The Case of the Backward Mule. Erle Stanley Gardner
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in mental abeyance, just behind the threshold of consciousness.
Maynard’s voice went on smoothly, switching to a routine question. “Do you know any of the circumstances in connection with the murder of Horace Farnsworth?” he asked.
Abruptly Clane threw a mental image of those bandits into his consciousness, and so well did he do it that for a moment he experienced emotional tension all over again. Then he let the image fade from his mind.
“No,” he said. I was, of course, out of the country at the time he was murdered.”
Maynard started to ask another question, then checked himself, frowning for a moment in puzzled perplexity.
Clane knew then that the man was so seated that he could study the recording needles of the machine and that Clane’s mental gymnastics had been successful in sending the needle shooting upward into the zone which marked sudden emotional tension.
“You weren’t in this country at the time of Farnsworth’s murder?” Maynard asked.
“No.
“Are you certain, Mr. Clane, that at that exact time you hadn’t perhaps been here in the United States, in some other part of the country perhaps, but nevertheless here?”
Once more Clane’s mind flashed back to the bandits. “No,” he said shortly.
Maynard shifted his position, then abruptly switched to other things. “You had a pleasant trip across?” he asked.
Clane knew that in order to complete his ruse, he needed to register great relief now that the subject of the questioning had left the murder. He brought to his mind the feeling of triumphant peace he had known when he had learned of the ending of the war. “The boat was rather crowded, of course, but it was a pleasant voyage.”
“You have been in Honolulu?”
“Oh yes.”
“And have spent some time in Japan?”
“Yes.”
“You consider the philosophy of the Chinese superior to our own?”
“I think the Chinese philosopher is able to accomplish comparatively more than the Caucasian philosopher.”
“In what way?”
“He makes a more practical application of his philosophy.”
“You mean he turns it into money-making?”
Clane smiled. “That is the very thing he wishes to avoid. I think you will find the tendency of the Western philosopher is to use his knowledge to monetary advantage. The Chinese is so anxious to avoid doing that that when he takes up philosophy he deliberately courts poverty, living in the most primitive surroundings in the most simple way.”
For a moment Maynard hesitated and Clane felt certain that the next question would be a sudden flash back to the Farnsworth murder, so he held his mind in readiness. There had been the time when he was caught in a typhoon in the Straits of Formosa in a Chinese junk and...
“Did you see Horace Farnsworth shortly before he was killed?”
Clane concentrated on the memory of that typhoon, the surging waves rising abruptly upward, only to have their tops sliced off by the wind as neatly as though some invisible knife had trimmed the mountain of water to a level-topped mesa, the labored creaking of the timbers in the old junk, the shriek of the wind through the rigging.
“No,” Clane said shortly, and then added, “I’ve answered questions about that half a dozen times. I don’t like to have my word doubted. I was in China at that time.”
“We have to ask questions in that way in order to make a fair test,” Maynard explained suavely. “Many times I have to make what might amount to false accusations in order to evaluate the readings of the machine.”
“I see,” Clane said with frigid formality.
Abruptly Maynard produced a map of the city and held it in front of Clane’s eyes. “I’m going to ask you a few questions about this map, Mr. Clane,” he said. “I don’t want you to answer those questions just listen to them.”
Clane mentally braced himself. This was the thing which had worried him. If Cynthia Renton had been in serious trouble, if she had arranged for the rescue of Edward Harold, she would have gone for sanctuary into the depths of Chinatown, to the apartment of Chu Kee, a wealthy, wise Chinese whose business was as mysterious as his personality, but whose friendship had been given to Terry Clane and some years ago through Terry Clane to Cynthia Renton.
That friendship had been extended through Sou Ha, Chu Kee’s Americanized daughter, a sparkling, vivacious young girl who had super-imposed the education of a Western college upon an Oriental background. The result had been a startling mixture of psychological oil and water.
Terry Clane dared not betray the location of Chu Kee’s apartment, not at any rate until after he had scouted the premises.
“Now then,” Maynard went on, “I would like to have you orient yourself on this map, Mr. Clane. You will see that it is a map of the city. We are at the present time located right here. And here is the dock where you landed. This is the main business district over here is the vicinity of the swank shops and the best hotels are around generally in this district. This is waterfront over here is Chinatown and then there is an exclusive residential district in this vicinity. Do you get the general picture?”
“Yes.”
“You will note that the map is divided by heavily inked red lines into four quarters. Then you will notice that each of these quarters is in turn sub-divided by blue lines. And then if you will notice closely, the blue lines are further sub-divided into fine red squares which are numbered. Do you see all that?”
“Yes.”
“For instance, Miss Renton’s apartment is located in this second quarter of the city, in this blue square, and in the very small red square within that blue square, which is numbered twenty-two. Do you follow me?”
“I do.”
“Very well,” Maynard said. “Now I will ask you, Mr. Clane, if you wanted to find Cynthia Renton, or if perhaps you thought that Edward Harold was hiding in the city, where would you look for him?”
Clane laughed. “You must think I have some magical powers, Mr. Maynard. After all, I just arrived....”
“I understand,” Maynard said. “It’s just an experiment.
“Would you look in this quarter? Or this quarter? Or this quarter? Or this quarter?”
In turn, Maynard’s finger indicated the four quarters of the map.
Clane had been ready for this question. He chose the exclusive residential district for the place where he would register the sudden up-swing of the needle on the machine, and as Maynard’s finger touched that spot on the map, Clane’s mind reverted to one of the few times he had engaged in a fistic encounter.
Maynard indicated that his ruse had been successful by referring to the third quarter. “In this exclusive residential district,” he said, “are there any of these blue squares which would intrigue your attention? For instance, this one, this one, this one, or this one, or...”
By turn, Maynard’s finger covered each one of the blue squares.
Clane let his mind concentrate upon an emotional disturbance when Maynard’s finger touched the seventh blue square.
“Directing your attention to this blue square number seven, Mr. Clane, let’s examine the red squares in turn.”
There were thirty-five small red squares within this blue square, and with the point of a pencil Maynard pointed to each in turn.
Feeling that it would be dangerous to carry the matter further, Clane let his mind remain at ease while the pencil touched each one of the red squares.
Maynard