The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde

16

In the lobby of one of the small outlying hotels that fringed the main metropolitan district, Mason and Della Street settled down in adjoining chairs. They were, they had explained to the clerk, waiting for a friend.

Mason took the leather-bound diary from his pocket, opened it and held it on the right hand arm of his chair. Della Street leaned over and together they read the events which had been chronicled by a girl who was now dead.

The diary started back some five years ago, started with a romantic attachment which had quite evidently tinged the writer’s outlook with the rosy glow of optimism. There were entries every few days here, entries that were the outpourings of a girl in love.

Mason hastily skimmed through these pages, although Della, her eye caught now and then by some statement which attracted her, gave at times a reluctant consent to the turning of the pages.

Then there came days of doubt, then disillusionment, times when the history of a week or ten days at a time was lumped together in one, two or three line entries, days of apprehension, of suffering, of worry.

Then Mildred Danville met Helen Bartsler. And the diary faithfully chronicled the strange relationship which had sprung up between the two women, a relationship so strange that it seemed incredible.

Helen Bartsler was a widow, deprived of her husband whom she loved, deprived of any companionship with her husband’s father who was embittered, cynical and regarded his daughter- in-law as a gold digger who had ensnared his son. Mildred Danville was a disillusioned woman who was faced with motherhood.

Helen had commented on the strange dictates of society. Had the child been hers, it would be able to hold up its head as the offspring of a hero. As the child of Mildred Danville, the infant would always be branded with a stigma.

It seemed but a step for the women to change identities. They were of the same age, height, weight, general appearance. It remained only for Mildred in a consultation with a reputable doctor to give the name of Mrs. Robert Bartsler, to show, casually, the marriage certificate. Later on when the physician signed a birth certificate he had no hesitancy in complying with the formalities which made the child appear to be the son of Robert Bartsler, deceased, and Helen Chister Bartsler.

At the time Mildred had intended that the infant would be released for adoption, but, because of the switch in identities, there had been no hurry — and the tiny hands had gripped the hearts of these two lonely, disillusioned women. They had put off releasing the child for adoption until both came to realize such a step could never be taken.

Then, later, came a measure of friction, the companionship of misery came to an end. Each woman began living her separate life, and Mildred Danville came to see Helen Bartsler in a different light.

Gradually the entries in the diary changed until finally a disillusioned Mildred Danville had penned the lines which gave her final, accurate appraisal of Helen Bartsler, a cold, calculating, selfish and vengeful woman whose initial generosity had now become a part of some sinister campaign designed to “get even” with the man she had come to hate — Jason Bartsler.

Both Mason and Della Street were now reading with absorbed interest.

Mildred Danville, it seemed, had acquired something of a philosophy about life. She had acquired it the hard way, because life had left her no alternative; but acquire it she did, and this hard-won philosophy came to her aid at the time when Helen Bartsler secreted Mildred’s child, refused to tell Mildred where the child was or what her plans were in connection with it.

Mildred had gone to a lawyer, and the lawyer had advised her that she didn’t have a legal leg to stand on, and Mason, reading this entry, said in a low voice aside to Della Street, “Quite evidently the lawyer didn’t believe her, thought the whole thing a fabrication.”

“Well, you can’t blame him,” Della Street said. “Mildred had deliberately given Helen Bartsler every insignia of title — if that’s the way you can talk about a baby,” she added with a little laugh. “But isn’t it tragic, Chief? Think of this mother who has been through so much, and now finds that the companionship of her baby is denied to her.”

Mason nodded, said, “Let’s take a look at the last entries. Those are the ones that may throw some fight on what happened.”

“Oh Chief, let’s not skip what’s in between. Let’s...”

Mason turned the pages rapidly, shook his head. “We can’t tell when Sergeant Holcomb will start his counterattack,” he said. “Let’s find out what we can about the events that led up to the murder.”

“Chief, shouldn’t we find out where she met Diana and — well, just check up on that trouble of Diana’s?”

“Good idea,” Mason said. “Let’s see. That was about two years ago, wasn’t it?”

The lawyer skimmed through the pages, pausing here and there for a selection then said, “Here it is.”

The diary told of meeting Diana, and sketched a word picture at that time of a harassed, worried girl fleeing from something which couldn’t be left behind. It mentioned Diana’s true name, and something about the murder of a husband.

“Good heavens,” Mason ejaculated. “I remember that case! The wife was under suspicion for some time. They never arrested her, but police had her in for questioning a dozen times. It was a San Francisco case — never has been solved, even yet. So that’s the thing that’s been hanging over Diana’s head. Holcomb would literally crucify her with that.”

Mason turned back to the diary, read how Diana had turned to Mildred Danville, an old friend, seeking some sanctuary from the prying eyes of the public, trying to forget and, in turn, to be forgotten. It was Mildred’s suggestion that Diana should take an entirely new name and a new environment. By that time Mildred Danville was a radio actress. She thought Diana’s voice was sufficiently good to make her a living in radio, introduced her at the studio, helped pick up small parts for her.

“Well,” Mason said, “there it is in black and white. Once Sergeant Holcomb gets hold of that, he’ll feed it out to the newspapers, and Diana won’t stand a chance in the world.”

“Can they introduce that other case as evidence?” Della asked.

“They won’t have to. The newspaper publicity will crucify the girl before she ever gets near a jury.”

“What,” Della Street asked, “are you going to do?”

Mason said, “I’m going to try and find out why Diana’s black eye led to Mildred’s murder.”

“You think it did?”

“It seems to have some definite connection.”

Mason turned through the pages then frowned with disappointment.

On the twenty-fourth there was a short cryptic entry saying: “Possession is nine points of the law they say, and I will be the tenth.”

There were no subsequent entries in the book.

Della Street looked at Mason. There was a heavy manila envelope in Mason’s brief case. He took it out, addressed the envelope to Della Street at her apartment address, affixed stamps, walked over to the mailbox in front of the hotel, dropped in the envelope and said, “Well, that’s that.”

“Now what?” Della Street asked.

Mason grinned. “We go directly back to the office just in case Sergeant Holcomb wants to make something of it. It’s much better to have it over with now than to wait until the middle of the night then be routed out of bed because the damn fool has a warrant.”

“Face the music?” she asked.

Mason laughed. “We’re playing the music, the dancing can be done by Sergeant Holcomb.”

They got in Mason’s car. The lawyer drove slowly toward his office. “Hang it, Della, there has to be some reason, some... Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

“Look out!” Della screamed.

Mason swung the wheel sharply, avoided the oncoming car, slid in to the curb, shut off the motor.

Della Street looked at him with alarm. “Did you blackout or something?”

Mason said, “Good Lord, Della! I know the answer!”

“The answer to what?”

“The answer to the whole darn business,” Mason said, “and I should have known it a lot earlier. It’s been staring us in the face all the time.”

“What do you mean?” Della asked.

Mason said, “Look, Della, the account Diana gave of her black eye. She was telling Mildred over the telephone, and she must have told her exactly the same...”

The low throbbing note of a police siren, not as yet building up enough speed to give a high pitched scream, but merely emitting an attention-compelling growl, caused Mason to look up.

Two police cars were closing in on them, one behind, one swinging in toward the front.

“Oh, oh!” Della said under her breath.

The car behind seemed to be a regular radio prowl car, but the one in front was a special police car from which Sergeant Holcomb debouched aggressively. Following him from the car was Lieutenant Tragg.

Mason took his cigarette case from his pocket. “Have one?” he asked Della.

Mason was lighting Della Street’s cigarette when Sergeant Holcomb’s angry countenance was framed in the window. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded belligerently.

“Lighting a cigarette,” Mason said.

“Well, you’re coming to Headquarters.”

“Got a warrant?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Why not?”

“You committed a felony.”

“Felony?” Mason asked raising his eyebrows.

“You committed a burglary.”

“Tut tut, Sergeant,” Mason said. “You must be more careful. Even your police book of instructions tells you better than that.”

“A burglary,” Sergeant Holcomb went on. “And don’t think I can’t hang it on you. We collared that garbage man. He told all about how you bribed him for fifty bucks to go up there and trick the man into giving you the garbage. I suppose what you wanted was in that loaf of bread.”

“And that’s burglary?” Mason asked.

“Burglary by trickery.”

“But didn’t your man give the garbage man that loaf of bread?”

“Well then, it’s embezzlement.”

“No,” Mason said, “on the contrary. There’s the rule of abandoned property which is entirely different from trusts. The loaf of bread was abandoned. It was given away. But you forget, Sergeant, that I represent Diana Regis, and that Diana Regis is about to offer Mildred Danville’s letter for probate as her last will. She’s also asking to be appointed executrix. Under the circumstances, and in view of the fact that Diana is the sole beneficiary under Mildred Danville’s will, I am not only entitled to take possession of any personal property, but it’s my duty.”

“Well, we aren’t going to argue about a lot of technicalities,” Holcomb said. “You’ve stuck your neck out and...”

“Of course,” Lieutenant Tragg interposed smoothly, “if Mason wants to take the position that he was taking this in custody as a part of the estate, we’ll take a look at the diary as evidence, Sergeant, and in the event it appears that evidence has been suppressed, then we’ll...”

“Evidence of what?” Mason asked.

“We don’t know.”

“You’d better find out, Lieutenant.”

Tragg said, “Don’t crowd things too far, Mason.”

“I don’t intend to. If you’re referring to a diary, Lieutenant, I don’t know how you can consider that it’s evidence. I don’t know how you can even introduce it in evidence regardless of what’s in it. However, you seem to know what you’re doing. And, by the way, may I ask how you located me so quickly?”

Tragg said grimly, “Put out a general alarm over the radio. As soon as a radio car picked up your car license, they radioed in and then shadowed you — two-way radio.”

“Really a great thing,” Mason said, “a marvelous boon to the police department.”

“Never mind the kidding,” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted. “Where’s that book?”

Mason said, “I wouldn’t lie to you, Sergeant, because that would be concealing the book, and I wouldn’t want to do that — just in case it should turn out to be evidence.”

“Okay, wise guy, where is it?”

“The book,” Mason said, “is with Uncle.”

“Uncle?”

“Uncle Samuel,” Mason said. “It’s dropped into a mailbox with postage thereon fully prepaid, and if you think it’s evidence, Sergeant, I refer you to the postal authorities. Perhaps you can find out some way of getting the United States postal authorities to turn the addressed stamped envelope over to the police department.”

Holcomb’s face darkened.

For several seconds there was complete silence.

“You can’t pull that stuff on me,” Holcomb blustered at length. “That’s just a stall—”

Tragg interposed, “He’s telling the truth, Sergeant.”

“How do you know?” Holcomb demanded.

“Because it’s such a simple thing to do, such a clever thing to do, and such a damned effective thing to do,” Lieutenant Tragg said bitterly.

Mason recognized the defeat in the Lieutenant’s tone. He switched on the ignition of his car, started the motor. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “that’s all I know about it.”

“You know what’s in that diary?” Holcomb demanded.

“Certainly,” Mason said.

“What is it?”

Tragg said, “You can’t get anywhere that way, Sergeant. We’ll go to the D.A. and see if we can’t find some way of getting the book out of the mail.”

Holcomb said angrily, “I’m for dragging him down to Headquarters and...”

“And,” Mason interrupted smilingly, “letting the newspapers get hold of the manner in which the police officer handed over the loaf of bread. That would be swell publicity. It would really help Diana’s case. On second thought, Sergeant, I won’t be technical about the warrant. If you want to arrest me, I won’t even raise the point.”

Lieutenant Tragg put his hand on Sergeant Holcomb’s shoulder. “Come on, Sergeant. We’ll go see the D.A.”

Mason slid the car into gear, glided away from the curb.

Della Street sighed. “Gosh, Chief, my hands are wringing wet.”

Mason said, “Don’t talk to me just now, darling, I have an idea that it might be well to concentrate on driving. Do you know, Della, I have a hunch that if I should violate any of the traffic laws between here and the office, I might find myself accused of reckless driving while intoxicated. That police radio car is trailing right along behind.”