The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde

5

Rain was still whipping against the windshield of the car as Mason and Della Street slid up to the curb opposite Della Street’s apartment house. It had been raining hard all the time the couple had been eating and talking in the restaurant.

“What’s the time, Della?”

“Nine twenty-six on the dot.”

“Four minutes to spare,” Mason said. “Tell the kid I’m not in a position to go tagging around the country on blind legal dates. Furthermore, I’m hardly in a position to represent anyone who has an interest adverse to that of Jason Bartsler. I presume, from Bartsler’s note, he must have fixed everything up with his daughter-in-law. This certainly is some rain! Listen to it pound against the roof of the car... Reminds me of something. What the heck is it?”

Della Street, her hand on the handle of the car door, asked with some anxiety, “Something in connection with business?”

“No. Something agreeable, something that — oh, I know what it is. It’s the effect of rain coming down in torrents on the roof of the cafe that’s fixed up as a tropical eating house. Every ten minutes or so, they have this terrific shower. Let’s go around there and do a little dancing, Della.”

“Okay, but what’ll we do about Diana?”

Mason said, “Well, let’s wait right here in the car. She’ll have to show up within the next four or five minutes.”

Mason took out his cigarette case, offered Della a cigarette, took one himself and held a match to both cigarettes. They settled back against the cushions, smoking in silence, listening to the beat of the rain on the steel top of the car, relaxing in the silence of perfect understanding.

Mason’s arm circled Della Street’s shoulders. She slid over to rest her head on his shoulder.

“Strange case,” Mason said. “Usually a woman feels that a child is a tie that binds her to her husband’s parents. It makes her one of the family — one of the most important members of the family. Here we have a situation that’s the exact opposite.”

“Helen Bartsler must hate Jason bitterly,” Della said.

Mason’s cigarette glowed as he inhaled deeply. “No other explanation. I wonder what he did after he left me. I wonder why he sent that check.”

“He must have seen her and used that theory you’d given him to make her tell him where the child was.”

“Probably.”

Once more there was silence.

Abruptly Della Street looked at her wrist watch. “Good Heavens, Chief! It’s quarter to ten.”

Mason reached for the ignition switch. “We won’t wait any longer, Della.”

“Poor kid,” Della Street said, “I hope we didn’t miss her. Hope she didn’t leave before we got here.”

Mason said thoughtfully, “I wonder what was so important at Helen Bartsler’s house. Tell you what let’s do, Della. Let’s beat it out there. We can get there a few minutes after ten, see what it’s all about, and then go dance.”

“I wish you would,” Della Street said. “There’s something about Diana that I can’t get out of my mind. Somehow I feel that the world has given her a few hard knocks, and she’s just, getting back up on her feet.”

Mason eased the car into gear. “Okay, Della, here we go.”

They drove rapidly out through the driving rain which began to lighten somewhat as they swung into the San Fernando Valley.

“A little of this, and we’ll be having water all over the road. The ground can’t soak it up this fast. I think San Felipe Boulevard turns off right along in here... Yes, here it is. What was that number again?”

“Sixty-seven fifty.”

“Should be within about half a mile,” Mason said. “It’s a three-acre tract. Seems strange to have house numbers along a boulevard devoted to one- and five-acre tracts, but that’s Southern California for you, and...”

“There it is!” Della Street exclaimed. “Over there on the right.”

Mason stopped the car.

“Not a light in it,” Della said.

“Diana told you that Mildred was going to be here at ten o’clock?”

“Yes.”

Mason said somewhat dubiously, “Of course they could have called the thing off. That would account for Diana not showing up. Helen Bartsler evidently has quite a little place here.”

“What’s that big tank off to the side of the house?” Della asked.

“For rain water,” Mason said. “Used to see a lot of them, but as the city water improved, they’ve gone out of style. This probably came with the place.”

“Well,” Della said laughing, “you can’t beat rain water for washing your hair — only nowadays farm women out here go to beauty parlors.”

Mason said, “I’m going to pound on the door and see if anyone’s home. Hand me that flashlight out of the glove compartment, will you, Della?”

Della Street handed him the flashlight, said, “I’m going with you.”

They walked up a narrow strip of cement, climbed wooden stairs to a porch and the beam of the flashlight located a bell button.

Mason pressed the button. From the interior of the house could be heard the faint sound of a buzzer.

After that first short ring, Mason paused to contemplate the utter silence of the house, then pressed his thumb against the button again, this time sounding a long, steady summons, punctuated at the end by three short rings.

The silence of the interior of the house was sepulchral.

Mason tentatively tried the front door.

“Careful,” Della warned.

The door was locked.

“Somehow I feel like we’re about to set off a booby trap,” Della said abruptly.

Mason said, “Same here. Just the same, I’m going to take a quick look around, Della.”

They followed a strip of walk which ran around the house toward the back door, climbed the back stairs, knocked on the door and then tried the knob. The door was locked.

Back of the house the ground sloped into a small swale. The beam of Mason’s flashlight showed chicken houses perched on the higher ground around this swale. Then his flashlight dropped down to the low depression in a swift exploration, darted back, paused, then swung once more to the low ground, moved back and forth.

A dark form lay hunched in motionless silence. Cold rain drizzled down on a blonde head.

Mason heard the swift intake of Della Street’s breath.

“Easy, Della. This is it.”

“Chief, don’t go down there.”

“Just a little ways, Della. I have to see if she’s alive.”

“Be careful,” Della warned. “Oh do be careful, Chief! It’s...”

“Take it easy,” Mason said again, and taking her arm, led the way down an inclined wooden walk where cross pieces nailed at intervals furnished a foothold.

Della Street’s gloved fingers dug into Mason’s arm.

Mason’s flashlight moved about in steady appraisal of the surroundings, and Mason’s voice, low and tense, commented on the things the flashlight turned up.

“Shot in the back of the head,” Mason said. “Probably as she was running... It was after the rain had started. See that left hand, Della, it’s clawing at the mud. And you can see the long furrows where the fingers slid along the side of the bank — must be a good two feet. Should be some footprints back here in the mud. Let’s take a look and see... Yes, apparently only her footprints and one other set of prints — a woman’s. There’s where she fell... She skidded along here for some two feet and... What’s that!”

Mason snapped out the flashlight. “Listen!”

From the distance, muffled by the increasing wind and drifting rain until it sounded only as a faint wail, came the sound of a siren.

Della Street’s exclamation was sharp with apprehension.

Mason’s hand clasped Della Street’s elbow. “Let’s go.”

They scrambled up the sloping board walk. The wet wood, slippery and treacherous, was an effective bar to rapid progress.

They gained the level cement walk. Mason’s flashlight lighted the way.

“Okay, Della, you first. Step on it!”

The siren sounded again. This time so close that after the high pitched scream had died away, they could distinctly hear the low, deep-throated purring sound with which the siren tapered off into silence.

Della Street reached the curb, was stretching out her hand for the car door when headlights danced on the road from a cross street. A car swung around from an intersection with a sharp skidding turn.

Mason grabbed Della Street’s wrist, jerked her away from the door, said in a low voice, “Too late. Pretend we’re just coming.”

A blood red spotlight blazed into brilliance, impaling Mason and Della Street in its sinister, ruddy glow.

The police car swerved in sharply to the curb, came to a stop directly behind Mason’s car.

Two men jumped out, their figures as seen through the eye- stabbing brilliance of the spotlight merely an indistinct blur.

“What is the excitement?” Mason called out.

A man’s voice said, “Hell, it’s Mason, the lawyer.”

The spotlight was switched out although the headlights of the automobile still furnished an illumination that was directed to the side and therefore less dazzling in its brilliance.

Lieutenant Tragg’s voice said, “Well, well, caught in the act, eh?”

“Were you,” Mason asked, “tailing me?”

That question started its inevitable train of thought in the officer’s mind.

“How long you been here?” he asked.

“You ought to know.”

“What are you looking for?”

“A client,”

“Anybody home?”

“Let’s find out.”

Tragg said, “How did you come?”

“Straight down San Felipe Boulevard. Say, what’s the idea — and what are you doing here?”

Tragg said, “We had a phone call. You say you were to meet someone here?”

“A client,” Mason said. “And if you’ll pardon me, Lieutenant, I still want to see that client rather badly.”

Mason marched ahead of Tragg up the cement walk, up the wooden steps to the porch.

Tragg and two plainclothes officers were right at Mason’s elbows.

Mason pressed his thumb against the bell button.

Once more the bell sounded a mournful, lonely summons in the dark interior of the otherwise silent house.

Tragg abruptly pushed Mason to one side, pounded on the door with his knuckles, then kicked it with his foot and tried the knob, almost with one motion.

He turned and said to one of the officers, “Cover the back of the house, will you, Bill?”

“Right,” the officer said.

They heard the slosh of his steps around the walk, a few moments later, a sound of knuckles banging on the back door, then the rattle of a door knob.

“Apparently nobody home,” Mason said, and then added — “that’s strange.”

“Whom did you expect to meet here?”

Mason said, “The name’s on the mailbox.”

“That isn’t answering my question.”

“I think it is.”

“Why are you being so damn secretive?” Tragg asked.

“Why are you being so damn inquisitive?”

“Oh nuts!” Tragg said impatiently, “the same runaround.”

“Will you,” Mason asked, “kindly tell me what brings you out here? You’re attached to homicide. Do you have a tip that...?”

Tragg pounded once more on the door, tried the knob, then, with his five-cell flashlight, made an exploration of the front of the house.

“Windows locked, shades drawn,” he said. “I...”

They heard running steps on the walk, then the officer who had been sent to the back of the house said, “This way, Lieutenant. It’s back here.”

Tragg swung his flashlight down to the steps, walked swiftly at the head of the little procession which moved around to the back of the house.

The powerful flashlight of the officer penetrated down into the soggy darkness to show the motionless figure sprawled face down in the mud at the bottom of a cuplike depression.

Tragg barked sharply to Mason and Della Street. “You two stay here. And I mean stay here.”

Tragg and the other officers walked down the slippery boardwalk, taking care to plant their feet firmly on the nailed cross pieces. Then at the point nearest the body, they huddled in low- voiced conference.

Mason slipped his arm around Della Street, held her close to him. “Della, you’re trembling. Snap out of it.”

“I can’t help it. Gosh, it’s cold, Chief!”

Mason held her more closely. “Take it easy.”

They stood waiting in the rain. Behind them a peculiar gurgling sound attracted Mason’s attention. He turned his head.

“What is it?” Della Street asked, apprehensively.

“Faucet on the cistern is open,” Mason said. “The rain water is running through the tank, and draining down as fast as it comes in. I...”

The beam of Tragg’s flashlight suddenly stabbed Mason’s eyes. Tragg’s voice said, “I think you two better go back to your car.”

“Who is it?” Mason asked.

His question went unanswered.

Tragg said to one of the men, “Get a camera. Let’s have some photographs before we touch the body. There are tracks here in the mud.”

The burly form of a raincoated officer came scrambling up the board walk, the beam of Tragg’s flashlight glinting in coruscating reflections from the wet rubber overcoat.

Then Tragg’s voice again. “You stay here, Bill. I’ll go up and help get that camera out. Don’t go near the body until we get the pictures. Stand right there.”

Tragg was scrambling up the sloping boardwalk. His voice harsh with command barked an order at Mason and Della Street. “You two come with me.”

Tragg led the way around the house to Mason’s car, jerked open the car door nearest the curb. “Where are your ignition keys?” he asked.

“In the lock.”

Tragg’s flashlight probed the interior of the car. He found the ignition keys, turned them, looked at the temperature gauge.

“Humph!” he said when he saw that it was still at driving temperature.

“Whom did you want to see?” he asked after a moment.

“The name’s on the mailbox — Mrs. Robert Bartsler.”

“Client of yours?”

“No.”

“What did you want to see her about?”

“I think she’s a witness.”

“Rather an unusual time to look for witnesses, isn’t it?”

“I understood she’d be home.”

“Expecting you?”

“No.”

“You didn’t try to telephone?”

“No.”

“Ever met her?”

“No.”

“Talked with her on the telephone at all?”

“No.”

“How did you know she was a witness?”

“A little bird told me.”

“What’s she a witness for? What does she know?”

“I’ll have to ask her. That’s why I came out here.” Tragg indicated the interior of the car. “You and Miss Street get in there, sit down, stay there. Don’t try to... Wait a minute!”

Tragg’s wet raincoat pushed against Mason as he reached his arm across the lawyer’s body. His fingers clasped the ignition key, turned the lock and withdrew the key.

“Just by way of assurance,” he said.

Mason and Della Street huddled together in the front seat of the automobile. Tragg slammed the door shut.

Mason said, “Della, I think there’s a bottle of whisky in that glove compartment.”

“If there is,” Della said, “I think it’s going to save my life.”

Again she explored the glove compartment, brought out a small flask of whisky.

“Help yourself,” Mason invited.

She tilted the flask to her lips, then passed it to Mason.

“Feel better?” Mason asked as he lowered the flask.

“That,” she announced, “is going to help. And as they say in Hollywood, I mean definitely.”

“Isn’t there a heater on this car?” she asked.

Mason said, “Sure, but it won’t run without the ignition being on. Wait a minute.” He took out his wallet, extracted a spare ignition key, put it in the lock, turned it and switched on the heater. A few moments later welcome warmth wrapped their ankles in a drying current of air.

Warmed by the whisky and the heater, Della Street relaxed against Mason’s shoulder. “Poor Diana,” she said, and then, after a moment, asked, “How did she get here?”

“That,” Mason said, “is the problem that will be occupying Lieutenant Tragg’s mind within just a few moments.”

“The one who committed the murder must have driven her out.”

“That, of course, is a possibility. But how about Mrs. Bartsler?”

Della said, “Of course, if she... Good Heavens, Chief! What was that?”

Mason patted her shoulder. “Take it easy, Della. That was just the glare from a flash bulb. Lieutenant Tragg is taking flashlight pictures.”

They were silent for several seconds while more flash bulbs made weird artificial lighting.

Abruptly Della Street straightened in the cushions. “Look, Chief.”

“What?”

“Over there on the sidewalk. Wait until Tragg shoots off another flash bulb. Over there on the sidewalk, just beyond the house. Just... There!... See it?”

“Something dark,” Mason said.

“Looks like a woman’s purse,” Della announced, reaching for the door handle.

Mason grabbed her arm. “Don’t do it.”

“Why?”

Mason said, “If it isn’t evidence we don’t want it. If it is evidence, we don’t dare touch it. Lieutenant Tragg has the embarrassing habit of popping up at the most unexpected moments and...”

As though to illustrate Mason’s point, at that moment Tragg’s flashlight coming around the corner of the house sent a vivid beam of light knifing through the darkness, caught the front part of Mason’s automobile, held it in a white blaze of brilliance while Tragg walked toward the car. Then the flashlight was lowered and the door opened.

“Humph,” Tragg said. “Warm in here.”

“Heater going,” Mason said.

“How’d you get the heater on without the key?” Tragg’s flashlight shifted to the ignition lock, showed the key in position. “Shucks!” he said, and dropped the key he had taken into Mason’s hand.

“Come on in,” Mason invited.

“Move over, Della, and I will.”

Della moved over closer to Perry Mason. Tragg got in and pulled the door shut.

“What do you know about the corpse, Perry?”

“Nothing.”

“Recognize her?”

“I didn’t see her face.”

“But you think you know who she is?”

“I’m not making any identifications until I’ve seen the body.”

“I’m not asking you to make an identification. I’m asking you who you thought it was.”

“I try not to think until I have some basis for my conclusions,” Mason said.

Another flash bulb made a lightning flash of illumination.

“What’s that?” Tragg asked, pointing.

“What?” Mason asked.

Tragg raised his flashlight, tried to send the beam through the windshield, but the beads of moisture reflected the light back with dazzling brilliance and robbed the beam of its efficiency.

Tragg said, “Something on the sidewalk. I saw it when they took that last picture.”

He opened the door, swung out of the car. The beam of his flashlight darted down the sidewalk and came to rest on the woman’s purse.

“Humph!” Tragg said, and went sloshing off down the pavement.

“You see?” Mason pointed out. “We’d just about have got the purse and started back to the car when Tragg would have shown up and caught us in the act.”

They watched Tragg walk over to the purse, bend down to a crouching position, saw the flashlight moving back and forth. Then Tragg started back toward the car but detoured instead toward the porch. Under the shelter of the porch roof, he made an appraisal of the contents of the purse, then came slogging back to the automobile. Once more he opened the door. Once more Della Street moved over, and Tragg slid in beside her. He started to say something then sniffed the air.

Della Street laughed. “Are you,” she asked, “smelling a whisky?”

“How about it?” Mason asked.

“I’m on duty,” Tragg said reluctantly, “and I can’t trust one of those boys not to shoot off his face unless we had enough for all of them.”

“We haven’t,” Mason said.

“Tough luck. Who’s Diana Regis?”

“A client of mine.”

“Describe her.”

“Around twenty-two or twenty-three, blonde, five feet three or four, weight one hundred and twelve...”

“Okay, that’s your corpse. Was she a client of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Just settle something for her not too long ago?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A case.”

“Case against Mrs. Robert Bartsler?”

“No.”

Tragg said patiently, “Now just to show you how you’ve stuck your neck in a noose, I’ll pull your own receipt on you.”

He opened the purse, pulled out a receipt signed, “Perry Mason per Della Street,” acknowledging the receipt of a cash fee covering all services in connection with the settlement of the Bartsler claim.

“That your signature?” Tragg asked Della Street.

“Yes.”

“So,” Tragg said, “she had a claim against Mrs. Bartsler, did she?”

“No.”

Tragg said impatiently, “It’s here in black and white... Oh, oh! Against the husband, eh?”

“No, the husband’s dead.”

“Someone else in the family?”

“It could have been.”

“You’re helpful as hell, aren’t you?”

“I don’t like the way you went about this.”

“How much was the amount of the settlement?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Fifteen hundred in the purse,” Tragg said.

Mason made no comment.

“She’s dead now,” Tragg said gruffly. “You want to find out who murdered her, don’t you?”

“It was murder?”

“Sure, it was murder. Bullet hole right in the back of her neat little blonde head.”

“Of course we want to do everything we can,” Mason said.

Tragg sighed, said with exasperated impatience, “You two! Okay, beat it. I may call on you later. In the meantime, don’t stick around here. Get started!”