The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde

8

Mason swung the car down the side street, brought it to a stop in front of Della Street’s apartment.

He drew Della close to him. “Night,” he said tenderly.

She closed her eyes, raised her mouth.

After a few seconds, Mason released her, opened the car door, walked around to open the door on Della’s side of the car.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Some.”

“Sleep late in the morning. By the way,” he added, his voice sounding almost too casual. “You said Diana gave you her keys. Better let me keep them.”

Della Street fumbled in her purse, brought out the key to the apartment with the small mailbox key fastened to it. “Come on back and get in,” she said. “Don’t think that elaborately casual tone fooled me any. If you’re going there, then I’m going too.”

Mason said, “You’re cold and it’s rainy and...”

“I’m not cold, and a little rain isn’t going to hurt me. I’m dry and warm as toast. Come on. Don’t think you’re going to talk me out of it.”

Mason hesitated.

“You haven’t got all day, you know,” Della Street reminded him. “The police aren’t going to be that dumb.”

Mason got back in the car, switched on the motor and lights and swung the car in a wide turn.

“What would happen,” Della asked, “if the police caught us in the apartment?”

“They won’t catch us, because we aren’t going. I take crazy chances at times, but I’m not going to do anything that wild.”

“But what are you going for, then?”

“The mailbox,” Mason said. “Remember Helen Bartsler fooled around there? She didn’t drive to Mildred’s apartment just to ring the bell and then drive away. At least, I don’t think she did.”

“Oh,” Della said. “I get it now. I thought you were going up.”

Mason swung the car around a corner, parked it directly in front of the Palm Vista Apartments. He opened the door and got out of the car into the steady cold rain.

Della Street said, “Car parked back there in the alley, Chief.”

“Paul Drake’s men,” Mason said.

“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten you had them watching the place.”

Mason lit a match and held it in his cupped hands so Drake’s operative could see his face and know who it was. “Wouldn’t want to have them waste time following us around, Della,” he explained. “Sit tight, I’ll be right back. I’ll just take a look in the mailbox.” Mason tan up the steps, fitted the key, swung back the little metal door and took out an envelope which had Diana’s name and the address scrawled in pencil on it. He thrust the envelope in his pocket, snapped the door shut, returned to the car.

“Apparently written in a hurry,” Mason said, taking the envelope from his pocket, turning it over in his hands, inspecting it under the dashlight. He inserted a lead pencil in under the flap of the envelope. “Wasn’t sealed very well. It’s going to open along the flap.” Mason rotated the pencil, opening the flap of the envelope.

“Read it here?” Della Street asked.

“No. We’d better drive on down the street. The police may show up any minute now.”

Mason started the car, drove down the street a couple of blocks, parked, turned on the dome light in the top of the car, and held the letter so both he and Della Street could read it.

Mason finished reading the letter, frowned, turned it over in his hand. “Here’s a number scrawled on the other side — it’s — 3962YZ.”

“What does that mean?” Della asked.

“I don’t know. And we haven’t time to do any speculating now.”

“You mean you’re going to go after that diary?”

“Exactly.”

“The police will be...”

“Not all the police in the city could keep me from making a try. You wait here and if I...”

Della Street opened the door. “Don’t be silly! Think you can go up there without me?”

“You can’t do a thing, Della, and...”

“You’re just wasting time,” Della pointed out, opening the car door, jumping out into the rain. “Let’s get started.”

“Hello, Mr. Mason,” Drake’s man said in a low voice.

“No police yet?” Mason asked cautiously.

“Not yet.”

“I can’t understand it. We’re going in. If anyone shows, honk your horn. Twice for just anyone, three times for the cops. If it’s the law, get your car started and be pulling away from the place when you give the signal, and I mean pulling away.”

“Okay, I got it.”

Mason said, “It’s going to be a flying trip. I think I can make it all right. We won’t be over five minutes.”

“Okay. We’ll cover the place.”

Mason and Della Street crossed over to the apartment house. Diana’s key worked smoothly in the outer door. “It’s a walk-up,” Mason said, “second floor. Remember now, Della, if anything happens, I do the talking, you do the keeping quiet.”

They found the door of the apartment. Mason inserted the key, snapped back the lock, switched on the lights. “We don’t want to seem furtive about this, Della. It’s one of the things you have to do right out loud if you’re going to get by... Let’s see, where is the pantry? That looks like it. You raid the cracker box. I’ll take a gander in the bedroom — just a look around... Keep your gloves on. They’ll probably fingerprint the place when they get around to it.”

Della Street opened the door which led to a small kitchen, switched on the lights. Mason went to the bedroom, clicked the light switch, regarded the twin beds thoughtfully. Both had been made, but one was rumpled as though someone had been sleeping on top of the covers. There were two chests of drawers, one dressing table. Mason’s eyes went to the bathroom door. He moved over to it, had his hand on the knob when, from the street came the sound of a short sharp blast on an automobile horn. A second later there was another. Mason waited for the sound of a third. It didn’t come.

Mason ran to the bedroom door, made a pass at the light switch, missed it, jerked the door closed, ran to the light switch by the entrance door of the apartment, snapped the lights off, called, “Come on, Della.”

Della Street said from the pantry, her voice edged with exasperation, “I can’t find the confounded cracker box.”

Mason switched out the lights in the kitchen, ran to join her. “Someone’s coming. We’re probably trapped now, anyway. Here, what’s this up on... Oh Oh!”

He broke off as steps sounded in the corridor.

The lawyer stepped out into the dark kitchen. Della Street switched off the light in the little pantry. The steps paused in front of the door of the apartment.

The click of metal against metal was all but inaudible, and the turning of the key was done so slowly and quietly that there was only a faint click as the spring lock snapped back.

The door slowly opened.

For a long two or three seconds nothing happened. Whoever had opened the door stood in the doorway listening, the faint lights from the corridor behind throwing a sinister shadow along the worn carpet of the apartment.

The shadow on the carpet moved.

There was no sound as the figure of the intruder stepped forward into the room and turned to close the door, a motion which was done so swiftly that darkness blotted out the dim light from the corridor before either Mason or Della Street had an opportunity to get a good look at the intruder who was now merely a vague shadowy figure tiptoeing silently across the room to crouch before the partially opened door to the bedroom.

Mason pushed Della Street back, gently tiptoed across the kitchen to stand in the doorway where he could look into the bedroom, and then became conscious of Della Street’s presence as she pressed against his shoulder.

The lower portion of the ribbon of light from the partially opened bedroom door was blotted out by a man’s body.

Slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, the figure pushed open the door of the lighted bedroom until the figure was silhouetted against the light.

“Is that Carl Fretch?” Della Street whispered.

The pressure of Mason’s fingers warned her to silence. “Yes. That’s Carl.”

“I’m going back to that pantry,” Della whispered, and glided swiftly and silently across the kitchen.

Mason stood in the doorway watching Carl Fretch.

The young man stood on the threshold of the bedroom for, a matter of some seconds before apparently concluding that the occupant of the bedroom who had left the lights on was in the bathroom.

Slowly he tiptoed his way to the bathroom. Once more he twisted the knob, cautiously opened the door, seemed utterly nonplused when he found the bathroom was empty.

From the street outside, came the blast of a horn, followed by a second and then a third, as a car roared off down the boulevard.

Carl Fretch froze into startled silence, then started tiptoeing toward where Mason was standing invisible m the darkness.

Sudden steps sounded from the stairway, the confused footfalls of several persons climbing noisily.

Carl Fretch stopped in his tracks, his posture stiff with apprehension. For a moment he listened, then he darted back to stand in the door of the bedroom.

Steps rounded the head of the stairs, into the corridor, came down to the very door of the apartment. Knuckles tapped a perfunctory rap on the panels, then almost immediately a key clicked back the spring lock.

Carl Fretch, moving swiftly, closed the door of the bedroom.

The door of the corridor opened. Three men pushed their way into the apartment. One of them switched on the lights.

“Good evening, Sergeant Holcomb,” Mason said, and managed somehow to give a certain casual note to his voice.

Sergeant Holcomb’s face darkened. “You again!”

“In person.”

Holcomb tilted back his hat. “What the hell, are you doing here?”

Holcomb said angrily, “Well, as far as I’m concerned, you’re a house-breaker.”

“I was hoping,” Mason announced, “you’d got over that habit of jumping at conclusions.”

“I was,” Mason announced, “about to make an inventory” — and then added as Della Street moved up to join him — “with the assistance of my secretary.”

Holcomb said, “Go ahead, wise guy, shoot off your face. You got me lifted off of the Homicide Squad by making a monkey out of me because I listened to you. Now I don’t listen. I act.”

“Suit yourself,” Mason said.

The two plain-clothes officers who accompanied Sergeant Holcomb looked to him for instructions.

“How’d you get in?” Holcomb asked.

“My client, Diana Regis, gave me the key to her apartment and asked me to do something for her here.”

“Humph!” Holcomb said. “Her key!”

“Exactly,” Mason said, “just as I presume you took Mildred Danville’s key and came to take a look around.”

“How long you been here?”

“I don’t know. Five minutes, perhaps. Perhaps ten minutes. Why don’t you look around, Sergeant?”

“I’m looking around,” Holcomb said. “What have you found, anything?”

“Nothing of any importance.”

“I don’t like the idea of you being here. How do we know your client gave you a key and told you to come here?”

“I’ve told you so.”

“Well,” Holcomb said after a moment’s hesitation, “I told you I didn’t listen to you any more.”

“Then quit asking me questions,” Mason said.

Holcomb jerked his head toward the bedroom. “Take a look around, boys. I’ll handle this.”

The two officers swung toward the bedroom, pushed open the door. A moment later he called out, “Windows open on the fire escape, Sarg. Looks like somebody’s gone down... Hey, you! Come back here. Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Holcomb raced for the bedroom.

“Guy just getting down the fire escape,” one of the officers shouted, “beat it down the alley.”

“Don’t stand there with lead in your pants,” Holcomb yelled, “get down and pick him up. What the hell are you standing there gawking at?”

The two officers raced back through the living room, out through the door and down the stairs.

Holcomb said to Mason, “Come on over here and sit down. No funny stuff.”

“Are you,” Mason asked, “by any chance trying to take me into custody?”

“I don’t know,” Holcomb said. “I do know I’m not going to let you pull any razzle dazzle on me. What have you got in your pockets?”

“Personal belongings,” Mason said.

“Who was it got down the fire escape? Your man, Paul Drake?”

Mason remained silent.

Holcomb said, “You sure got a crust, Perry Mason, prowling around with your detective, digging up evidence in advance of the police and trying to fix things so we can’t make a case. Now I’m going to tell you something, wise guy, if you’ve taken anything out of this place, or if Paul Drake has, you’re going to get charged with burglary. Get that? I’m going to throw the book at you.”

Mason lit a cigarette, said, “Do sit down, Della. I’m afraid you’ll find the Sergeant is in one of his more belligerent moods.”

Heavy steps sounded on the stairs. One of the officers who had dashed out said, “He got away, Sarg.”

“Well, take the car and look alive,” Holcomb shouted angrily.

“Jim’s got the car. He’s making a swing around the block. I thought perhaps you’d want some help up here.”

Holcomb said, “All right, keep an eye on these two. I’m going to take a look around.”

Sergeant Holcomb started prowling around the apartment, looking in drawers and closets.

Mason smoked in silence.

Holcomb returned to Mason, said, “We got a tip that Mildred Danville left some sort of a diary.”

“Indeed,” Mason observed.

“Now that there diary,” Sergeant Holcomb went on, “might be evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“Evidence that would give us some sort of a lead on who the murderer might have been.”

“Of course,” Mason pointed out, “neither one of us knows what’s in the diary — assuming that there is a diary, Sergeant.”

Holcomb frowned, “I don’t know what’s in it, but you might.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

Holcomb said, “Now I’ll be a gentleman. If Miss Street will tell us on her word of honor that she hasn’t anything she’s taken from this apartment and that she doesn’t know anything about a diary, we won’t search her.

“We’ll search you, Mason. If you haven’t taken any evidence from here, we’ll let you go.”

“You say you’re going to search me?” Mason asked incredulously.

“You’re damn right.”

“Without a warrant?”

“That’s right.”

“I think not,” Mason said calmly.

“Wait until Jim gets here,” Holcomb said. “You’ve got away with murder, Mason, and from now on whenever you run up against me, you’re going to get a few jolts.”

“Try searching me without a warrant,” Mason said, “and you’ll get a jolt yourself.”

Holcomb tilted back his hat. “There’s ways of doing these things, wise guy.”

Something more than a minute elapsed, then there were feet on the stairs again and the third officer entered the room. “Couldn’t do a thing with the guy that got down the fire escape, Sarg,” he said, “but there’s a car parked up near the corner. Car is registered in the name of Jason Bartsler. There’s another car parked down the alley, guy sitting in it. I shook him down for a driving license. He’s an operative for the Drake Detective Agency, said he was sent out here to watch the joint, won’t tell us anything else.”

“Jason Bartsler, eh,” Sergeant Holcomb said. “All right boys, impound that car. Shake down the guy that’s casing the place. If Drake sent him over here to keep watch, he saw the guy that went down the fire escape. Get a description. Tell him it’s a burglary rap, and if he withholds essential evidence from the police, we’ll take his license and make it tough for the whole outfit. Frank, you take these two along with you.”

“May I ask what you intend to do?” Mason asked.

“You’re damn right you can ask, wise guy,” Sergeant Holcomb said, “because I was about to tell you anyway. You’re under arrest on a charge of burglary, and on a charge of obstructing justice by suppressing evidence. You’re going to jail. Della Street is going to jail. You’re going to be booked. We wouldn’t search you for anything without a warrant — indeed no! But when you’re booked and jailed, you know, you have to be searched. Your belongings are taken away from you, and you’re given a receipt for them. There’s an easy way, and there’s a hard way of doing these things. You like to have them done the hard way. That suits me. Come on, buddy, take ’em along.”