The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

Chapter 1

Sun soaked the city streets, filtered through the office window so that the sign reading, PERRY MASON, ATTORNEY AT LAW, was thrown in reverse shadow where the sunlight splashed across the massive table loaded with law books.

It was a benign California sun that still held a touch of the growing greenery of spring. Later on in the season, this sun would burn down from the heavens with a fierce intensity that would dry the countryside to a baked brown, sucking every bit of moisture from the air, leaving a cloudless sky like that of the desert only a hundred and fifty miles to the east. Now it was a golden benediction.

Across the desk, Della Street held a fountain pen poised over the pages of a shorthand notebook. Mason, a pile of correspondence in front of him, skimmed through the letters, dropped some in the wastebasket, tossed others to Della Street with a few crisp comments. Only in cases of the greatest importance did he dictate the exact wording of his reply.

The pile represented accrued correspondence over a period of three months. Mason detested answering letters, and only tackled his mail when the pile had assumed threatening proportions despite the daily weeding of Della Street’s skillful fingers.

The door from the outer office opened abruptly and the girl who operated the switchboard at the reception desk said, “You have two clients out there, Mr. Mason. They’re very anxious to see you.”

Mason looked at her reprovingly. “Gertie, a balmy sun beckons from a cloudless sky; a client, who owns a big cattle ranch, has asked me to inspect a boundary line that’s in dispute. The ranch contains twenty-five thousand acres, and I have just asked Della how she would like to ride a horse with me over rolling cattle country. Think of it, Gertie, acres of green grass, live-oak trees with huge trunks and sturdy limbs. In the background, hills covered with sagebrush, chamise, and chaparral; and behind them, a glimpse of snow-capped mountains outlined sharply in the clear air of a blue back-drop... Gertie, do you ride a horse?”

She grinned. “No, Mr. Mason. I have too much sympathy for the horse. The out-of-doors is a swell place on moonlight nights, but aside from that I like food and leisure. My idea of a perfect day is to sleep until noon, have coffee, toast and bacon in bed, and perhaps a dish of deep red strawberries swimming in thick yellow cream that melts the sugar when you pour it on. So don’t try to tempt me with bouncing up and down on the hurricane deck of a cattle pony. I’d shorten his wheelbase and ruin his alignment, and he’d wreck my stance.”

“Gertie, you’re hopeless. As an assistant cowpuncher, you’re a total loss. But how would you get along as a bouncer, a Mickey Finn chasing unwelcome clients out of the office? Tell them I’m busy. Tell them I have an important appointment — an appointment with a horse.”

“They won’t chase. They’re insistent.”

“What are they like?” Mason asked, glancing speculatively at the electric clock on the desk.

“One of them,” she said, “is a typical picture of middle-aged prosperity. He looks like a banker or a state senator. The other is — well, the other is a tramp, and yet he’s a dignified tramp.”

“Any idea what they want?”

“One of them says it’s about an automobile accident, and the other wants to see you about a question of corporation law.”

Mason said, “That settles it, Gertie. The tramp’s entitled to justice and may have trouble getting it. I’ll see him. But the banker, with his question of corporation law, can go to some other attorney. I’m damned if I—”

Gertie said, “It’s the tramp that wants to see you about the corporation law.”

Mason sighed. “Gertie, you’re hopeless! Your mind is steeped in strawberries swimming in cream, hot coffee-cake, and sleep. A tramp comes to my office to consult me on corporation law, and you treat it as a purely routine affair! Della, go out and chase the banker away. Treat the tramp as an honored guest. We’ll put off our horseback riding until tomorrow.”

Della Street followed Gertie through the door to the reception room. She was back in a matter of five minutes.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“He’s not a tramp.”

“Oh,” and Mason’s tone showed disappointment.

“I don’t quite make him out,” Della said. “His clothes are not exactly shabby, but they’re well worn and sun-bleached. I place him more as a man who has lived outdoors for some definite purpose, and he’s taciturn and suspicious. He won’t tell me a thing about his business.”

“Let him get sore and leave then,” Mason said irritably.

“And he won’t do that. He’s waiting with the patience of a — of a burro. Chief, I’ve got it! The man must be a prospector. I should have realized it sooner. He has the stamp of the desert on him, the patience acquired from associating with burros. He’s here to see you, and he’s going to see you — today, tomorrow, or next week. Someone told him to see Perry Mason, and he’s going to see Perry Mason.”

Mason’s eyes twinkled. “Bring him in, Della. What’s his name?”

“Bowers. He didn’t give me any first name or initials.”

“And his residence?”

“He says just a blanket roll.”

“Splendid! Let’s have a look at him.”

Della smiled knowingly, withdrew and returned with the client.

Bowers, standing in the doorway, surveyed Mason with an appraisal which held just a trace of anxiety. He was neither deferential nor affable. There was about the man an aura of simple dignity. The sun-bleached workshirt was scrupulously clean, although it had been laundered so many times it had gone limp and frayed around the collar. The leather jacket was evidently made of buckskin, and it definitely was not clean. It had been worn until various incrustations of dirt had brought to it a certain polish, like the glaze on pottery. The overalls were patched and faded — but clean. The boots had acquired a pastel shade from long miles of plodding travel. The broad-brimmed hat had seen years of service. Perspiration had left deep permanent stains around the hatband. The brim had curled up into a distinctive swirl.

The man’s face dominated his clothing. Behind that face, a simple, unpretentious soul peered out at a world that was largely foreign. Yet the eyes held no bewildered expression. They were hard, determined and self-reliant.

“Good morning,” Mason said. “Your name is Bowers?”

“That’s right. You’re Mason?”

“Yes.”

Bowers walked across the office, sat down across from Mason and glanced at Della Street.

“That’s all right,” Mason said. “She’s my secretary. She keeps notes on my cases. I have no secrets from her, and you can trust her discretion.”

Bowers clasped the brim of his hat between bronzed fingers, rested his forearms on his knees, let the hat swing back and forth.

“Just go ahead and tell me your troubles, Mr. Bowers.”

“If it’s all the same with you, call me Salty. I don’t like this Mister stuff,”

“Why ‘Salty’?” Mason asked.

“Well, I used to hang around the salt beds in Death Valley quite a bit and they got to calling me that. That was when I was a lot younger, before I teamed up with Banning.”

“And who’s Banning?”

“Banning Clarke. He’s my partner,” Salty said with simple faith.

“A mining partner?” ‘ “That’s right.”

“And you’re having trouble with him over a mine?” Mason asked.

“Trouble with him?”

“Yes.”

“My gosh!” Salty exploded. “I told you he was my partner. You don’t have trouble with a partner.”

“I see.”

“I’m protecting him. It’s a crooked corporation — a crooked president.”

“Well, just go ahead and tell me about it,” Mason invited.

Salty shook his head.

Mason regarded the man curiously.

“You see it’s this way,” Salty explained. “I ain’t smart like Banning. He’s got education. He can tell you about it.”

“All right,” Mason said crisply. “I’ll make an appointment with him for—”

Salty interrupted. “He can’t come. That’s why I had to come.”

“Why can’t he come?”

“The doc’s got him chained down.”

“In bed?”

“No, not in bed, but he can’t climb stairs and he can’t travel. He has to stay put.”

“His heart?”

“That’s right. Banning made the mistake of housing-up. A man that’s lived out in the open can’t house-up. I tried to tell him that before he got married, but his wife had sort of highfalutin’ ideas. Once Banning got rich — and I mean stinking rich — she got the idea he had to get high hat. Well, I shouldn’t say anything against her. She’s dead now. What I’m telling you is that a desert man can’t house-up.”

“Well,” Mason said good-naturedly, “I guess we’ll have to go and see Banning.”

“How far from here does he live?” Della Street asked with sudden inspiration.

“About a hundred miles,” Salty announced casually. Mason’s eyes twinkled. “Put a notebook in a brief case, Della. We’re going to see Banning. I’m interested in the miner who housed-up.”

“He ain’t housed-up now,” Salty said hastily. “I fixed that as soon as I got there.”

“But I thought you said he was,” Della said.

“No, ma’am. The doctors say he can’t leave the place, but he ain’t housed-up.”

“Where is he then?” Mason asked.

“I’ll have to show you. It’d take too long to explain, an’ when I got done, you wouldn’t believe me, anyway.”