The Case of the Fan-Dancer's Horse

Chapter number 19

Mason, pacing the floor of his office with Paul Drake and Della Street watching him in silence, threw words out in jerky sentences, interspersed with periods of silence.

“We’ve got to find this other fan-dancer. There’s something screwy about that whole business... The fan is one of those that I gave Cherie Chi-Chi.”

Drake said, “Don’t butt your head against a brick wall, Perry. The fan does it. She’s hooked.”

“I know she’s hooked, the way things are right now.”

There was an interval of silence during which Mason slowly and thoughtfully paced back and forth. Then, at length he said, “Hang it, Paul, we’ve simply got to find Cherie Chi-Chi.”

“We’re doing everything we can. She seems to have vanished absolutely,” Drake said. “I’ve had men working until they’re ready to drop, but we can’t seem to get a single line. The woman simply disappeared.”

“When?”

“About twenty-four hours after Sergeant Holcomb picked her up and took her in for questioning. She came back to her apartment late on the afternoon of the eighteenth. I had a man covering the place. She was in there about half an hour, then came out with a suitcase. A cab picked her up. My man started to follow the cab, and then ran into an unlucky break. A traffic cop picked him up for turning out into a lane of traffic without waiting for a break in the line. By the time he’d explained, the cab was gone. My man wasted time trying to find her. I didn’t get his report until late.”

Mason frowned. “Are you sure it was just an unlucky break, Paul?”

“You mean the cop might have been waiting so he could give this fan-dancer a getaway?”

Mason nodded.

“It’s a thought,” Drake admitted after a moment. “I don’t see how it could really have been like that, but it’s something to think over.”

“What happened at Barlow’s office, Paul? Did you get a line on that?”

Drake said, “Your trap worked like a charm, Perry. As soon as you left Barlow’s office, they destroyed Lois Fenton’s pictures and prepared to swear there never had been but one fan-dancer on their bookings and that was Irene. When Dorset swooped down they thought he was investigating the fraud angle. They told him Cherie Chi-Chi and Lois Fenton were one and the same person, showed him pictures and called in Cherie Chi-Chi.

“Dorset took her along for questioning. However, he evidently believed her story. He didn’t book her but went after Lois. Irene simply vanished.”

Mason, who had paused momentarily, resumed his pacing of the floor. “We simply have to find that woman.”

“What would you do with her if you got her?” Drake asked. “She’s hostile.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference,” Mason said. “I’d put her on the stand and ask her a few questions.”

“By the time you find her and get her on the stand,” Drake said, grimly, “she won’t look any more like Lois Fenton than Della Street does. She’ll be wearing a demure long skirt and butter won’t melt in her mouth.”

“That’ll suit me fine, Paul. I’ll ask her where the clothes are that she was wearing on the date of the murder. I’ll ask her to describe them. And then I’ll ask her if they didn’t resemble the clothes the defendant is wearing. I’ll crucify her with that stuff, and then demand that she be attired in the clothes she wore the day of the murder.”

“Yes, I guess you can make quite a diversion there,” Drake said, “but that’s all it’ll be. These witnesses have all identified Lois, and they sure as hell aren’t going to switch now.”

Knuckles tapped on the door to Mason’s private office, at first tentatively, then, when there was no answer, more imperatively.

Mason glanced at Della Street, nodded.

Della opened the door. A man’s voice said, “Hello, Miss Street.”

“Why... Mr. Faulkner!”

Drake came up out of his chair in a single quick motion. “Hello, Frank. What the hell?”

Faulkner said, “Excuse me for interrupting, but I wanted to talk with you.”

“Come on in,” Mason invited cordially.

Faulkner entered the room. The door slowly closed behind him and clicked shut.

Faulkner grinned somewhat sheepishly at Mason. “I suppose you think I’ve sold you out?”

“I appreciate your position, Faulkner.”

“He understands,” Paul Drake said, hastily. “No one ran to the police and blabbed. The police ran to us.”

Faulkner said, “I thought possibly I could make up for it in a way.”

“How?” Mason asked.

Faulkner walked over to one of the chairs, calmly sat down and crossed his legs. “Now you understand,” he said, “there’s nothing unethical about this, but I’d just as soon no one knew where the information came from. The police have a legal right to tell a detective to kick through with information when a murder is involved and the detective is a witness, but on the other hand the police don’t have any right to insist that a detective suppress information.”

Mason nodded.

“Well,” Faulkner went on, “I just thought that you’d want to know where this Cherie Chi-Chi is. The police have her.”

“What!” Mason asked, incredulously.

“That’s right, the police have her.”

“On what charge?”

“I’m damned if I know, but I think it’s some sort of a deal.”

“You mean she’s remaining in confinement willingly?”

“That’s my idea.”

“How do you know?”

“What the hell,” Faulkner said, “I’ve seen her, talked with her.”

“When?”

“Two or three times.”

“Who else has seen her and talked with her, do you know?”

“Sam Meeker.”

“What’s the idea?” Drake asked.

“The idea’s plain enough,” Mason said, bitterly, “and it’s so damn simple I should have thought of it. That’s one of Sergeant Holcomb’s smart tricks. I doubt if Lieutenant Tragg would pull a stunt like that.”

“Holcomb’s the one who’s engineering the thing,” Faulkner said.

“I still don’t get it,” Drake said.

“Simple enough,” Mason said. “They figure that somewhere along the line I may be able to get Cherie Chi-Chi into court. I might make some dramatic presentation that would confuse the witnesses. But if the witnesses have previously been given an opportunity to become well acquainted with her, they won’t make any mistake. Not only are they acquainted now with Lois Fenton, but they’ve had an opportunity to see Cherie Chi-Chi. The two girls are alike as two peas as far as figure and build and complexion are concerned, but their features aren’t the same and there’s no particular resemblance there.”

Faulkner said, “Well, I thought I’d let you know. It seemed to me that you had a break coming and I decided I could spill this information. The police don’t have any right to tell a man to keep something to himself.”

“How was Cherie Chi-Chi dressed when you saw her? Anything like Lois Fenton?”

“Not the first two times,” Faulkner said. “The last time she was.”

“Can you tell us any more about that?” Mason asked.

“Well,” Faulkner said, “it’s like this. After we’d seen this girl and talked with her a couple of times, Sergeant Holcomb came to us and asked us if we thought we’d be confused in the event we saw this person wearing the same clothes that Lois Fenton was wearing, or clothes which were exactly the same.”

“What did you tell him?”

“We both told him we didn’t think there was a chance in the world.”

“Sergeant Holcomb pointed out that the girl had the same build and the same general appearance; that if she were wearing the same clothes it might be that a witness would make a mistake.”

“So then what happened?”

“He took us up to a room in the detention ward and this Cherie Chi-Chi walked around for us. He told her to walk like Lois Fenton and damned if she didn’t, but, of course, it wasn’t Lois.”

“Now look here,” Mason said, “is there any chance that this Cherie Chi-Chi could have been the one you saw in the corridor?”

Faulkner lit a cigarette. He said, “I’ve been thinking that over.”

“Let’s think it over some more,” Mason said.

“At first I’d have said one hundred per cent ‘no,’ ” Faulkner told him. “Their faces are a lot different, but their figures are about the same and they’ve got the same general coloring. To tell you the truth, Mason, I... well, I would say that the girl I saw in the corridor was Lois Fenton, but...”

“I know,” Mason said, “the way the build-up has been made, you’d naturally think that. You’ve had an opportunity to get familiar with Cherie Chi-Chi’s appearance when she wasn’t dressed at all like Lois Fenton, so that when you saw her dressed as Lois Fenton you weren’t even confused.”

“That’s the way Sam Meeker feels,” Faulkner admitted, “but I keep thinking the thing over. If that Cherie Chi-Chi were brought into court... well, hang it, I could have made a mistake. I don’t think I did, but I could have.”

“When did you see her dressed in these clothes?”

“About half an hour after court adjourned. Sergeant Holcomb said that he thought the defense was laying a trap for us; that you were considered pretty foxy when it came to taking a witness by surprise. Not so much by questions as by some dramatic means that would tend to confuse us.”

“So you went up and saw Cherie Chi-Chi wearing these clothes that were identical with those worn by Lois Fenton?”

“That’s right.”

“What did you say?”

“Well, at the time I told Holcomb I didn’t think there was any chance I could have made a mistake, and Meeker said he knew damn well he hadn’t made a mistake, but... well, you get to thinking things over.”

“Anyone see you come here?” Mason asked.

“You’re damned right they didn’t,” Faulkner said. “I thought they might be having me tailed and I took care to see that I wasn’t spotted.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “You’d better get out while the coast is still clear. I want to think this over.”

“I’m on my way,” Faulkner said. “...you’ll protect me in this thing, Mason?”

“Sure thing.”

Faulkner shook hands.

When he had gone, Mason turned to Drake. “Well, that’s a break! I’ll make a demand on the prosecution to produce Cherie Chi-Chi.”

“When?” Drake asked.

Mason said, “Court will convene at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and promptly at 10:01 a.m. you are going to see the damnedest set of legal fireworks you ever witnessed.”