The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde

21

Della Street snuggled up close to Mason in the front seat of the car.

Mason slid the car through the gear shifts, pulled away from the big house where people were milling around in confusion, where newspaper photographers were exploding flash bulbs and asking questions.

“Pretty bad, Della?” Mason asked solicitously.

“Pretty bad, but not too bad. He’d been hit with a charge of buckshot in the back. They missed his spine, but well, of course it was the end, and in order to make the dying statement admissible in evidence they were brutal about it. They told him he was dying, made him admit he knew it.”

“He confessed?”

“Yes, the whole business. I guess you know it all anyway. Lieutenant Tragg said the details were almost exactly the way you’d reconstructed them. He was in charge of operations on the mines and was supposed to get a royalty on each ton of ore milled. Well, it was quite a mix up, but some of the mines had run into pretty rich stuff, and Glenmore was surreptitiously mixing other rock with that rich stuff so that the tonnage which went through the mills was all the same. But of course it was much easier for him to pick up rock from the dump than to mine it. In that way he had been getting almost double the rate of payment. Of course he had some of the key members of his crew standing in with him. Bartsler became suspicious, and Glenmore was looking for something he could get on Bartsler, some hold that would... Oh well, you know all the answers anyway.”

“Did he say anything about the boy not being Bartsler’s grandson?”

“No, honest, Chief, I don’t think he knew. Apparently he thought Mildred Danville had simply stepped in and kidnapped the boy... Good heavens! What’s this?”

Mason slid the car around and let the headlights illuminate a figure that was limping along the street.

“Looks as though he’d been held up and robbed... It’s Carl Fretch!”

Mason opened the door, jumped out to the sidewalk. “Hello, Fretch,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

Fretch gave him a glance that was evidently intended to be full of scornful dignity and marched past.

“Hey!” Mason said. “What’s happened?”

Fretch didn’t even look back.

Mason said to Della Street, “I wanted to talk with him and tell him what’s happened at the house... Oh, well, let him go.”

“What on earth do you suppose happened to him?” Della Street asked.

Mason grinned. “The boy,” he said, “was out with one of Paul Drake’s female operatives, if you’ll remember. She was instructed to get information, but that she didn’t have to put up with too much in order to do it. And, if you’ll remember, while the girl was a demure looking dish, she had really been on the stage with a sparring partner as a female featherweight champion. Evidently, Carl’s fistic success had gone to his head. If he’s going to act the part of a cave man he should learn the manly art of self-defense.”

Della Street laughed. “Wait until Diana sees him! He’s got a beautiful eye that’s going to be a shiner by tomorrow morning.”

Mason said, “Paul Drake has some good operatives, but his cars are in lousy shape.”

“How will he get back since we’ve taken his car?”

“Oh, the police will take him. Since he was there at the shooting, he’s going to be a witness and they won’t get finished with him for an hour or two. In the meantime, Della, we have something to do.”

“I’m a mind reader,” she said. “We’re going to get some eats.”

“Something to take the taste of the chocolate out of my mouth. It’s been repeating on me,” Mason admitted.

“Here, too,” Della said, laughing.

“Perhaps we can find a nice juicy steak somewhere with mushrooms and perhaps some lyonnaise potatoes and French bread toasted so that it’s a golden brown on the outside, but warm and chewy on the inside and...”

“And because it’s late at night,” Della Street said, “and there aren’t going to be any more clients, perhaps we could dust a little garlic on it?”

“And have a bottle of red wine to go with it,” Mason said.

“What,” Della Street asked, “is holding us back?”

“Just a dread of having Sergeant Holcomb find out that we’ve been violating speed laws,” Mason admitted, grinning.

Della Street asked, “How are you going to break the news to Bartsler about the boy not being his grandson?”

“Don’t be silly! I’m not.”

“You mean you’re going to let him...”

“Why not?” Mason asked. “The boy’s an orphan now. No one knows his father. His mother has been killed. He has a birth certificate that describes him as the son of Robert Bartsler, and legally entitles him to the name of Robert Bartsler, Junior. Bartsler has a lot of money and the youngster will bring Helen and Jason together and...”

“But won’t Bartsler know? Won’t he see there isn’t any family resemblance? That...”

Mason laughed. “Just to show you, Della, how we interpret evidence just the way we want to interpret it, you should have heard Bartsler making over the little fellow. Before the ambulance arrived, and they gave him a shot of hop, Bartsler was getting acquainted with the boy, and I swear to you I don’t think he even knew his knee was paining him. His, face was all lit up, and for a confirmed skeptic you certainly should have heard his gullibility.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, tracing the family resemblance. He pointed out to me how the boy had his mother’s forehead and his son’s mouth, and his eyes were the exact image of Bartsler’s mother’s, and...”

“Good heavens!” Della Street interrupted. “And that from a skeptic who prides himself on being hard to convince.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “It simply goes to show how credulous a man can be despite his efforts to be cynical and hardboiled when it comes to something he wants to believe. How many men look at themselves in the mirror and see themselves as they actually are? They see the mental image they have created of themselves, ten to twenty years younger than they actually are.”

Della Street laughed. “You’re talking about woman now,” she said.

“No,” Mason said, “a woman is more honest with herself, a little more critical in her appraisal. Women don’t kid themselves the way men do. They’re more romantic and more realistic.”

Mason swung the car around the corner into a side street. “Remember this little isolated place, Della?” he said with enthusiasm. “It’s where they serve you that heavy bread-like pastry with cheese and spices melted over it.”

“Oh yes!” Della exclaimed. “And they have some perfectly marvelous wine! It’s been a long time since we’ve eaten here, Chief.”

“Paul Drake and I used to meet here a lot,” Mason said. “I wonder if Paul ever did get his dinner finished. I never found out.”

Mason and Della Street entered the little restaurant. The head waiter recognized them, escorted them to a booth.

“What,” Della Street asked after a cocktail and green olives, “are you going to do about Mildred’s diary?”

“With proper ceremonies,” Mason said, “I am going to burn it. After all, a lawyer is something like a doctor, only where a physician doctors men’s bodies, a lawyer has to minister to their minds — although we might do a little judicious blackmail.”

“You mean with Helen?”

“Yes. If she’s a good girl and treats Bartsler properly, we’ll promise to keep the diary out of circulation.”

“A felony,” Della Street said.

“Exactly.”

“But how about Bartsler? What will hold him in line?”

“I think the grandson will do that,” Mason said. “He...”

“Well for the love of Pete! Here’s Paul Drake tagging us along.”

Drake walked across the dining room, said, “Slide over, Perry. Don’t think you’re going to have dinner and a tête-à-tête and leave me out.”

“What’s the matter?” Mason asked. “Didn’t you get your dinner finished before my phone call interrupted you?”

Drake frowned as though thinking back. “Oh, that,” he said suddenly. “Oh sure! I didn’t get the dessert, but I had the dinner. But that’s quite a while ago! A lot’s happened since then.”

“You mean you’re hungry again, and you’re going to horn in on our dinner?” Mason asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Exactly,” Drake said. “I had an idea you’d come here. And those damn cops made me get a taxi. You’ll find it on the expense account. Boy, oh boy, you left Bartsler’s place five minutes too soon!”

“How come?”

“You should have seen Carl Fretch.”

“I did see him.”

“Where?”

“On the street about two blocks from the house. He was walking.”

Drake threw back his head and laughed. “Just before he arrived, my operative telephoned in a report. Remember I told you she’d been a boxer in...”

“Yes, I remember. What did she have to report?”

Drake said, “She got Carl to admit he’d been in Diana’s apartment. He was boasting about how his acting had completely fooled the cops.”

“Why did he go to the apartment, Paul?”

“Want me to draw you a picture?”

“You mean only that?”

“Only that. The lad, according to reports, is a persistent wolf who relies on blackmail and strong-arm stuff to supplement his quote charm unquote. He told my operative no woman had ever successfully stood him off. He’d made wax impressions of Diana’s keys; said that after a man had hit a woman good and hard once she had an instinctive biological desire to surrender after that.”

“Go on,” Della Street said, smiling, “this is going to be good.”

“Well,” Drake said, “my operative was reporting rather hurriedly and over the phone. She says she’ll tell me the spicy details later. But Carl thought he had a pushover there, because she was stringing him along getting information. When he really got down to brass tacks and found he hadn’t correctly appraised the situation, he decided, to fall back on physical violence. My operative thinks she has a broken knuckle. She also has his car. Carl walked home.”

“How did Carl take it, Paul?”

Drake said, “You should have heard the boy sobbing out his story to Lieutenant Tragg. A couple of teeth were knocked out and he lisped when he...”

“Someone coming,” Della Street said in a low voice.

Mason looked up toward the man who had left a woman companion at the table and was coming toward him.

“Shucks, Della,” Mason said, “we seem to have no privacy at all.”

“Oh, I’ll leave if you’re going to be surly about it,” Drake grinned. “I thought perhaps Della would give me a dance before...”

The man stood in the entrance of the booth and cleared his throat. “You’ll pardon me for interrupting,” he said, “but you’re Perry Mason. I’ve seen you in court, and I have been trying to get you all evening. When you walked in here, I thought it was fate that had brought you here. I simply must consult you about something that bothers me, something rather mysterious, and something very important.”

Mason smiled and shook his head. “Not until after I’ve had another cocktail, some hors d’oeuvres, some steaks, and...”

“I’ll wait,” the man said anxiously, “if you’ll only talk with me.”

“And we’ll be eating garlic,” Mason warned. “What is it all about?”

“It’s about a fish.”

“Are you, by any chance, trying to kid me?”

“No, no,” the man said, “a goldfish.”

“And it’s important?”

“Of course, it’s important. It’s driving me crazy! But don’t let me detain you now, Mr. Mason. I’ll be waiting over there with my companion, and if you’ll join us for an after-dinner brandy, I’ll give you the high lights.”