Doctor?" the district attorney inquired.
Dr. Jason's pocket flashlight illuminated the interior of the coffin. His fingers moved the charred body.
"It's going to be hard to tell. The man's been burned to a crisp. I'll have to look for some place where clothing protected the skin somewhat."
"How about monoxide?"
"No need testing for that. It would be present anyway."
"Well, can you go ahead with your examination?"
"You mean here?"
"Yes."
"It would be difficult, and the conclusion wouldn't be final."
"Can you make a good guess?"
Dr. Jason sighed resignedly, started working with the screwdriver. "I'll answer that question in a few minutes," he said.
One of the men held a lantern. Dr. Jason, showing his resentment against the weather, his disapproval of the entire procedure, removed the top from the coffin. "Bring that light over here—no, not so close—don't let the shadow fall on the inside. That's right—stand about there… Oh, don't be so damned squeamish!"
He fumbled about in the interior of the coffin, took a sharp knife from his pocket. The sound of the blade ripping through cloth sounded startlingly distinct above the steady drip of the misty rain. After a moment he straightened, and nodded to Hamilton Burger. "You wanted a guess?" he asked.
"That's right, a guess—the best you can make, of course."
Dr. Jason dropped the lid back into position. "Go ahead with your investigation," he said.
Hamilton Burger stood staring moodily down at the coffin, then he nodded and turned on his heel. "Okay," he said, "let's go. You ride with us, Mason. Paul Drake can follow in your car. You take charge of the body, Doctor."
Mason followed Burger to the district attorney's car. Tom Glassman drove. The men were grimly silent. The windshield wipers swung back and forth in monotonous tempo, their steady throbbing sounding above the purr of the motor and the whine of the tires.
"Going out to Laxter's place?" Mason asked at length.
"Yes," Burger answered, "up to the place where they're living now—the city house I believe they call it. I want to ask some questions."
"Going to make any accusations?" Mason inquired.
"I'm going to ask some pretty direct questions," Burger admitted. "I don't think I'll make any definite accusations. I don't want to divulge just what we're trying to get at until I'm ready to do so. I'm not going to ask anything about the tube which ran from the exhaust until after I've laid a pretty good foundation. I think it would be better, Mason, if you and your detective weren't present when we asked the questions.