The Case of the Crooked Candle

Chapter 11

The Skinner Hills lay in rolling contours under a warm California sun. The early spring grass gave them a soft green texture that made the land seem fertile and prosperous.

A month or so later, when the dry season had become definitely established, the sun would toast the hills to a golden brown. Then the beauty spots would be the massive live oaks which would furnish relief from the glare of the eye-aching sunlight. Now those trees which dotted the green landscape were mere incidentals. The eye feasted upon the rolling green slopes.

Mason stopped his car on a turn in the road at the summit of the grade, and said to Della Street, “Well, here you are.”

“How beautiful!” she exclaimed.

“It is,” Mason agreed.

“Where are all these Karakul sheep?”

Mason took binoculars from the glove compartment, opened the car door and got out to stand in the warm, late, spring sunlight, his elbow propped against the door to steady the binoculars.

“There they are.”

“You mean those little spots way down there in the pasture?”

“Yes.”

“Let me look.”

Della Street swung quickly in a half turn, thrust out her feet, jumped to the ground with a swirl of skirts, then came to stand at Mason’s side. The lawyer handed her the binoculars, moved over so that she could rest her arm on the door of the car.

“Oh, how interesting!” Della Street exclaimed, looking through the powerful glasses. “So that’s where our fur coats come from?”

“That’s right.”

“You mean those sheep make...”

“Not the mature sheep. The hair from the mature sheep makes tweed clothing, blankets, rugs and that sort of stuff. Karakul coats are made from one day old, newborn lambs.”

“Seems a mean trick to play on the lambs,” Della said.

“It is.”

“I never knew that before.”

“On the other hand,” Mason said, “if it weren’t for the fur industry, the strain wouldn’t be cultivated, so the lamb wouldn’t be born at all — so there you are.”

“Something like which came first, the chicken or the egg.”

“Exactly.”

“And just what do you propose to do?”

Mason said, “I’m going to find this man, Frank Palermo, and see just what he knows — if he’ll talk. And then we’re going to have a nice, friendly session with our clients.”

Della said, “You think your clients are holding out on you?”

Mason indicated the winding road. “If what Van Nuys says is true, they are. According to my information, we turn off there to the left and take the road that winds over toward that range of brushy hills.”

Della handed the binoculars back to Mason, who put them in their leather case. They got back into the automobile and Mason drove down the winding grade.

They crossed over a little gully on a short bridge. The road started climbing. Mason gunned the car up the long rolling slopes, then abruptly turned to the left on a dirt road.

“Fresh car tracks on this road,” Della said. “It looks as though it had quite a bit of use.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you know what Palermo looks like?” Della asked.

“I know his type.”

“What’s it like?”

“Bullheaded, obstinate, cunning, two-fisted, glittering eyes, an overbearing manner, and a breath that is composed of one part garlic, one part sour wine.”

Della laughed. “You make him sound very hard-boiled.”

“Probably not doing him justice even yet. He’s just the type you’d like to have discover corpses in cases the other fellow is handling.”

For several miles now they had been passing little shack houses, unpainted cabins with stovepipes thrust out through terra cotta rings serving as chimneys, desolate, weather-beaten, deserted cabins that bore silent witness to man’s struggle with the poverty of poor land. Now, thanks to the purchasing activities of Fred Milfield and the Skinner Hills Karakul Fur Company, the owners of this land had sold out at attractive prices and had moved away, basking in comparative affluence.

The dirt road topped a ridge, descended into a little canyon. Ahead of them was a cabin typical of all the other cabins save that a faint wisp of smoke was coming from the chimney.

“Probably cooking his Sunday dinner,” Mason explained to Della Street.

“Is this the place?”

“According to my sketch map, this is it.”

Mason drove the car across a dry wash, spurted up the incline on the other side, rounded a wooded knoll and turned into the refuse-littered yard around the cabin.

Immediately back of this cabin were the high hills which marked the end of the rolling sheep country. These hills were thickly covered with chamiso and scrub oak interspersed with clumps of grayish-green sage.

The door of the cabin was flung open. A thick-chested, florid-faced man with a shock of iron-gray hair stood in the doorway. His grayish-green eyes glittered with the effort of concentration.

“I’m looking for Frank Palermo.”

“All right. You come to right place. This, he is Frank Palermo. What you want?”

“I am Perry Mason, the lawyer.”

A sudden surge of enthusiasm flooded the man’s face. He came running forward, hand outstretched. “Mist’ Mason! By Gar — beeg lawyer like you come to see little sheepherder like me. Son-of-a-gun! I bet you that car cost plenty money, huh? Jiz’ get out. Bringa da lady. We make good talk — you and me. We have a good glass of vino, no?”

“No,” Mason said, grinning at Della Street. “We have to talk right here. I’m in a hurry.” He got out of the car, shook hands.

“But you have glass of vino, eh? I bring heem out.”

“Sorry,” Mason said, “but I never drink before noon.”

Palermo’s face fell. “I got some ver’ fine vino — kind you don’t get in no restaurant. Restaurant wine he’s too sweet. Iss not good for you drink sweet wine like that. Drink good sour wine that make you strong, no?”

“It’s all right if you’re accustomed to it,” Mason said. “If you’re not, it’s a pretty strong drink.”

“Not strong at all. Who’s the lady? Thata your wife?”

“That’s my secretary.”

“Your secretay, huh! Whatcha do with secretay?”

Mason’s eyes were smiling. “She writes down things that are said.”

Della Street gave Palermo a smile.

Palermo’s eyes twinkled with the lusty appreciation of one man of the world talking to another in a cryptic language which only they can understand. “By jiz’ that’s something! She writes things down, huh?” And Palermo threw back his head and laughed uproariously.

Della Street surreptitiously reached in the glove compartment of the car, took out a shorthand notebook and a pencil, held the notebook on her lap where Palermo couldn’t see it, her pencil poised over it. She said to Mason, “Your description seems to have been pretty accurate. How’s the halitosis, did you hit the nail on the head on that? I’m out of range.”

Mason said, “You’re fortunate. If I can manipulate you into a position of proximity, your olfactory nerves will acclaim me a prophet.”

Palermo ceased laughing instantly, his bushy eyebrows pulled down in a scowl over his glittering little eyes as they switched back and forth from Mason to Della Street. “Whatsa that you say?” he asked.

“My secretary was reminding me,” Mason said, “that I have an appointment late this afternoon, and I’ll have to be getting back to my office.”

“Jiz’ you work Sundays?”

“Sometimes.”

Palermo’s eyes shifted to the car. “You make lotsa money. Why you work on Sundays?”

“I make so much money,” Mason explained gravely, “that I have to work Sundays to pay my income tax.”

“By Gar! You make so much money — you not make enough for tax! By Gar, that’s tough. Iss plenty tough! I Look, I got the idea, we make lots the money. I want to see you, by Gar, and now you come see me.”

“You wanted to see me about the land?”

“Sure about the land. What you think? You get your people file a lawsuit against me, huh? Then we all get rich.”

“How?” Mason asked.

“You prove I no got title to land, huh?”

“You haven’t any title, Palermo.”

“No, no! I mean you do it the way I tell you. We fix it up. I help prove I no got the title.”

“You mean you’ll deliberately lose the lawsuit?”

Palermo’s head nodded vigorously, his eyes were sharp and glittering. “That’s right.”

“Why?” Mason asked.

Palermo unconsciously reached out for Mason’s arm once more, trying to draw him away from the automobile.

“Just how?” Mason asked.

“We make money outa sheep — outa fur sheep for ladies’ coats,” Palermo said, and then again roared with laughter, giving Mason a quick dig in the ribs. “You betcha we make money outa da fur sheep.”

Mason waited.

Palermo lowered his voice to little more than a garlic-coated whisper, leaned close to Mason, “You know something? I give Milfield contract to buy my property for — well, for plenty money.”

“But you don’t have the title to that eighty-acre tract.”

“Poof! I get title all right. Don’t you worry none about me. Frank Palermo, he smart man. You a lawyer, but I know law pretty good myself too, maybe — huh? Five years I stay on that property and I pay taxes. After that can’t do nothing, no. I see that in court once. My brother, he do the same thing. I come here, I decide I’m going to be smart like my brother.”

“This time,” Mason said, “you were too smart.”

For a moment there was antagonism in the little deep set eyes, then Palermo was once more vociferously friendly. “Look, Mist’ Mason, you know what happen? Day before yesterday a man comes to my place — he’s got big car like yours. He says, ‘Palermo, how much money Mr. Milfield he going to give you for property?’ ”

“I say, ‘Why you want to know?’ He say, ‘Because may be I give you more.’ ”

“ ‘All right,’ I tell him. I say, ‘I make a contract — one price in the contract. But Milfield, he gives me money for cash. I put in my pocket. That money, nothing said about in the contract.’ ”

“Did you tell him how much that money was?” Mason asked.

“Sure I tell him. He’s one thousand dollars — one thousand dollars for cash. But the contract, he don’t say nothing about the one thousand dollars in cash. Then Milfield shows that contract to other men got the property around here and makes look all right, see?”

Mason nodded.

“All right, this man he says, ‘Look, maybe I can get you five thousand dollars for your property.’ — You get that? Five thousand dollars! Jiz’ whata break! Already I’ve signed my name on contract. But I don’t think contract he’s good.”

“Why not?” Mason asked.

“Is no witness.”

“But you signed your name?”

“Sure I sign my name — what the hell, why not sign my name? I get one thousand dollars cash money when I sign my name — why not?”

“Then as I get it,” Mason said, “you want me to file suit against you so it will be determined that you have no title?”

The little, eyes sparkled with appreciation. “That’s right.”

“And have you put off the property?”

The head nodded vigorously.

“And then,” Mason asked, “what do we do?”

“Jiz’! what do we do? Then I can’t sell to Milfield because I got no title, see? He don’t get back no one thousand dollars because no witness. I say by Gar, he never pay no thousand dollars. Only price he to pay is on contract and no witness. All right. You get property. I not got the property. Then I can’t, sell. Then contract he’s no good because I got no property. You got the property. You sell this man for five thousand dollars. You take one half for you, one-half for me. We all make money, No?”

Palermo was peering anxiously at Mason, trying to see how the lawyer would react to his proposition.

Mason said, “I don’t think my client would be interested. What was the name of this man who was out here?”

“By Gar, he don’t want tell me any name. He says his name come later. But I’m smart. When he’s not look, I write down license of his automobile — big automobile like yours. Fine car. I get license number. What the hell you care what man tells you about his name when you got license number, huh?”

“This was Friday?” Mason asked.

“Friday, yes.”

“What time?”

“In afternoon.”

“What time in the afternoon?”

“I don’t know. I don’t carry no watch. Just a little in afternoon. You see that tree? The shadow that tree when this man comes, is right here.”

Palermo walked rapidly over to a point some forty feet south of the trunk of a live oak tree. He dug with his heel into the ground, leaving a little furrow of turned up soil. “Right here,” he said. “The shadow is right here.”

Mason noticed the tree and the angle of the sun and nodded. “And you have the license number of his car?”

“Sure I get his number. I get pencil and write down number of automobile. I’m smart man myself. You smart lawyer. I am smart sheep man. You get that property. You sell it quick for five thousand dollars. We split fifty-fifty.”

“And,” Mason asked, flashing a quick glance at Della Street, “do we also split the thousand dollars you got in cash from Milfield?”

Palermo drew back. “Say! What the hell you talk about? I never got it. Is no witness.”

Mason laughed.

Palermo pushed stubby fingers down into his watch pocket, pulled out a folded bit of paper. On it had been scrawled the rambling figures so characteristic of the writing of a man who is all but illiterate. He read out the license number, 8P3035.

Mason smiled, shook his head. “I’m not here to talk about your property claim, Palermo. I want you to see a lawyer about that. I came to ask you about what happened Saturday morning.”

The little suspicious eyes narrowed. “Saturday morning. Is nothing. I go aboard yacht to see Milfield. Is dead. That’s all.”

“How did you know that Milfield was to be aboard that yacht?”

“Because I know he’s there.”

“How did you know he’s there?”

“Because he tell me is going to be there.”

“You telephoned Milfield!”

“That’s right.”

“Did you tell him about this other man having been to see you?”

“Sure I tell him.”

“And what did Milfield say?”

“Milfield he say to come see him tomorrow on yacht. Is all excited quick.”

“Look here,” Mason said. “If you were to meet Milfield Saturday morning on that yacht, you must have had some sort of a deal fixed up.”

Palermo threw out his hands in a little gesture of disclaimer. “What the hell? You can’t get money from man who is dead. I know that. No writing, is no good. Lawyer tell my brother all about that.”

“So you did have some agreement with Milfield?” Mason asked. “Some understanding you’d reached over the telephone, something that would have worked out all right if Milfield had lived?”

“Is no witness,” Palermo said doggedly.

“All right, you went out to the yacht. What did you find?”

“I find yacht all right. I’ve got the name from that yacht written down on piece of paper, see? I scull out, I find the yacht. All right, I go around in boat. Me, I am pretty good boatman. I look at that yacht quick. I see is no way to get ashore from that yacht.”

“What do you mean?”

“No boat. No skiff. Just yacht. How you going to get to shore from yacht with no boat, huh? All right, to myself, I say ‘Little boat is gone. That means men aboard yacht are gone. That means Frank Palermo he come all the way for nothing.’ Me, I am sore. I yelled. Nobody answer. All right, I get aboard.”

“The yacht was at anchor?” Mason asked.

Palermo laughed. “The yacht she is stuck in the mud. Can’t go no place when yacht stuck in mud.”

“But there was water all around it?”

“Oh, sure. Water, but not enough.”

“You are in your own boat?”

“Sure, in my own boat. Right there is boat, all folded up. I take hunters out on lake in that boat. You think I am going to pay rent for boat when already I have boat? What the hell? You think I am crazy, me, Frank Palermo?”

“I was just wondering about the boat,” Mason explained.

“All right. Now you know. Is my own boat.”

“And what did you do?”

“I go down the stairs.”

“Was the hatch pushed back?”

“Hatch is pushed back.”

“And what did you find?”

“First I don’t find nothing. Then I look around, I see dead man. Is Milfield. Idea comes to my mind like one flash. ‘All right, Milfield is dead, so then is no witness. Contract is no good without witness.’ ”

“Where was Milfield lying?”

“Over against the side of cabin.”

“Against the low side?”

“Sure.”

“The yacht was tilted over?”

“Sure, is low tide.”

“What did you do?”

“Get out fast.”

“Did you touch anything?”

Palermo grinned. “Only my feet. I am not damn fool.”

“Perhaps you touched the top of the hatch when you went down into the cabin.”

“Sure.”

“You left fingerprints there?”

“Well, what of it? That was in the morning. Man is dead already for all night.”

“But you may have left fingerprints?”

Palermo raised his voice. “Say, what’s the matter? May be you like to make trap for me and take all that five thousand, huh? What you mean maybe fingerprints?”

Mason said, “I’m trying to find out...”

“You try to find out too damn much! Whatsa matter you don’t make a deal with me? Maybe you try get rope around my neck so you get property, huh?”

Palermo turned abruptly and stalked toward his cabin.

Mason said, “I simply wanted to ask you...”

Palermo whirled, his face was dark with rage. “You get the hell off my property,” he shouted. “When I get to cabin, I get shotgun.”

Mason watched the man turn and plunge along toward his cabin.

“I think, Chief,” Della Street said, “you’ve obtained just about all the information you are going to get.”

Mason nodded, said nothing, stood watching the cabin, saw Palermo pull the screen door to one side, enter the cabin, slam the door behind him.

“Better get started before be comes out with that shotgun,” Della urged. “He’s just about half crazy.”

Mason said, “Just as a psychological experiment, Della, I’d like to see whether he does bring out a gun.”

“Chief, I’m nervous.”

“So am I,” Mason admitted, grinning.

“He doesn’t seem to be coming out.”

Mason waited another thirty seconds, then slowly walked along the car, opened the door and slid in behind the steering wheel.

Della Street switched on the ignition.

“Do you want to ring up Paul Drake about that license number?” she asked, glancing apprehensively toward the cabin.

Mason’s lips tightened. “That,” he said, “isn’t going to be necessary I happened to recognize the license number.”

“You did! Whose car is it?”

“The car,” Mason said, “is the one in which I was given such an interesting ride yesterday afternoon. The one in which Carol Burbank took me up to the Surf and Sun Motel and subsequently back to the little ’dobe restaurant.”