The Case of the Crying Swallow

Chapter one

Perry Mason, tilted back in his walnut desk chair, was studying a recent decision of the state supreme court when Della Street, his secretary, opened the door from the outer office, advanced to the desk and quietly laid ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills on the blotter.

Mason, too engrossed to notice what she was doing, continued his reading.

Della Street said, “A client sends his card.”

Mason straightened in the swivel chair and for the first time caught sight of the money which Della Street had so neatly spread out.

“He said his name was Mr. Cash,” Della Street explained. “Then he handed me ten one-hundred-dollar bills and said these were his cards.”

Mason grinned. “So the black market begins to turn yellow. What does Mr. Cash look like?”

“He’s a floor walker.”

Mason raised his eyebrows, glanced at the cash. “A floorwalker?”

“No, no, not a department store floorwalker! I mean that he’s a floor walker, the same as you are. He paces the floor when he’s worried. He’s doing a carpet marathon out there right now.”

Mason said, “I don’t know whether civilization is breaking down the character of our criminals or whether the black market operators haven’t been in business long enough to develop intestinal stamina. The bootleggers were a tougher breed. My own opinion is that these black market operators simply haven’t had time to become accustomed to the fact that they’re on the other side of society’s legal fence. Give them another eighteen months and they’ll be as tough as the old gangsters.”

“He definitely isn’t a black market operator,” Della Street said positively. “He’s distinguished-looking, has a slight limp, is deeply tanned and... and I’ve seen him somewhere before. Oh, now I have it. I’ve seen his picture!”

“Give.”

“Major Claude L. Winnett, polo player, yachtsman, millionaire playboy. When the war came, he quit being a playboy and became an aviator, bagged a whole flock of German planes and then was captured, liberated last fall, discharged because of his wound, returned to his doting mother and...”

Mason nodded. “I remember reading about the chap. He got a citation or something. Didn’t he get married?”

“About four or five weeks ago,” Della Street said. “That was where I first saw his picture — in the paper. Then again last week a reporter for the society supplement paid a visit to the Winnett home — one of the old-time country estates with stables of polo ponies, riding trails, hedges, private golf courses...”

“Show him in,” Mason said. “But let him know first that you’ve placed him. It may save time.”

Major Winnett, lean, fit, bronzed, and nervous, followed Della Street into the office. The excitement and anxiety of his manner were more noticeable than his slight limp. A well-modulated voice and patrician bearing made his surrender to emotion all the more impressive.

“Mr. Mason,” he said as soon as he was in the room, “I had intended to keep my identity a secret and ask you to represent another person. Now that your secretary has recognized me, I’ll put my cards on the table. My wife has disappeared. She needs your help. She’s in trouble of some sort.”

“Tell me about it,” Mason said.

Major Winnett reached into his inside pocket, took out a folded piece of letter paper and handed it to Mason.

The lawyer opened the letter and read:

“What does she mean by saying she’s responsible and not letting you suffer because of what you have done for her?” Mason asked.

Major Winnett’s manner was uneasy. “My marriage was not exactly in accordance with the wishes of my mother. I went ahead with it despite her objections.”

“Spoken objections?”

“Certainly not.”

“Yet your wife knew of them?”

“Women feel many things without the necessity of words, Mr. Mason. I want you to find her and straighten things out for her.”

“And then report to you?”

“Certainly.”

Mason shook his head.

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the faint rumble of traffic and the breathing of Mason’s client. Then Major Winnett said, “Very well. Do it your way.”

“When did your wife leave?”

“Last night. I found this note on the dresser about midnight. I thought she had previously retired.”

“Is there any reason why your wife would have been vulnerable to what we might call an outside influence?”

“Absolutely not — if you mean blackmail.”

“Then tell me why your wife wasn’t free to come to you with her troubles.”

“I don’t know, unless it’s on account of my mother.”

“What about her?”

“My mother is a very unusual person. When my father died, a dozen years ago, Mother stepped in and took charge. She is living in a bygone era. She has old-fashioned ideas.”

“The proprieties?” Mason asked.

“Not so much the proprieties as... well, class distinctions, the aristocracy of wealth and that sort of thing. I think she would have been happier if I had married someone more in our own set.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Oh, I didn’t say any particular person,” Major Winnett said hastily.

“I know you didn’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Well, perhaps Daphne Rexford.”

“You think this caused your wife to leave?”

“No, no. Not directly. My mother has accepted Marcia into the family. Whatever may have been Mother’s ideas about the marriage, Marcia is now one of us — a Winnett.”

“Then suppose you tell me what you mean when you say ‘not directly.’ ”

“Marcia would have done anything rather than subject me to any notoriety because she knew how my mother felt about that. You see, Mr. Mason, we live in a large, rather old-fashioned estate surrounded by hedges, with our private bridle paths, high wire fences, locked gates, no-trespassing signs and all the rest. The more the world moves in a way that meets with the disapproval of my mother, the more she tries to shut that part of the world out from her life.”

“Anything unusual happen within the last few days?” the lawyer asked, probing his client’s mind.

“A burglar entered our house Tuesday night.”

“Take anything?” Mason asked.

“My wife’s jewelry, valued at perhaps twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars, although I don’t suppose a person could get that for it. It had been insured at fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Had been?” Mason asked.

“Yes, my wife canceled the insurance. As it happened, only the day before the burglary.”

Major Winnett glanced almost appealingly at the lawyer.

“Canceled her insurance,” Mason said, “and then twenty-four hours later the burglary took place?”

“Yes.”

“And you fail to see any connection between those two facts?”

“I am certain there is none,” Major Winnett said hastily. “My wife’s reasoning was absolutely sound. She had carried this insurance policy and paid high premiums on it while she was living in apartments and hotels because she wanted to keep her jewelry with her and wanted to wear it. But when she married me and came to live in Vista del Mar, it seemed hardly necessary to continue paying high premiums.”

“Tell me more about that burglary and why you didn’t report it to the police.”

“How did you know we didn’t report it to the police?”

“Your facial expression,” Mason said dryly.

“That was purely on account of the fact that my mother... well, you know, the newspaper notoriety and...”

“Tell me about the burglary,” Mason said.

Major Winnett spoke with the rhythm of a man who is carefully choosing his words. “I am a sound sleeper, Mr. Mason. My wife is not. On Tuesday night I was awakened by the sound of my wife’s scream.”

“What time?”

“I didn’t look at my watch at the time but I did look at it a few minutes later, and as nearly as I can place the time, it was around quarter to one.”

“How long had you been in bed?”

“We retired about eleven.”

“And you slept until your wife screamed?”

“Well, I have, in the back of my consciousness, a vague recollection of a swallow crying.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“You are, of course, familiar,” Major Winnett went on hastily, “with the famed swallows of the Mission of San Juan Capistrano?”

Mason nodded.

“The nesting place of those swallows is not confined to the Mission. They get more publicity at the Mission because they leave on a certain day and return on a certain day. I believe that the time of their return can be predicted almost to the hour. A very unusual sense of keeping a calendar. How they are able to return year after year...”

“And you have some of those swallows at your house?” Mason interrupted.

“Yes. They are a nuisance. Their nests are built out of mud and are fastened to the eaves. Our gardener knocks them down as soon as he detects the birds building, but in case one of them eludes his vigilance and the nest is built, then we don’t disturb it, because the birds lay eggs very soon after the nests are built.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“Well, this particular swallow’s nest was located in a very unfortunate place. The main residence at Vista del Mar is a large Spanish-type house with the tile roofs and a white exterior. Our bedroom is on the second floor with a projecting balcony. The tile projects out over that balcony, and the birds had made their nest in such a place that if a man climbed over the balcony rail, he’d be within a few feet of the nest.”

“And a man did climb over that rail?”

“Evidently that is what happened. We found a ladder that had been placed against the side of the house. The intruder had climbed up the ladder. In doing so, he disturbed the swallows. When they’re disturbed, they have a peculiar throaty chirp.”

“And you heard that?”

“I either heard it or dreamed that I did. My wife doesn’t remember it, and she is a much lighter sleeper than I am, but I don’t think I was mistaken.”

“Then you went back to sleep?”

“Apparently I did. I remember hearing the protestations of the swallows but, although I was aroused from a sound slumber, I didn’t thoroughly waken. I dozed off again and was soon in a deep sleep from which I was awakened by my wife’s scream.”

“She saw the burglar?”

“She was aroused by some noise in the room. She saw this man standing at her dresser. At first she thought I had gone to the dresser for some purpose and she started to speak to me. Then she looked over and saw that I was in my bed...”

“There was enough light for that?”

“Yes. A late moon was giving some light.”

“What happened?”

“The man heard the motion — some sound of the bedsprings, I guess. He darted out to the balcony. My wife screamed and that wakened me, but it took me a few seconds to get oriented, to realize where I was and what was happening. By that time the man had made his escape.”

“And you think the swallows were crying because the man disturbed them?”

“That’s right. When he entered the building, he must have climbed over the balcony rail and touched the nest.”

“When did your wife cancel the insurance?”

“Monday afternoon.”

Mason toyed with his lead pencil, then asked abruptly, “What happened Monday morning?”

“We all four breakfasted together.”

“Who’s the fourth?”

“Helen Custer, my mother’s nurse.”

“Your mother isn’t well?”

“She has a bad heart. Her physician feels it’s advisable to have a nurse in the house.”

“She’s been with you long?”

“For three years. We consider her very much one of the family.”

“You breakfasted and then what?”

“I wrote letters. My mother... I don’t know exactly where she did go. Marcia went riding.”

“Where?”

“Heavens, I don’t know. One of our bridle paths.”

Mason said, “I believe it rained Sunday night, didn’t it?”

Major Winnett looked at him curiously. “What,” he asked, “does that have to do with it?... I mean, what is the significance?”

“Skip it,” Mason interrupted. “What happened next?”

“Nothing. My wife returned about eleven.”

“When did she tell you she was going to cancel the insurance?”

“That was just before lunch. She telephoned to the insurance company, and then she wrote them a letter confirming her action.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in your wife’s manner?”

“Nothing,” Major Winnett said so swiftly that it seemed the answer had been poised on his tongue, waiting merely for Mason’s question.

Mason said, “Well, it’s ten-thirty. I want to get Paul Drake of the Drake Detective Agency. We’ll make a start out at your place and go on from there. I’ll leave here about eleven. Does your mother know your wife has left?”

Major Winnett cleared his throat. “I told her my wife was visiting friends.”

“How will you account for us?” Mason asked.

“How many will there be?”

“My secretary, Miss Street, Paul Drake, the detective, myself, and perhaps one of Mr. Drake’s assistants.”

Major Winnett said, “I’m working on a mining deal. I can explain to my mother that you’re giving me some advice in connection with that. Your detective wouldn’t mind posing as a mining expert?”

“Not at all.”

“You’ll come to the house and... will you want to stay there?”

Mason nodded. “I think we’d better. And I’ll want photographs and a description of your wife.”

Major Winnett took an envelope from his inside pocket and extracted nearly a dozen photographs. “I brought these along. They’re snapshots. She’s twenty-five, redheaded, bluish-gray eyes, five feet two, a hundred and fifteen, and as nearly as I can tell from checking the clothes that are left in the closet, she’s wearing a checkered suit, sort of a gray plaid. It’s the one that she’s wearing in this picture.”

Mason studied the photographs, then reached for the envelope. “All right,” he said, “we’ll be out. You can go on ahead and see that all necessary arrangements are made.”