The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde

7

Mason put on his raincoat and hat, switched out the lights of Della Street’s apartment, then paused with his hand on the door knob.

Abruptly he turned back, clicked on the light switch, went to the telephone and dialed the number of Paul Drake’s office.

The night operator answered the telephone. “Mason talking,” the lawyer said. “Get hold of Paul Drake if he’s available. If he isn’t, get your best operative who’s immediately available. Diana Regis and Mildred Danville share an apartment at the Palm Vista Apartments. I don’t know the number of the apartment, but your operative can get the information from the directory in the front of the apartment.

“Now this is a job you’ll have to handle with kid gloves. It’s dynamite. The police will be on the ground, probably within an hour. I want the apartment covered immediately and kept covered until the police get there.”

“After that you don’t want it covered?” the operator asked.

“After that,” Mason said, “it will be useless. But until then, I want to know everything that happens, everyone who enters or leaves that apartment, or who so much as rings the bell. In order to be on the safe side, you’ll have to get at least two and probably three good men on the job, each one with a car. But don’t wait until you can get all three. Get someone who’s immediately available and...”

“We have a man right here in the office,” the operator said. “He’ll start immediately, and I can have two others on the way within ten minutes.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “I’m going to come up to my office. I’ll drop in within an hour or so and see what reports you’ve had. Be sure to tail anyone who shows any interest in that apartment. And here’s something else. Send a couple of good men out to the residence of Jason Bartsler, 2816 Pacific Heights Drive. I want the place covered. There’s Jason Bartsler, around fifty-six, Frank Glenmore, about thirty-eight, Mrs. Bartsler, young, good looking and bitchy, and Carl Fretch, twenty-two, her son. See when they come in. If they go out, let me know when.”

The operative said, “I can’t line up enough men to shadow all those people, Mr. Mason. I can put a man on the job to report, and I can get operatives to tail people who go to the apartment, but the way things are now...”

“Okay,” Mason interrupted. “Cover the apartment and tail the people who show up and get me a report on the Bartsler residence. The apartment is the most important. Handle that first.”

Mason hung up, switched out the lights, left the apartment house and crossed through the cold, steady rain to his car. He didn’t even bother to try to determine whether he was being followed, but drove to the drugstore where Della had told him she would be waiting.

Della, watching through the window of the all night drugstore, saw Mason bring his car in to the curb and came out to meet him.

Mason looked at her face as she opened the door and slid into the seat beside him. The lawyer grinned at what he saw in her expression.

Della Street said angrily, “I was never so mad, so completely disgusted m my life.”

“Forget it,” Mason said.

“You’d think that an ordinary dumbbell would have had sense enough to check up and find whether she was being followed,” Della said disgustedly.

“Forget it,” Mason said.

“You’d think that an ordinary dumbbell would have had sense enough to check up and find whether she was being followed,” Della said disgustedly.

“Forget it. It was a trap.”

“I don’t care what it was. I should have known we were being followed. I’ve been sitting in there in the drugstore and literally kicking myself.”

“There wasn’t anything you could have done about it, Della. Tragg knew that Diana Regis had been in the apartment even before he entered the place. Her car was out front. So Tragg planted an extra car somewhere in the block to follow you in case you happened to come out after he went in. There wasn’t anything you could have done about it. We were licked before we started. You couldn’t possibly have driven your light coupe around the city so you could have ditched the police car, and they’d have closed in on you the minute you tried it.”

“Well,” Della said somewhat mollified, “at least I might have had sense to know that I was being followed. But I never had the faintest idea anyone was behind me. I suppose, of course, they were driving a good part of the time without lights. The first thing I knew this car came whizzing up from behind as though it intended to pass, then crowded me into the curb. And I looked up and saw that it was a police car and two big cops in there grinning like baboons.”

“You told Diana not to talk?”

“Yes.”

“Think she will?”

“I don’t know, Chief. I told her what you said and impressed upon her the importance of following instructions to the letter.”

“What did the cops say, anything?”

“Asked her if she was Diana Regis.”

“What did she say?”

“Said that she was.”

“Then what?”

“Asked her if that was her car.”

“Then what?”

“She told them they were at liberty to look at the registration slip.”

“So what did they do?”

“Told me they’d drive me back to the drugstore from which I’d telephoned before. Then I could get out because they were going to Headquarters, and they were going to take Diana and my car. Of course, as soon as they said that I could go back to the drugstore where I’d telephoned you, I knew that they’d been following.”

“That two way radio is a great thing,” Mason said.

“And you think that it was a trap?”

“Sure it was a trap,” Mason said. “And what is particularly irritating is the fact that I almost walked into it.”

“How?”

“Tragg was very careful to tell me some of the things he had against Diana Regis and the reasons he wanted to get in touch with her. Then knowing that they wanted to question her as a witness in connection with a murder, and knowing that there were certain bits of circumstantial evidence that indicated her guilt, I would have put myself in a sweet spot by trying to keep her away from the police. And, of course, it was a temptation to do just that.”

“And you think that’s why Tragg deliberately told you all that?”

“Of course.”

“What did he want?”

“Wanted to either grab me as an accessory after the fact, or at least get something he could take up with the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association.”

“And you were too smart to walk into the trap?”

“Nothing particularly smart about it,” Mason said thoughtfully. “I haven’t been particularly brilliant tonight.”

“You did nobly,” Della Street said with quick feeling. “You kept Tragg from trapping you. I’m the one that’s been dumb. What do we do now?”

“We go to the office,” Mason said, “and make an application for a writ of habeas corpus for Diana Regis. We’ll force them either to fish or to cut bait. They’ll have to put a charge against her or turn her loose. But we won’t be able to get a judge to give us a writ until tomorrow morning, and that will give them all night to work on her. They can do a lot in that time.”

Della Street said, “I got Diana to give me her apartment key.”

Mason turned his head quickly. “Got what?” he asked.

“The key to the apartment she and Mildred shared. I thought perhaps you might find some evidence up there. At least that you’d want to take a look.”

“Good girl,” Mason said. “I didn’t think of that myself.”

“Want to go there?”

“No, Della, I’m afraid of it. We’d get caught there and, hang it, I don’t know enough about Diana Regis. If they try to pin this murder on her... No, Della, let’s go to the office and get a writ of habeas corpus.”

Mason drove to his office building. The Drake Detective Agency, working on a twenty-four-hour basis, spewed light out into the corridor.

Mason stopped in on the way down to his office.

“Heard anything yet?” he asked the night operator.

She smiled and shook her head. “Got a good man out on the job. He was on his way sixty seconds after you’d finished your telephone call. I’ve also got two others on the way down there.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “I’ll be in my office in case anything develops.”

He and Della Street walked on down the corridor, their steps echoing against the rows of office doors. Mason unlocked the door to his private office, switched on the lights. Della Street removed her hat and coat, seated herself at her secretarial desk and fed sheets of paper and carbon into the typewriter.

Dictating directly to the typewriter, Mason made a petition on behalf of Diana Regis, alleging that she was unlawfully deprived of her liberty by the police who had filed no charge against her, but were holding her in violation of her rights, asking that a writ of habeas corpus be issued returnable before the court, and that the said Diana Regis be admitted to bail in the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars pending a hearing on said writ.

Mason was just finishing the dictation and Della Street’s rapid fingers were flashing over the keyboard in a crescendo of speed, winding up the last sentence of the petition when the telephone rang.

Mason picked up the receiver.

Drake’s night operator said, “I think we’re on the trail of something at that apartment house. Two of the men are there, but when they arrived, the first man had gone. He must be on the trail of something.”

Mason’s voice showed excitement. “That’s swell! As soon as he calls in, get in touch with me here at the office.”

Mason hung up the telephone, took a cigarette from the humidor, lit it and said to Della Street, “Looks as though we’ve got something, Della.”

“What?”

“One of the men missing from in front of the Palm Vista Apartments — the first man on the job. He was gone when the other two got there.”

“The police there now?”

“Not yet. They’re probably busy questioning Diana.”

Della Street segregated the originals and carbons of the petition in neat piles, covered her typewriter, dropped it back into the well of her secretarial desk. “What could it be?” she asked.

Mason said, “It could be anything — could be a boy friend trying to get in touch with her. It could be someone calling for Mildred Danville, and it could be something really big.”

“Such as what?”

Mason said, “Such as Helen Bartsler.”

Della Street’s eyes glinted. “Think there’s any chance?”

“Can’t tell,” Mason said. “We haven’t been particularly lucky so far. Things may turn our way.”

“Well, there’s nothing to keep us from hoping.”

“That’s right.”

“Suppose they charge Diana Regis with murder, Chief, are you going to represent her?”

Mason said, “Ordinarily I’d wait to take a look at the evidence^ but now she thinks I spirited her out o£ your apartment when Tragg first came to the door. That means I’m elected. I wouldn’t want her to spill that story, either to the police or to some other lawyer.”

“I wonder just where Mildred Danville fits into the picture,” Della said.

Mason said thoughtfully, “Shortly after Diana told Mildred about getting a black eye, Mildred became all excited. Now it probably wasn’t the fact that Carl gave Diana the black eye that got Mildred so worked up. It might be the fact that Carl was in Diana’s room.”

“That sounds logical,” Della said.

Mason said, “Let’s follow that up a bit. What was there about Carl going to the room that would get Mildred so worked up?”

“I can’t see a thing,” Della said.

“Where did Carl get the key, Della?”

“Out of Diana’s purse.”

“And what else was in Diana’s purse?”

“Why I... I don’t know.”

“Something,” Mason said, “that threw Mildred into a panic when she knew Carl Fretch had been in the purse.”

Della Street’s eyes widened. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “That’s it!”

“Well,” Mason asked, “what was it?”

“The place where the child was being kept!” Della exclaimed^ “That must have been it. There was something in the purse...”

“Wait a minute,” Mason said. “If there was something in Diana’s purse that showed where the child was being kept, how did it get there?”

Della Street said excitedly, “Because Mildred Danville had borrowed the purse. Don’t you remember? She’d taken it...”

“Not then,” Mason said, “she hadn’t. She’d only taken the driving license. She’d borrowed Diana’s driving license and car keys. She didn’t actually take Diana’s purse until after Diana got back from Bartsler’s — that is, as far as we know. Of course she may have taken it before, and we don’t know about it.”

The telephone rang.

Mason fairly grabbed at the receiver. “Yes, yes. Hello,” he said. “Hello — what is it?”

The voice of Drake’s night operator came over the line crisply efficient. “We’ve heard from that first operative, Mr. Mason. He was trailing a car. The driver of that car went to the door of that apartment house and tried to get in, and seemed to be looking in the mailbox.”

“License number of the car?” Mason asked.

“We have it. We’ve checked it. It’s registered in the name of Helen C. Bartsler, sixty-seven fifty San Felipe Boulevard.”

“Who’s driving?” Mason asked.

“A rather trim blonde.”

“Where is she? Did he lose her? Did he...”

“No, he followed her to twenty-three twelve Olive Crest Drive. The woman parked the car in front of a bungalow and went in. The car’s out there. The woman’s inside. There wasn’t any place nearby where the operative could telephone in a report, so he took a part out of the distributor head so she couldn’t get the car started, and beat it to a telephone. He wants to know what to do.”

Mason said, “Tell him he’s done a day’s work, to go home and forget it.”

“How about the part for the distributor?” she asked.

“Tell him to throw it in the river,” Mason said, and hung up. He said to Della, “Grab your hat. We’re off.”

In a headlong rush they reached the door of the office, switched off lights, raced down the corridor, waited impatiently for the elevator, rode down in silence and piled into Mason’s car.

The rain was a steady, monotonous, cold downpour which made the drying warmth of Mason’s car heater doubly welcome as the tires hissed along the all but deserted streets.

Mason swung the car wide for a turn into Olive Crest Drive, shifted into second as the road curved m a steep grade up the slope of a hill before leveling out into a scenic drive. There was a glimpse of the lights of the city below, then a series of houses blotted out the view as Mason drove swiftly to the two thousand block.

A car was parked in front of 2312, and a woman was in the car. As Mason pulled up alongside he could see her silhouette as she bent over the lighted dashboard of the car.

Mason pulled up alongside, watched the woman trying in vain to start the car.

“Having trouble?” he asked.

She looked up at him somewhat suspiciously, then as she saw Della Street at his side, nodded and smiled.

Mason pulled his car in front of the parked automobile, got out and walked around to stand by the door.

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“I don’t know. It just won’t start.”

“Don’t happen to have a flashlight, do you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Mason said, “That’s all right, I have one.”

Mason went back to his own car, got out his flashlight, said, “Let’s raise the hood and take a look... Now I’ll disconnect one of these wires and hold it close to the spark plug. If you’ll just step on the starter, we’ll see if we’ve got any spark.”

After a moment Mason announced, “Your trouble is electrical. You’re not getting any spark whatever. Probably got a little water in your distributor head.”

Mason removed the distributor head, replaced it, and walked back to meet the steady, inquiring eyes of the young woman.

“Having domestic troubles?” the lawyer asked cheerfully.

She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Mason said, “Someone’s deliberately put this car out of commission. The part that goes on the electrical distributor has been removed. Until you can get a new part, your car is going to stay right here — unless it’s towed away.”

A frown of annoyance distorted her features.

“Is there,” Mason asked, “anything I can do?”

“Do you have a tow rope?”

“Yes, but it’s rather difficult to go down these slippery roads on the end of a tow rope. You’d want to know something about driving behind another car. Have you ever been towed before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Mason said, “I could take you anywhere you wanted to go as soon as I ask some questions in this house. What’s that number, Della?”

Della Street called out, “Twenty-three twelve.”

Mason said, “I’ll take a flashlight and check on these numbers. It must be one of these houses...”

“It’s the house right here,” the woman said.

“Oh, is it?”

“May I ask why you wanted to ask questions at that house?”

Mason’s face showed surprise.

“It happens that I just came out of there,” the woman said.

“Oh,” Mason announced, “permit me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Mason. I’m a lawyer and...”

“Not Perry Mason?”

“The same,” Mason said.

“Oh.”

“And,” Mason went on, “I’m investigating a matter for a client, and I understand there’s a lead — a rather important lead at this address.”

The young woman became visibly agitated. “Would you mind telling me... well, something of what it’s about?”

“Not at all,” Mason said. “I’m investigating the disappearance of a child. A...”

“Mr. Mason, how did you find this address?”

“That is something I am not at liberty to divulge.”

“Are you retained by... by a man whose first name is Jason?”

Mason smiled. “You seem to know something about the setup.”

“Are you?” she asked.

Mason said, “Well, to be perfectly frank I may be retained by Mr. Jason Bartsler in order to determine certain matters in connection with the estate of his son and a possible grandson, but that is in the offing at the present time. Right at present I am interested in investigating an angle of a murder case.”

“A murder case!”

“Yes.”

“Why, Mr. Mason, I... Who was murdered?”

“A young woman by the name of Mildred Danville.”

There was a moment of silence, then the woman in the car said, “I’m Helen Chister Bartsler. I married Robert Bartsler.”

“Well, well!” Mason exclaimed.

She said, “I presume you came out here to interview Ella Brockton?”

She managed a tone which was not exactly an interrogation but which invited confidences.

Mason remained silent.

“I don’t think it would do you any good to interview Ella right at this time, Mr. Mason. She is upset and... Well, she doesn’t know anything anyway, and... Mr. Mason, are you certain that Mildred Danville was murdered?”

“The police seem to think so.”

“Where?”

“Out on San Felipe Boulevard. I believe the number was sixty-seven fifty.”

“Good Heavens, Mr. Mason, that’s where I live.”

“Indeed,” Mason said and then added, after a discreet moment, “Perhaps you’d like to be present when I interview Ella Brockton.”

Helen Bartsler slid across the seat, stepped to the pavement and slammed the car door. “If you insist upon an interview at this hour, I certainly want to be there.”

“Come on, Della,” Mason said.

The three of them walked through the cold rain up to the little bungalow. Helen Bartsler rang the bell and, within a matter of seconds, the door was opened by a woman in the late fifties, tall, stoop-shouldered with intense black eyes and a long thin mouth.

“Ella,” Helen Bartsler said, “this is Mr. Perry Mason, the lawyer, and... I don’t believe I got the name of the person with you, Mr. Mason.”

“Della Street, my secretary.”

Helen Bartsler said, “They want to ask you some questions, Ella.”

“Ask me questions?” the woman asked in a tired monotone which gave no hint as to the state of her inner emotions.

“Yes. It’s in connection with the...”

“Just a moment,” Mason interrupted. “Suppose you let me ask the questions, Mrs. Bartsler, and I’d prefer to not say why I’m interested until after I’ve asked the questions.”

Helen Bartsler hesitated, then said somewhat reluctantly, “Very well — if that’s the way you want it.”

“Come in,” Ella Brockton invited in the same tired expressionless voice.

They entered a room where a gas flame burning over imitation logs gave forth a cheery glow and Mrs. Brockton said, “Take off your things. I’ll hang them up in the hall closet. Sit down.”

“I’ll help you hang them up,” Helen Bartsler announced, taking Della Street’s raincoat.

Mason said, “We’ll all help. And please remember, Mrs. Bartsler, that I very much prefer to interrogate Mrs. Brockton before she is given any information.”

Helen Bartsler said indignantly, “Well, you’re not the police. I guess I have the right to tell Mrs. Brockton anything I want to. If there’s been a murder, she’s entitled to...”

“A murder!” the woman exclaimed, pausing with her hand on the door of the closet.

“Mildred Danville,” Helen Bartsler said defiantly.

“Well, it serves her right,” the woman announced.

Mason observed, “You seem to have considered it necessary to tell Mrs. Brockton about it. I suppose you know why?”

“I see no reason why you should control my actions at all, Mr. Mason.”

“Well,” Mason said, “that makes it nice. We’re out in the open now. You’re on one side and I’m on the other.”

“Exactly,” Helen Bartsler snapped, “and I want to tell you, Ella, that this man has no right to ask you any questions and you don’t have to give him any answers.”

“That’s entirely correct,” Mason said. “And furthermore, I want to warn both of you that I may have interests that are adverse to those of Mrs. Bartsler and that she is attending this interview at her own request; that it is my suggestion that she leave and get some lawyer to represent her in case she wants to make a fight.”

“What do I have to make a fight about?” Helen Bartsler asked.

“You’ve kept a child concealed from others, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t told Jason Bartsler about his grandchild,” she said. “I don’t know how he happened to find out about it.”

“And why didn’t you tell Jason Bartsler about his grandchild?”

“Because he’s been so cruel, so spiteful, so underhanded. I didn’t want my child to be exposed to that influence. I’ve met the present Mrs. Bartsler and her son, Carl, and they are human beings. But Jason considered me as a gold-digging prostitute, lower than the dirt beneath his feet. However, that’s all been settled now... Well, I guess I hadn’t better say too much.”

“I don’t think you had,” Mason said. “I’ll ask my questions of Mrs. Brockton.”

“And you don’t have to tell him a thing,” Helen Bartsler said.

They entered the living room, seated themselves. Mason, very much at ease, opened his cigarette case, offered cigarettes to the others, settled back in his chair, said to Mrs. Brockton, “I take it you don’t mind. I see you have ash trays here.”

“Go ahead.”

Mason said to Mrs. Brockton, “Just what did you know about Robert Bartsler?”

Ella Brockton glanced at Mrs. Bartsler.

“She took care of him for me,” Helen Bartsler said. “That is, up to the time Mildred kidnapped him.”

Mason said, “Really, Mrs. Bartsler, I think it would be better if you wouldn’t answer questions. After all, I’m trying to interview Mrs. Brockton.”

“You don’t have any right to tell me what to do and what not to do.”

“How did Mildred Danville get killed?” Ella Brockton asked.

“Someone shot her in the back of the head.”

Black eyes glittered. “Well, she was asking for it.”

“Ella!” Helen Bartsler exclaimed.

“She was,” the woman said in the same dogged monotone.

Helen Bartsler said suddenly, “I don’t think either one of us had better say anything, Ella.”

“How long since you’ve seen the baby?” Mason asked Ella Brockton.

“I haven’t seen him since Mildred Danville took him away,” the woman said, and this time there was bitter feeling in her voice. “I warned Mrs. Bartsler what would happen. I knew the minute I saw the expression on her face that day that she was going to take the child and...”

“I think that’s enough, Ella,” Helen Bartsler said firmly.

Mason settled back and smoked in silence.

Helen Bartsler studied him with cold, shrewd eyes that, under eyebrows so blonde as to be all but invisible, seemed strangely unwinking in their scrutiny.

“That,” Mason announced, “suits me. I can get my information elsewhere. Come on, Della, let’s go.”

They were halfway to the door when Helen Bartsler said, “How did you find out about Robert?”

Mason grinned. “That point seems to worry you, doesn’t it?”

“Frankly, yes.”

Mason said, “I think it would be much better for you to see a lawyer.”

“I already have,” she said with a glint of triumph in her eyes. “I know my rights.”

“As the surviving widow of Robert Bartsler?”

“Yes, and also as the wife of a person reported missing in action. In case you’re interested, Mr. Mason, I’ve already patched up my differences with Jason Bartsler and have made a full settlement.”

“Cash?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Settlement all signed?”

“It will be as soon as... Well, I guess I’ll let you find out these things for yourself since you’re so smart!”

“Thank you, I will. Come, Della, let’s go.”

Helen Bartsler followed Mason and Della Street to the doorway. “You haven’t asked any questions about the details of the murder,” Mason said, smiling. “Did you overlook that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, about the time element and where the body was found and things like that. People sometimes ask such questions when a body is found on their premises, you know.”

“I wouldn’t ask you!”

“I noticed that. Good night.”

The door banged indignantly shut.

Mason helped Della Street into his automobile, swung it in a U-turn and made time down the steep grade. He stopped in front of an all night lunch counter, said to Della Street, “There’s a phone in there, Della, call Homicide. Give Lieutenant Tragg my compliments, and tell him that Helen Bartsler who occupies the house at sixty-seven fifty San Felipe Boulevard will be found at twenty-three twelve Olive Crest Drive — if he hurries.”

“Anything else?” Della asked.

“Oh,” Mason said casually, “you might give him my compliments — and ask him if he’s setting any more traps for us.”