The Case of the Crooked Candle

Chapter 1

Perry Mason pushed open the door of his private office, smiled at Della Street who was dusting the corners of his desk with secretarial solicitude.

“Good morning Chief,” she said.

Mason gravely deposited hat in the hat closet, walked over to the desk and looked down at the mail, neatly arranged in three piles, on the first of which was a placard, “Should be read-needs no answer.” The second pile was labeled, “Must be read, but can be answered without necessity of your dictation.” The third pile consisted of some half dozen letters which had been marked, “Must be read and answered by you personally.”

Della Street entered her secretarial office which adjoined that of Perry Mason’s. She dropped the dust cloth in a drawer in her desk, returned to Mason’s office, and dropping her shorthand notebook over her crossed knee, held a pencil poised, waiting for Mason to begin dictating.

Mason started with the pile of letters demanding his personal attention, read through the first one, paused to look out of the window, and then, with his eyes fastened upon the Southern California cloudless sky, said abruptly. “It’s Friday, Della.”

Della nodded, held her pencil in readiness.

“Why,” Mason asked abruptly, “do they invariably exempt murderers on Friday?”

“Probably because it’s considered unlucky to start a journey on Friday,” Della said.

“Exactly,” Mason announced. “It’s a barbarous custom. We should give the murderer a chance to start the next world with a clean slate.”

“Other people die on Fridays just the same as any other day,” Della observed. “Why should murderers be exempt?”

Mason lowered his eyes from the window to look at her. “Della, you are fast becoming a realist. And has it ever occurred to you that we may get in a rut?”

“Getting in a rut around this office is the last thing that would ever enter my mind,” Della said with feeling.

Mason indicated the suite of offices on the other side of the closed doors which led to the law library and the reception room. “Beyond those doors, Della, is a hum of routine activity. Gertie at the switchboard putting through calls, getting the names, addresses and occupations of clients who come in. In an office which opens from the reception room, Jackson is sitting in beetle-browed efficiency. There’s something for you to consider, Della, the case of Jackson — a man who has become so steeped in legalistic lore that a ‘negative pregnant’ elicits greater emotional response than a thirteen-inning baseball game. His life has been so ordered by the conventional rules of law that he simply can’t adjust himself to anything new. He...”

Knuckles tapped on the door from the law library.

Mason said to Della, “This will be Exhibit A in making my point — Jackson himself. Come in!”

Jackson pushed the door open. His spare frame seemed somewhat bowed under the weight of the ponderous dignity which it carried about. His face, thin and sharp, cast in lines of austere concentration, showed a long nose, and thin determined mouth which was beginning to turn sharply down at the corners. Deep calipers had etched themselves down from the nostrils, but the frown in the forehead, only the calm of complete tranquillity. Jackson’s conviction that everything must be done according to law was, which gave him an omnipotent serenity.

Jackson, too engrossed with his legal problem to waste time in “Good mornings,” said, “I have a very perplexing case. I hardly know whether I’m justified in going ahead. A big truck owned by the Skinner Hills Karakul Company transporting some Karakul fur sheep, came to a sudden stop. The driver failed to give any signal. A car operated by Arthur Bickler, who is asking us to represent him, ran into the rear end of the truck and was rather seriously damaged.”

“Anyone in the car with him?”

“Yes, his wife, Sarah Bickler.”

Mason, grinning, said, “I suppose the truck driver says he gave a signal; that he was going to stop; that he was looking in his rearview mirror and saw this car approaching rapidly; that he could see the man was talking to the woman and wasn’t even watching the road; that he blew his horn three times, waved his hand frantically, then switched on and off his rear lights, trying to attract the man’s attention as he slowed down.”

Jackson didn’t even smile. He peered in owlish concentration through his glasses as he consulted his notes. “No. The truck driver insists that he gave a signal and that he saw the car approaching rapidly in his rearview mirror; that the car made no attempt to stop, but slammed into the rear of his truck. He doesn’t say anything about noticing that the man at the wheel of the sedan wasn’t watching the road.”

Mason gave Della Street an amused glance. “Probably an inexperienced truck driver.”

“A most peculiar situation thereupon developed,” Jackson went on. “Arthur Bickler got out of the sedan. The truck driver emerged from behind the wheel of the truck. There was the usual exchange of comment, of recriminations and assertions. Then Arthur Bickler took a pencil from his pocket and wrote down the name, ‘Skinner Hills Karakul Company,’ which was on a placard fastened to the side of the truck. No one made any objection.”

“Why should they?” Mason asked.

Jackson blinked thoughtfully. “That,” he said, “is the peculiar part of it. Mr. Bickler then went around to the rear of the truck and wrote down the license number of the truck. No sooner had he done this than the truck driver reached out, said, ‘Naughtly, naughty!’ took Bickler’s pencil and notebook away and dropped both of them in his pocket, then climbed back in his truck and drove away.”

“Any physical injuries?” Mason asked.

“Mrs. Bickler sustained a nerve shock.”

“Any listing in the phone book of Skinner Hills Karakul Company?”

“No. What’s more they haven’t filed any declaration of firm name, nor of fictitious name.”

“All right,” Mason said, “get Paul Drake on the job. There are only a few places that sell Karakul breeding stock. Drake can get in touch with those places and see if they have recently sold sheep for delivery in the Skinner Hills district; or if they know anything about the Skinner Hills Karakul Company. It shouldn’t be hard to get a lead on them.”

“We are confronted in this case by all the uncertainties of the average accident case,” Jackson pointed out. “Our client may be without a remedy under the doctrine of ‘Last Clear Chance.’ Then there is also the question of contributory negligence. I am somewhat dubious...”

“Don’t let yourself get that way,” Mason interrupted. “A dubious lawyer isn’t worth a damn to himself or to his client. If you think we have a chance, go to it.”

“Very well. Since there is the question of advancing money for an investigation, I thought I should have your permission before incurring the expense.”

“You have it,” Mason said.

Jackson closed the door, and Mason looked at Della Street with twinkling eyes. “You must admit Jackson’s a bit conservative.”

Della said demurely, “Aren’t all lawyers?”

Mason raised his eyebrows and Della added hastily, “An impulsive lawyer might be dangerous.”

“The trouble,” Mason said, “is that cautious lawyers get in a rut. Now take Jackson. His mind is occupied with demurrers, with pleas in confession-and-avoidance. He has no use for the extemporaneous. He has thwarted all impulses. He never trusts his own ideas. Unless he can find a case which is ‘on all fours’ he’s afraid even to think. When he married, he married a widow. He doubtless could make no romantic approach to a woman until he had evidence that previous romantic activities had been established, thereby having the assurance of precedent and...”

Mason’s telephone rang. Mason nodded to Della, and she answered it, turned to Mason and said, “Gertie wants to know if you will accept a call from Mr. Sticklan of the firm of Sticklan, Crowe & Ross. He insists on talking with you personalty.”

Mason reached for the telephone. “Tell Gertie to put him on— Hello.”

“C. V. Sticklan, Mr. Mason, of Sticklan, Crowe & Ross.”

“Yes, Mr. Sticklan.”

“Are you representing a client by the name of Bickler — Arthur Bickler? An auto accident case?”

“Yes”.

“What,” Sticklan asked, “would your clients want by way of settlement?”

“How much are you willing to pay?”

Sticklan’s voice was cautious. “For a complete release from all parties concerned, my clients might go as high as three hundred dollars.”

“You’re representing the Skinner Hills Karakul Company?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“Call me as soon as you can,” Sticklan said. “My client is anxious to get the matter disposed of.”

Mason hung up the phone, grinned at Della Street and said, “Things are looking up, Della, Ask Jackson to come in here.”

A few moments later, Della Street was back with Jackson in tow.

“The Bicklers still in your office?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“How much do they want for complete settlement?”

“I haven’t discussed that. He feels his automobile was damaged to the extent of two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“How much was it actually damaged?”

“Well,” Jackson said dubiously, “if you could get the parts, the damage might not be so great. But then, of course — well, in any event, two hundred and fifty dollars is what he wants.”

“And Mrs. Bickler, what does she want for her nervous shock?”

“She’s talking about five hundred dollars.”

“They’d settle for seven hundred and fifty?”

“Oh, unquestionably. Five hundred would be considered a good settlement.”

“Go see them,” Mason said. “Find out if five hundred is all right.”

Jackson was gone for less than two minutes. “Five hundred dollars for a cash settlement will be very acceptable,” he said.

Mason’s eyes were twinkling. He picked up the telephone, said to Gertie, “Get me C. V. Sticklan, of Sticklan, Crowe & Ross, on the telephone.”

A few moments later when he had Sticklan on the telephone Mason said, “I find the situation a little more serious than I had at first suspected. Not only is there a property damage, but Mrs. Bickler suffered a severe nervous shock and...”

“How much?” Sticklan interrupted.

“Moreover,” Mason went on, “there was a highhanded disregard of the rights of our client, the larceny of...”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“What!” Sticklan shouted.

“You heard me,” Mason said. “Next time, don’t interrupt me when I’m listing a client’s grievances.”

“That’s absurd. That’s outrageous. That’s out of all reason.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Have it your own way,” and promptly hung up the telephone.

Jackson’s eyes were wide. “What,” he asked, “is the idea?”

Mason placed his watch on the desk. “Give him five minutes. That will give him an opportunity to communicate with his client and make me a counter offer.”

“But how did these lawyers know we were handling the case?”

“Probably tried to reach the Bicklers, found out they were at a lawyer’s office, asked the neighbors... How the devil do I know, Jackson? The point is they’re in a frenzy to get it cleaned up.”

Mason watched the second hand on his watch. The telephone rang.

“Two minutes and ten seconds,” Mason said cheerfully, and picked up the telephone.

“Mr. Mason,” Sticklan said, his voice harsh with anxiety, “I’ve communicated with my clients. They feel that the demands of your clients are out of all reason.”

“All right,” Mason said cheerfully, “we’ll file suit and see how a jury feels about it. We...”

“But my clients,” Sticklan interrupted hastily, “are prepared to offer twelve hundred and fifty dollars for a complete settlement.”

“No soap,” Mason announced.

“Look here,” Sticklan pleaded. “In order to get the matter disposed of, I’ll take the responsibility of asking them to put on another two hundred and fifty dollars and make it a total of fifteen hundred dollars.”

Mason said, “Mrs. Bickler sustained a severe nervous shock.”

“Nothing that a little money won’t cure, I trust,” Sticklan said sarcastically.

“That’s doing my client an injustice,” Mason reproached. “Tell you what I’ll do, Sticklan. Tell your clients that if they’ll pay two thousand dollars within the next hour, we’ll sign a settlement. How soon will you let me know?”

“Just a moment,” Sticklan said. “Hold the phone.”

Mason heard the faint murmur of voices, then Sticklan was back on the line. “Very well, Mr. Mason, one of my men will be over at your office with a certified check within thirty minutes. Have your clients wait there, please. There’ll be a complete release for them to sign. We’ll want the release signed in front of a notary.”

Mason grinned at Jackson as he hung up. “Probably,” he announced, “my conscience should bother me, Jackson, but it doesn’t.”

Jackson’s forehead was furrowed. “I don’t know how you do it. I’d have settled for five hundred,” he said glumly. “I lived a hundred years in that two minutes and ten seconds.”

Mason said, “Just a moment before you go, Jackson. I seem to recall having heard something about the Skinner Hills recently. Don’t we have a matter in the office pertaining to property in that district?”

Jackson shook his head, then suddenly caught himself and said “Wait a minute! There’s that Kingman case.”

“Just what is the Kingman case?” Mason asked.

“Remember you received a letter from Adelaide Kingman that you turned over to me? I corresponded with her and advised bringing suit to quiet title. But she didn’t feel that she had the money to go ahead with a lawsuit, so I guess the matter has been virtually dropped.”

“Tell me more about it,” Mason said.

Jackson cleared his throat with the somewhat pompous formality which was a characteristic preliminary of all his legal utterances. “Adelaide Kingman has the record title to a tract of land in the Skinner Hills district, a piece, covering eighty acres of hillside. She executed a contract of sale with a sheepherder named Frank Palermo. The contract price was, I believe, around five hundred dollars. The land is virtually valueless except for a very few acres which are suitable for sheep grazing. Palermo didn’t pay the contract price, but insists that he is entitled to the property because of some financial failure on her part. He’s been in possession for several years and has had the property assessed to him and paid the taxes. He claims to have a title by adverse possession. Apparently he’s one of those smart, cunning, grasping, aggressive individuals who try to chisel at every opportunity.”

“And Adelaide Kingman wouldn’t go ahead with a quiet title action?” Mason asked.

“No. She sustained an accident — a broken leg. I understand she’s in a ward in a San Francisco hospital. She is sixty-five years old and virtually without funds. She felt that, under the circumstances, she couldn’t afford to start suit or advance the preliminary costs.”

Mason said, “Sit down, Jackson. Let’s do a little thinking.”

Jackson seated himself across the desk.

Mason asked, “Why do you suppose this Skinner Hills Karakul Fur Company made a settlement in the way they did, and at the time they did?”

“Doubtless they were afraid to go to court when they heard of the manner in which the truck driver had violently taken possession of Arthur Bickler’s notebook and pencil.”

Mason shook his head. “There was an automobile accident,” he said. “A report doubtless was made. Nothing was done until after ten o’clock this morning. Get that point fixed definitely in your mind, Jackson. It was after ten o’clock.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Jackson asked.

Mason said, “That’s something for us to consider. Ten o’clock is significant in what way?”

“It’s the time the banks open?” Della Street suggested.

“And the time that big executives come to work,” Mason added. “So let’s suppose that this report of the accident was handed to an underling, who in turn placed it on the desk of a big executive at ten o’clock this morning. The big executive tried to get in touch with Bickler by rushing an adjuster out to his house. The man found that Bickler had gone to see an attorney. Probably one of the neighbors told him the name of the attorney. Thereupon, this big executive, whoever he was, rings up his attorneys and advises them to settle the case no matter what it costs. Why?”

Jackson shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

Mason said, “I think I get it. Della, get Paul Drake at the Drake Detective Agency. Tell him to investigate the Skinner Hills Karakul Company; to get in touch with breeders of Karakul fur sheep, and find out to whom sales have been made. Have him look up everything he can in connection with the Skinner Hills Karakul Company and, above, all when that release comes over for Bickler to sign, see if we can’t get Bickler’s notebook back. Then get the license number of the truck in which the sheep were being transported. I think you’ll find that the license number of that truck is the key factor in the whole situation.”

Jackson seemed somewhat dazed. “I am free to confess,” he announced, “that I fail to follow your reasoning processes, Mr. Mason.”

“Never mind trying,” Mason said, and added with a grin, “I’m not even certain I’m following what you would refer to as reasoning processes. I’m playing hunches. Ring up Adelaide Kingman, tell her not to make any settlement of any sort, or sign anything until we tell her, and tell her to refer any inquiries to us. Also advise her that we’re taking her out of the ward and putting her in a private room with special nurses. Then see that the best bone specialist in San Francisco is called into consultation tomorrow morning.”

Jackson’s eyes showed bewildered astonishment. “And who foots the bill?” he asked.

“We do,” Mason said.