The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde

17

Della Street followed Perry Mason down the long corridor, watched Mason fit a latchkey into the door of his private office, and then as Mason opened the door and stood to one side for her to walk on in, she caught his arm and said impulsively, “Give.”

Mason grinned, tossed his hat in the general direction of the hook in the cloak closet, kicked the door shut and said, “We’ve got work to do.”

“I know all that, but come on and give.”

Mason said, “One phone call first, Della’. Get Paul Drake’s office on the line.”

She made a little face at him, said, “All right, put me off. If I die of suspense right here in the middle of the office, Lieutenant Tragg will certainly pin it on you as a murder.”

“Darned if he wouldn’t,” Mason admitted, “and if he didn’t Sergeant Holcomb would beat me up with a rubber hose until I confessed. Rush that call through to Paul, and then we’ll talk.”

A moment later, Della Street had Paul Drake on the line.

Mason said, “Paul, how much of a pull do you have with the newspapers?”

“No pull, but we have contacts here and there. A detective agency that stays in business has to have friends scattered around in various places.”

Mason said, “I don’t know which one of the newspapers it was, and I don’t know just how long ago, but I would say within about a week. I want you to find out the address of the person who put a want ad in the paper and gave the box for a reply of three nine six two YZ.”

“How soon do you want it?” Drake asked.

“I want it so fast that it’s going to surprise you.”

“Not me.”

“Five minutes.”

Drake said, “Make it an hour.”

“Five minutes.”

“Make it forty-five.”

“Five minutes,” Mason said and hung up.

Della Street looked at him with a frown. “What’s that number?” she asked.

“Don’t you remember?”

“It seems familiar to me. I... Oh, yes! That’s the number that was scribbled in pencil on the back of one of the sheets of paper on which Mildred Danville’s note was written.”

“Exactly,” Mason said, “only it wasn’t the back of the piece of paper.”

“What do you mean?”

“The note,” Mason explained, “was written on the back of the sheet.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Those sheets were torn from a pad, a pad about four by six inches. The paper had a somewhat elusive scent to it — the scent of face powder.”

“You mean Mildred had been carrying those sheets in her purse?”

“Let’s put it this way. For some reason, Mildred wanted to make some notes, so she went into a dime store, picked up a pad of scratch paper, and put it in her purse. Sometime later, she wrote the number three nine six two YZ on the pad, then, later on, when she wanted to write a note to Diana she simply tore off that sheet, turned it over and started her note on the back of it.”

“But how do you know that’s the number of a box for a want ad?”

“I don’t,” Mason admitted, “but it’s a ten to one guess that it is. A number of four digits with two letters of the alphabet after it isn’t a telephone number, it isn’t a house number. It’s mighty apt to be the box number that would be put on the end of a want ad.”

“And what,” Della Street asked, “has all of that got to do with Diana’s black eye?”

“It wasn’t the black eye,” Mason said.

“What was it? The finding of young Carl Fretch in her room?”

“Not that.”

“I don’t get it.”

“A matronly woman with a limp.”

“You’re going too fast for me,” Della Street said, frowning.

“A matronly heavy-set woman with a limp,” Mason repeated. “That’s the way Diana described the woman when she told us the story, and it’s undoubtedly the way she described the woman when she told Mildred...”

“Oh, you mean the woman who came and wanted to sell Jason Bartsler the mine?”

“Or did she?” Mason asked.

“Did she what?”

“Want to sell him a mine.”

“You mean she... Gosh, Chief!” Della Street exclaimed, “You mean that somewhere in the paper there was a want ad reading something like: ‘Woman with highest references who has a way with children, and house with large back yard looking for children to keep in daytime nursery, or...’”

“Exactly,” Mason interrupted.

“Then,” Della Street said, her voice showing her excitement, “Mildred Danville went to Ella Brockton and got hold of the boy, and took him to this woman.”

“Go on,” Mason told her, “you’re doing fine.”

“But then how did Bartsler get in touch with the woman?”

“He didn’t. She got in touch with Bartsler.”

“How?”

Mason said, “Suppose you were a matronly woman, inclined to respectability, and a rather stunning blonde came to you with a very small boy. Her name was Danville, and the child’s name was Robert Bartsler, and she seemed very much upset, and wanted a place to leave the child — probably for a few days while she was looking around for a suitable apartment and a maid, and...”

“Why sure,” Della Street said. “As soon as the blonde left, the woman would start looking through the telephone directory for the name of Bartsler.”

“Exactly,” Mason said.

“And,” Della Street went on, “it being an unusual name, she’d find only one Bartsler in the telephone directory, and she’d call up that number and Jason Bartsler would answer the telephone, and she would tell him that a blonde who acted rather mysteriously had given into her care a child nearly three years old named Robert Bartsler, and...”

“Go on,” Mason said, as Della Street stopped.

“My Gosh, Chief, I can’t go on. The possibilities of what would come after that are staggering.”

Mason said, “Of course, we’re piling a lot of conclusions on a rather slender foundation of fact, Della, but it’s an explanation that accounts for everything, and so far it’s the only explanation that does account for everything. A matronly heavy-set woman with a limp. Mildred Danville had given the child to this woman to keep and the child promptly disappears, and then a couple of days later Mildred is gabbing away over the telephone with Diana, and Diana is telling her about having a beautiful black eye, and Mildred is really enjoying it, and then goes on to say that at the exact moment she arrived at the house without money to pay the taxicab, a matronly, heavy-set woman with a limp was walking up the stairs, asking the man who answered the door for Mr. Bartsler.”

Della frowned, “About a mine, Chief?”

Mason shook his head and smiled. “That was what she said to Bartsler’s assistant — and that was after this woman had talked with Bartsler over the phone. Naturally, Bartsler couldn’t suddenly start answering the doorbell himself when he hadn’t been in the habit of doing it, and he’d hardly want a woman to come to the door and say to whoever answered the bell, ‘I’m calling about the little grandson.’”

Della Street said, “My Gosh, Chief, I’m so excited I’m all tingly. I feel as though I’d been sitting on a foot until it had gone asleep and the pins and needles had spread all over my body. And think what a deep dark game Jason Bartsler has been playing. Gee whiz! If...”

Mason’s unlisted telephone rang a peremptory summons.

Mason scooped up the receiver and Paul Drake said, “Now, listen, Perry. I don’t want you to take this as any precedent. Ordinarily, it would have taken an hour, but I just happened to be lucky and stumble onto...”

“Never mind all that stuff,” Mason interrupted, “who is it?”

“Mrs. J. C. Kennard, three six nine one Lobland Avenue. And I’ve found out something else, Perry. In that block where Mildred left Diana’s car parked, there’s a little children’s store. A blonde had been in there the day before with a young boy and bought some garments. They were to be altered the next day, but there was some delay and the woman had to wait. She didn’t have the boy with her when she went in for them. I didn’t show Mildred’s picture because I was afraid if I did they’d spot her as the murdered girl and contact the police — but the time element fits okay. It sure was Mildred.”

“Nice work,” Mason said. “How about the ad Mrs. Kennard put in the paper, Paul. What was in that?”

“Gosh, I don’t know, Perry. I was working fast on that ad business. I happened to find a lead that could give me what I wanted from the cashier’s office, and I didn’t bother to check back. Give me another twenty or thirty minutes and I can...”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” Mason said. “I think I know what it is, anyway. Grab your hat and coat, Paul.”

“I’m just going out to dinner,” Drake said. “Been working hard all day, didn’t get any lunch...”

“And if you grab a pocketful of those chocolate bars out of your desk you won’t need any dinner,” Mason said, “not for a While, anyway. Got an operative around the office you can trust?”

“Got a girl here just making a report on another matter,” Drake said. “She’s the only one...”

“Blonde or brunette?”

“Blonde. You’ve met her, Anita Dorset.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “pick her up and bring her along. We may need her and we may not. Meet you at the elevator, Paul.”

“Aw, Perry, have a heart. I’m starved. I...”

“In exactly ten seconds,” Mason said, and hung up.

“Get that address?” Mason asked Della Street.

“Yes, I took it down, three six nine one Lobland Avenue.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

Mason grabbed his light topcoat from the coat closet, held Della’s coat for her, and crossed the office with long strides to jerk open the door. He held it open for Della, then let it click shut behind them as they strode down the hall for the elevator.

Mason was ringing for the cage just as Paul Drake and a tall rangy blonde who might have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-two stepped out into the corridor.

“You remember Anita Dorset?” Drake said.

Mason raised his hat. Della bowed and smiled.

The elevator flashed on a red light and the heavy doors slid smoothly back.

Going down in the elevator, Drake said tentatively, “Even a sandwich, Perry...”

“Got the chocolate bars?” Mason interrupted.

Drake nodded lugubriously.

“Eat one of them, then.”

“I hate to do it, Perry.”

“Why?”

“They spoil my appetite for dinner.”

“If you spoil it you won’t keep talking about it,” Mason told him. “Come on, let’s go.”

Anita Dorset’s eyes were smiling tolerantly as she saw the expression on Drake’s face.

“Chocolate repeats on me, Perry,” he protested.

“That’s swell. You can get twice the nourishment out of one bar. Save your appetite if you’d rather, Paul. You may be able to eat after a couple of hours.”

Drake sighed, took four chocolate bars from his pocket, offered one to each of the others. Della Street and Anita Dorset declined. Mason took the chocolate bar, opened it and thrust a piece of chocolate into his mouth as they crossed the street to the parking place where Mason had left his car.

“Going in your car?” Drake said.

“Uh huh.”

“Aw, why not go in mine?” Drake asked, pleadingly. “If you’re in a hurry you’re going to scare me to death.”

Mason, munching on the chocolate bar, shook his head. He strode on toward the parking place. Drake lugubriously tore away the upper portion of the wrapper on a chocolate bar, started to break off a piece, then slowly put it back in his pocket. “I can stick it out another half hour,” he said. “Maybe something will turn up.”

Mason said, “Tell you what you do, Paul. Take your car and tag along behind me. You can take Miss Dorset, and...”

“Nothing doing,” Drake interrupted. “I’m not going to try to follow you through traffic. If you get pinched it’s your funeral. I’m not going to have any more...”

“All right. Meet me out at thirty-six ninety-one Lobland Avenue. We may get out there before you do. Climb in your car and tag along behind. I may have a job for you after you get out there.”

Drake’s face lit up. “Okay, that’ll be fine. We’ll be there within five or ten minutes of the time you get there, and...”

“And if you stop for a hamburger sandwich on the way,” Mason said, “I’ll never give you another case as long as you live.”

Drake’s face fell. “The damned mind reader,” he said bitterly to Anita Dorset. “A guy can’t even entertain a thought without that big hunk of cheese prying it out of his mind.”

Mason whipped open the door on the left-hand side of his car. Della already had the door open on the right, and she jumped into the seat with a light, graceful motion.

Mason had the motor running almost before he had slammed his door shut, and was backing and twisting the car as Drake resignedly climbed into his own car.

The address on Lobland Avenue proved to be a modest, neatly kept bungalow with a roomy back yard, a vine-covered porch, and an air of quiet respectability.

Mason said, “No use waiting for Paul, Della. He’ll be plodding along at a conservative legal rate of speed. Let’s take a look, huh?”

“You mean go in?”

“Sure. We’ll ring the bell.”

“And what if she says she’s...”

“She probably won’t be. There aren’t any lights in the window. Let’s find out if anyone’s home.”

Mason and Della Street walked up the wide cement walk which led to the porch. The porch was fenced in so that small children could play without danger of falling downstairs.

“Guess you were right,” Della said. “This looks like it.”

Mason said, ringing the bell, “It’s building up a very big theory on a very small fact, but somehow I think it’s right.”

The bell sounded distant and muffled in the interior of the house. Mason rang again, then he and Della walked around to the back yard.

In the light which filtered in from the street lamp, they saw that the back yard had been fitted up with swings, a sand pile, a playhouse, tend an imitation sailboat some ten feet long, equipped with a little cabin and a stubby mast.

“You were right!” Della exclaimed.

Mason, frowning at the back yard said, “Anything unusual about this setup, Della?”

“Only that I’d like to be a kid and get turned loose on the swing.”

“A lot of rather neat carpentering work, isn’t it?”

“Uh huh.”

“That would make quite an investment if a person hired a carpenter to do it.”

“Well, a carpenter must have done it.”

“Yes, but perhaps a carpenter who wasn’t hired at the regular union rate. Perhaps some handy man who was a roomer, or perhaps a close friend.”

Della nodded. “That sailboat idea,” she said, “is definitely something new. I’ve never seen one of those before. I’ll bet the kids have a great time clambering around on it and pretending they’re pirates. There’re headlights out in front. That must be Paul Drake driving up.”

Mason and Della Street moved around to the front of the house, saw Paul Drake and Anita Dorset get out of the car.

Mason, talking in a low voice, said, “Paul, the back yard’s full of gadgets for kids, a fine imitation sailboat, swings, and stuff of that sort. There’s a house with lighted windows over there. You and Miss Dorset go on over and see what you can find out. If Mrs. Kennard ran a professional nursery and has suddenly given up the thing, put on a song and dance. Tell the neighbor that Anita Dorset wants to operate a similar nursery, and is very much interested in the carpenter who did the carpentering work on Mrs. Kennard’s place. See what you can find out about him.”

“Why, Perry?”

Mason said, “I think he might know where Mrs. Kennard is.”

Drake said, “It’s worth a try. I suppose we don’t eat until we find her for you. Come on, Anita, let’s go.”

Mason and Della Street watched while Drake and his companion moved over to the neighbor’s house, saw the open front door shed an oblong of golden radiance as a man came to the door. They couldn’t hear the conversation, but they could hear the man turn and call to his wife, after which the couple stood in the doorway and engaged in a long low-voiced conversation, following which Anita Dorset took a notebook from her purse and jotted down some data.

The door closed. Drake and his companion came back to join Mason and Della Street.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“She ran a nursery up until the twenty-sixth of last month, then she disappeared — out like a light.”

“No explanation?” Mason asked.

“She telephoned this neighbor, asked her to please tell all the women who brought children that the nursery was closed because the woman who ran it had been exposed to smallpox, and was being placed in quarantine; that she didn’t want to do anything about it publicly, because that would make it hard for the children to get placed in other nurseries. It sounded fishy as hell, and the neighbor woman is all worked up over it. She did what was required of her, but she’s just dying to do a little investigating and gossiping. I think we can go back there and get an earful after... Well, later on.”

“After what?” Mason asked.

“Oh, nothing. Just later on, sometime.”

Mason laughed. “You meant after dinner, Paul, and nearly betrayed yourself. Okay, what have you found out about the carpenter.”

“Man by the name of Thurston. He roomed there for a while and then went to work in an assembly plant and moved out so he would be closer to his work.”

“Get his address?”

“Not yet, but I can. That should be easy — unless he’s trying to cover up.”

Mason said, “All right, Paul, get this straight and get it fast. I want you to locate this man Thurston. From him, get the present address of Mrs. J. C. Kennard who lived here at this address. It isn’t going to be easy. You’ll have to find out what the situation is and then make up a good stall that will get you the information. The minute you get that, get in touch with me. And keep Thurston sewed up so he can’t get to thinking things over, and tip Mrs. Kennard off. That’s going to be a job. It may be a tough one.”

“Where will you be?” Drake asked.

“I’ll be at the residence of Jason Bartsler if I’m not at the office. Ring the office first. If I’m not there, ring Jason Bartsler’s residence and say that it’s very important that you speak to me. Tell them you’re a client, and I was drawing up some papers, that you have to give me some information about those papers right away.”

“All right,” Drake said. “Now here comes the pay-off. When do you expect us to do all of this?”

Mason glanced at Della Street and winked. “Take your own time, Paul.”

“What?” Drake exclaimed incredulously.

“Sure,” Mason said, “just so you do it before dinner.”