The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde

2

The house that Mason wanted turned out to be a two-story white stucco, tile-roofed residence in an exclusive district.

Mason parked his car, walked up a wide cement walk, climbed curving stairs to a porch landing that was paved with polished red flagstones, inclosed by a wrought iron railing. The lawyer touched a button, and musical chimes sounded from the interior.

A few moments later the door was opened by a thickset man of about thirty-eight who had warm, brown eyes that surveyed Mason cautiously.

“I want to see Jason Bartsler,” Mason said.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible unless you have an appointment, and if you had an appointment, I think I would know of it.”

“You are associated with him?”

“In a way, yes.”

“Excellent,” Mason said. “My name’s Mason. I’m a lawyer. I’m representing Diana Regis. Bartsler can see me here and now or he can see me later and in court.”

The brown eyes softened to a twinkle. “I believe Mrs. Bartsler is the one who is making the complaint about...”

Mason interrupted to say, “I don’t fight with women.”

The man smiled. “Come in.”

Mason entered a wide reception hallway where the red tiled floor had been waxed to a dull sheen. Off to the left, a wide flight of curving stairs swept up to the floor above.

“This way, please,” the man said, and escorted Mason into a library. “I’ll see if Mr. Bartsler will see you.”

The man vanished through a door on the other side of the reception hallway. He was back in about two minutes, and his smile was somewhat broadened.

“Are you Perry Mason?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Glenmore, Mr. Mason. I’m associated with Mr. Bartsler in some of his mining enterprises.”

Mason shook hands.

“Bartsler wants me to bring you in. He’s heard quite a bit about you — has followed some of your cases with a great deal of interest. Right this way, please.”

Mason followed Glenmore into the big room on the other side of the reception hallway — a room which was a combination library, den, living room and office.

Jason Bartsler sat in a deep tapestry covered chair, his slippered feet stretched out in front of him on a footstool. On the left side of the chair was a massive table which held numerous books, papers, a brief case, a desk pen and some magazines. On the right-hand side of the chair was a card table which held a glass of water, more books, a pipe rack, a humidor of smoking tobacco, ash tray, matches and a decanter of amber whisky. Light filtering through the amber liquid gave off amber coruscations from the edges of the cut glass decanter.

Jason Bartsler came up out of the chair, a tall suave man with a slightly quizzical expression on his face.

“How are you, Mr. Mason?” he said, shaking hands. “Diana seems to get rather high-powered legal talent. I presume you’ve met my associate, Frank Glenmore. I told him to introduce himself.”

“He did so, yes.”

“What’s all this stuff about Diana? No one told me anything about it until just now. Frank, why the devil didn’t you tell me there was trouble?”

“Mrs. Bartsler didn’t think the girl would ever be back, or that we’d ever hear from her again. She thought Diana had just skipped out. I was afraid it might disturb you.”

“Well, I’m being disturbed now. Diana’s a nice girl. Suppose you tell me what happened, Mason.”

“As nearly as I can get the story,” Mason said, “she made the mistake of accepting an invitation to go out with your stepson. That meant she walked home. Then she found the stepson in her room, and subsequently she was accused of theft. She was, I believe, frightened into leaving the house in the middle of the night clad only in a house coat and shoes, and a fur coat she’d picked up from the clothes closet. She was absolutely penniless, without food and without shelter.”

Bartsler said irritably, “You make it sound like murder in the first degree. Why the hell can’t you be reasonable? Nobody actually shoved her outdoors, did they?”

“She was frightened into leaving.”

“Frightened by what?”

“Physical violence, with the threat of more.”

“From whom?”

“Carl Fretch, and his mother. They pushed her out of her room.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to get the things out of her room, I want to get her pay for two weeks in advance, I want to get an apology, I want to have some assurance she will either get a letter of recommendation from here or that nothing will be said against her character in the event some prospective employer gets in touch with you and, in addition to all of that, I want to get a fair recompense for the mental anguish and suffering she has sustained.”

Bartsler said to Glenmore, “Will you ask my wife to come in here, and tell her to bring Carl along with her.”

Glenmore got to his feet with an agility that was rather surprising for a man of his weight and cat-footed from the room as noiselessly and swiftly as a gliding shadow. A surreptitiously gleeful smile softened the lines of his mouth.

Mason said, “Primarily I want to get the clothes and things packed up so that I can take them to her. As far as the other matters are concerned, it might be well for you to consult your attorney. I don’t want to take any advantage of you.”

“I don’t need any attorney to handle this,” Bartsler said. “And I don’t want her to quit.”

“You can hardly expect her to remain on here under the circumstances. It would be impossible.”

Bartsler frowned. “I wouldn’t have had this happen for a million dollars, Mason. I simply can’t understand it. Well, perhaps I can, too. We’ll see.”

Mason said, “This may be more serious than you think.”

“Apparently it is. I like that girl. She took an interest in what she was reading, put some expression into it. So many paid readers simply drone along in a monotone that makes you so damn sleepy you can’t break away from the deadly monotony of their voices — like taking a long journey in an airplane and trying to keep the hum of the propellers from putting you to sleep. Here come my wife and stepson now.”

Mason arose to greet the woman and the young man.

There was a glacial grace about Mrs. Bartsler. Her skin, hair and figure showed evidence of constant care. She looked like a woman of thirty-five who had the assurance of knowing she would pass for twenty-eight. It seemed hardly possible that the young man at her side was her son.

Carl Fretch was slender, with dark hair, carefully cultivated sideburns which extended about an inch below the earline in the best Hollywood manner. And despite certain evidences of pose, he managed to invest himself with a dignity far beyond his years.

Jason Bartsler introduced Perry Mason. Then when they were once more seated, launched at once on the reason he had called them.

“Perry Mason,” Bartsler said, “has been retained by Diana Regis. She seems to think that she was thrown out insufficiently clad and under humiliating circumstances. You folks know anything about it?”

Mrs. Bartsler said quite coldly and with a perfectly expressionless face, “We know all about it.”

“All right, what about it?” Bartsler asked.

“You tell him, Carl.”

Carl made a little gesture of disdain. “I’d much prefer not to discuss it.”

“You know the facts, Carl.”

“But she’s a woman, Mother. Don’t you think that it would be better for one woman to discuss another?”

“Very well,” Mrs. Bartsler said. “The girl should never have accepted employment here. She was, I understand, an actress. That’s the field in which she should have confined her activities. She doesn’t fit into this sort of family.”

“All that’s no reason for not giving her two weeks notice and treating her in a civilized manner,” Bartsler said quietly.

His wife went on with cold dignity. “I was afraid that she might be feeling lonely. I suggested to Carl that it might be well to show her some attention. Carl invited her out to dinner. She became rather intoxicated, and in one of the bars, permitted a very common young man to make advances to her, and seemed to be enjoying herself so much that she refused to return home with Carl. It wasn’t until after Carl arrived home that he realized that her purse was in the automobile. He took it to her room to leave it where she would discover it and then discovered in the purse a diamond pendant for which I had been searching all afternoon. Carl came to me then, and I decided to make a personal investigation. Other things had been missing since Miss Regis came here, but I hadn’t attached any particular suspicion to her, feeling that perhaps I had mislaid them. Miss Regis had a guilty conscience and fled as soon as I entered her room. I was somewhat disturbed that she didn’t return, but inasmuch as I didn’t intend to summon the police to deal with the theft, I felt that there was nothing I could do about it except wait for her to return. Doubtless she had many acquaintances of both sexes with whom she felt perfectly free to spend the night.”

Bartsler looked at Mason. “That answer your question, Mason?”

Mason ventured somewhat diffidently, “She had a discolored eye when she came to my office. Either of you know anything about that?”

Mrs. Bartsler glanced at Carl.

Carl said, “She had it when she came in. I assume that the party with whom she was hobnobbing when I left the bar could say something about that.”

“Doubtless it isn’t the first black eye she’s had,” Mrs. Bartsler said, and then added somewhat contemptuously, “—a woman of that type.”

For a moment there was silence, then Mrs. Bartsler turned once more to Carl. “Why didn’t you insist upon bringing her home, Carl?”

The gesture of Carl Fretch’s hand was that of brushing aside something that was disagreeable, and the gesture was made with a well-timed grace that would have delighted a director. “She was coarse,” Carl said, as though that completely and finally disposed of the matter.

Bartsler turned to Mason. “Satisfied?” he asked.

“No.”

Bartsler sighed. “You want to cross-examine or shall I?”

“I would like to ask one or two questions,” Mason said.

“Go ahead.”

Mason turned to Carl Fretch. “You took her out to dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“The Coral Lagoon.”

“Drink?”

“Yes.”

“Both of you, or just the girl?”

Carl Fretch hesitated a minute. “Just the girl. I only had two.”

“Who ordered the drinks?”

“She did.”

“At the table or at the bar?”

“At the bar.”

“You had dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“More drinks.”

“Where?”

“At the bar.”

“Who ordered them?”

“She did.”

“What did you do while she was drinking?”

“Well, I... I nursed mine along, and then this other man joined us in response to certain advances she made and after that, he started buying drinks.”

“Ignoring you?”

“Well, in a way.”

“What time did you go out?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“What time did you get back?”

“I don’t know exactly — around ten.”

“Did you dance?”

“Yes.”

“More than once?”

“Yes.”

“After she made advances to this other party or before?”

“Really, Mr. Mason, I see no reason for being subjected to any such course of questioning. I have told my story. My mother believes it. Mr. Bartsler believes it. I see no particular reason for justifying myself to you.”

Mason said, “During this very brief two-hour period then, you left here, went to the Coral Lagoon, had dinner, danced, had two separate sessions at the bar, watched the girl get drunk and came home.”

“What is wrong with that?”

“Rather a crowded itinerary,” Mason said. “I just wanted to get it straight.”

“Well, it’s straight,” Carl said with growing anger.

“And she arrived home almost immediately after you did?”

“I didn’t say that. She certainly did not.”

“But she found you in her room putting the purse away, didn’t she?”

“She did not. I didn’t see her again until Mother and I entered her room.”

“You went to her room with the purse for the purpose of returning it?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you open it?”

“To see how much money there was in it. I didn’t intend to have her claim she was short of money — that I’d stolen some.”

“You found the purse as soon as you put the car away after getting home?”

“Yes.”

“And took it to her room immediately?”

“Yes.”

“And found the diamond pendant?”

“That’s right.”

“Then went at once to your mother?”

“Yes.”

Mason turned to Mrs. Bartsler. “How long after your son brought you the diamond pendant did you go down to the girl’s room?”

“Almost immediately.”

Mason said, “Let’s get this time element straight, then. Would you say that you were in Diana Regis’ room within five minutes after your son first showed you the diamond—?”

“It certainly wasn’t more than that,” Mrs. Bartsler said coldly.

Carl Fretch frowned slightly.

“And you stated, I believe,” Mason said to him abruptly, “that you went to your mother’s room just as soon as you found the diamond pendant in the purse?”

“Well, I can’t remember about that exactly,” Fretch said impatiently. “I hardly expected to be submitted to this indignity at the time.”

“But,” Mason said, “you stated that you found the purse as soon as you put the car away; that you took the purse to Diana Regis’ room as soon as you found it; that you discovered the diamond pendant; and that you went at once to your mother. Then she returned with you at once to the room, and Diana Regis was in there clad only in a house coat. That would mean that she must have left the Coral Lagoon before you did in order to get home and accomplish all that...”

“I may have been slightly mistaken about the time element,” Mrs. Bartsler interrupted with cold dignity. “In fact, I think I was. I remember now that I was so loath to believe that any person in the house would have stooped so low as to have stolen from me, that I interrogated Carl at some length about the type of girl she was, and what he had discovered about her during the evening. What he told me was not at all flattering to the girl.”

“So it might have been some little time?” Mason asked.

“Yes. It might have been some little time, come to think of it.”

“As much as fifteen minutes?”

“I really can’t put a definite limit on it, Mr. Mason.”

“It might have been as much as half an hour?”

“Possibly.”

Mason turned to Jason Bartsler and said, “There you are.”

“How much do you want, Mason?”

“First I want all of Miss Regis’ things. I want her pay up to date, and I want two weeks additional pay, and as for the rest of it, I’ll have to discuss matters with her, and you’d better discuss it with your lawyer.”

“If you pay her a cent,” Mrs. Bartsler stormed at her husband, “I’ll never forgive you! Why, this man practically sits here and doubts Carl’s word.”

Bartsler started to say something, then checked, himself.

Mason said, “Of course if you want to go to court and have the witnesses tell their stories under oath, that’s all right with me.”

Mrs. Bartsler said, “Handle it any way you want to, Jason. Perhaps it would be better to pay the blackmail and get rid of the little strumpet. That undoubtedly was what she was angling for from the moment she entered the house.”

Mrs. Bartsler swept out of the room.

Carl started to follow her.

“Just a moment, Carl,” Jason Bartsler said. “Look here a moment, will you?”

The young man’s hesitation was perceptible. Then with a slight shrug of resignation, he turned and walked gracefully back to stand by his stepfather’s chair.

“Now then, you little son-of-a-bitch,” Bartsler said in a low conversational voice, “that technique of planting the diamond pendant is something you used about three years ago on that maid your mother had. I guess it worked that time, because your mother was talking about the missing diamond pendant in the afternoon, you went out with the maid that evening, and the next morning the diamond pendant was back in its accustomed place. I did a little thinking about that. I’ve got to pay out some money on this. There’s no need of telling your mother all about it, but I want you to know that I know what a dirty little four-flusher you are. Now get out of here!”

Carl Fretch bowed from the waist just far enough to give the impression of dignified acquiescence to superior authority, an innate reluctance to engage in a verbal brawl, and the willingness of a gentleman to be placed in an embarrassing and humiliating position rather than forget himself for a moment.

The door closed.

Jason Bartsler said to Mason, “How much?”

“I really can’t fix a figure, Mr. Bartsler. I came to get the girl’s things, fix the responsibility...”

Bartsler got up, crossed over to a safe, spun the dial.

Frank Glenmore said, “I let her in when she came home, Jason. She asked me to repay the woman who had advanced her cab fare.”

“Drunk?” Bartsler asked over his shoulder.

“No.”

“Black eye?”

“No.”

Bartsler swung open the safe door, unlocked another door, opened a locked drawer, pulled out a sheaf of new crisp hundred- dollar bills. He counted out ten, hesitated, said, “Diana is a good kid,” and counted out five more. He paused thoughtfully, said to Mason, “You’ll have to be paid,” and counted five more bills into a second pile.

“There it is,” he said, “two thousand dollars. Fifteen hundred for her, five hundred for you, and I want a release that includes rape, mayhem, slander, assault, and anything else I can think of.”

“I’m not in a position to accept any settlement at this time,” Mason said.

“There’s a telephone,” Bartsler told him. “Get in touch with your client. Let’s get the thing cleaned up and disposed of.”

Mason hesitated a moment, then picked up the telephone, dialed the number of Della Street’s apartment.

A moment later Della’s voice came over the wire.

“Hello, Della. How’s the patient?”

“Feeling a lot better.”

“How are the clothes. Do they fit?”

“Pretty well. I’m taller than she is, but aside from that we’re getting along all right.”

“Della, I’m at Jason Bartsler’s house. He’s made an offer of two thousand dollars for a settlement. My fee will have to come out of that. Ask Miss Regis how that sounds to her.”

“Just a moment,” Della said, and Mason could hear the low hum of her voice as she talked rapidly to Diana Regis. Then Della Street was back on the wire.

“No one listening, is there, Chief?”

“No.”

“She says it’s wonderful.”

“Okay, I’ll give him a receipt,” Mason said. “I’ll have Mr. Bartsler get the housekeeper to pack our client’s bags, and bring them along with me. Good-by.”

Mason hung up the telephone.

Bartsler said to Glenmore, “Frank, write out a receipt for Mason to sign as attorney for Diana Regis. You know Carl, his manner is smooth, but his methods are crude. Make that receipt cover everything in the Penal Code.”

Glenmore smiled, made no comment as he stepped into the next room.

“Well, I guess that covers everything,” Bartsler said.

Mason merely smiled.

“Doesn’t it?” Bartsler demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know, Mr. Mason?”

“Quite a few things — why you employed Miss Regis in the first place, why you still want her back. I warn you, Bartsler, that when I stumble across some mystery in the practice of my profession, I usually get to the bottom of it. If you would prefer to let me have the information at first hand, I’ll be at my office tomorrow morning at ten.”

Bartsler stroked his chin, said abruptly, “I’ll be there at ten fifteen. I think I’d like to tell you the whole story — if you’d care to listen.”