The Case of the Fan-Dancer's Horse

Chapter number 3

On Monday morning, Mason, entering his office with springy step, scaled his hat in the general direction of the hat shelf in the coat closet, grinned at Della Street, and said, “The time approaches, Della, for fall vacations, for big-game hunting, for pack trips in the high rugged mountains, sleeping out in the open under the stars, watching the pine trees silhouetted against the star-studded heavens, then awakening to the crisp gray dawn with the wrangler chopping wood for the fire. A moment later the trees glow with the reflection of flames, you hear the crackling of burning wood, and shortly after that you smell the aroma of coffee, and...”

“And shortly after that,” Della Street interrupted firmly, “one comes down to earth and this stack of unanswered mail.”

“Della, don’t tell me you’re going to pour business responsibilities on my defenseless shoulders. I hate letters.”

“You forget about your girl friend.”

“My girl friend?”

“The fan-dancer.”

Mason’s face lit up. “Ah, yes, the Cinderella of the Fans. Last week it seemed important, now it seems slightly absurd. Picture a prominent member of the bar, Della, running up and down through the heat of the Imperial Valley holding a pair of ostrich-plume fans in his left hand, slippers — dainty dancing slippers — in his right hand, a modern Cinderella story. Diogenes with his lantern is an old stodgy compared to the lawyer looking for his fan-dancing Cinderella. And how do you suppose she will be dressed when I find her, inasmuch as I will be holding her wardrobe in my left hand? The thought is intriguing, Della. It has possibilities.”

“It has more than possibilities,” Della Street said. “We have an answer to your ad.”

“Aha! so we’ve located the fan-dancer that lost the fans?”

“Not the fans,” Della said.

“Not the fans?” Mason echoed.

“No, the horse.”

Mason looked at her quizzically. “Are you perhaps trying a little ribbing?”

Della Street handed him an envelope addressed to a newspaper box. Mason shook out a folded sheet of note paper.

“Smell it,” Della said.

Mason sniffed at the heavy scent and grinned. “Woof! Woof! I’m a wolf, Della!”

He unfolded the paper. To the top of the sheet had been clipped the ad taken from the newspaper. Below the ad in rather distinctive feminine handwriting had been penned the message. Mason read it aloud.

“The salutation,” he said, “starts chastely enough. ‘Dear Box 9062,’ and then right away the letter plunges into passion. ‘Oh you darling! It was so sweet of you to go to the trouble of putting the ad in the paper. I’ve been so worried about him. A girl in my occupation follows pretty much a regular circuit; for instance, I was a week in Brawley and then went on to this town. Then I’ll play four or five night spots in the central part of the state. Fan-dancing isn’t what it used to be. We were pushed out of most of the city spots by the strip tease, and now even that’s on its way out, but in the country places, which like to be sophisticated, a good fan-dancer can get by.’ ”

Mason looked up from the letter and said, “The word ‘good’ is underscored. I suppose you noticed that, Della?”

“Yes, I wondered just what that meant,” Della Street said archly.

Mason laughed. His face showing his enjoyment, he went on reading. “ ‘I am very much attached to my horse. When he broke out of the place where I had him pastured in Brawley and got away, I was heartbroken. I made inquiries, but simply couldn’t find out a thing. However, the man who had rented me the pasture told me it was almost certain the horse would be recovered because down in that country people are very careful about returning stray stock, and there’s very little natural pasturage.

“ ‘I’ll have my agent get in touch with you through the newspaper and see that you are suitably reimbursed, and will you please deliver the horse to the party who has my written order. You can check the handwriting to make certain you have the right party. And thank you all over again. Sincerely yours,’ ”

Mason went on quizzically, “And the epistle is signed Lois Fenton with the parenthetical statement ‘Whose stage name is “Cherie Chi-Chi.” ’ ”

The door from the reception room opened. Gertie, the telephone operator and receptionist said, “Excuse the interruption, Mr. Mason. I wasn’t certain I had it right, so I thought I’d better ask you about it. There’s a man in the office who wants to see you about a horse.”

“His name?” Mason asked.

“He says his name is John Callender, and that you won’t know him personally, but that he is the agent of Lois Fenton.”

Mason grinned. “The fan-dancer’s boy friend! What does he look like, Gertie — a stage-door Johnnie?”

“Not at all. He’s got a strong face, is well-tailored and sort of... well, a big shot.”

“Probably an angel,” Mason said. “Does he act a little self-conscious or embarrassed?”

“Not that I could see.”

Mason drummed with his finger tips on the edge of his desk. “You’d think he would, Gertie. A man of some affluence, running around to a lawyer’s office doing a fan-dancer’s errands. Let’s have a look at him, Gertie. Send him in.”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t know. When he said it was... well, you know, about a horse.”

When Gertie had left the office, Della Street asked, somewhat apprehensively, “Are you going to tell him it’s all a mistake, Chief?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll let him do the talking. The thing interests me. After all, we find a couple of fans and a pair of dancing slippers and then...”

The door opened and Gertie announced, “Mr. John Callender.”

Callender’s face was twisted into a most cordial smile. It seemed assumed, however, as though he had forced stiff facial muscles into an unaccustomed mask.

“Mr. Mason, this is a pleasure!”

Mason shook hands, said, “Sit down. This is my secretary, Miss Street. What is it you want?”

Callender settled himself in the big, overstuffed client’s chair. He had about himself an air of complete assurance, the manner of one who is accustomed to command and who finds himself in an unusual position when called upon to ask for favors.

“I am the agent of Lois Fenton, sometimes known as ‘Cherie Chi-Chi,’ ” he said, and smiled with effusive cordiality.

“Indeed,” Mason observed.

“I called about the horse.”

“And what about the horse?”

“I want it.”

“May I ask how you happened to discover my identity? After all, I put an ad in the local paper using only a box number.”

“Come, come, Mr. Mason. Surely in a matter of this importance you didn’t expect Miss Fenton to deal only with a box number.”

“Nevertheless, I would be interested to ascertain how she discovered my real identity.”

“Quite simple, Mr. Mason, quite simple.”

“Would you mind telling me the exact technique?”

“I confess I was forced to resort to subterfuge.”

“And what was the subterfuge?”

Callender shifted his position. The smile was gone from his face now, leaving steel-cold eyes, and a thin mouth as straight and grim as though it were a piece of taut string.

“Specifically, Mr. Mason, I desired very much to learn the identity of the person with whom I was to deal. I advised the newspaper that the party who had placed the ad wished to have it run for another week, that I would pay for it and I requested a receipt. I paid in cash and was given a receipt in the name of Mr. Perry Mason, with your office address and the box number used in the ad duly noted on the receipt.”

“Rather simple, wasn’t it?” Mason said.

“After all, Mr. Mason, this is a surprise. We expected to be dealing with some rancher in the Imperial Valley, who would perhaps be indignant because of a broken fence and trampled crops. We were prepared to be most generous in a financial way. I presume, of course, that means nothing to you?”

“Less than nothing.”

“But,” Callender went on, hurriedly, “in view of the fact that your time is so valuable, Mr. Mason, and you have been called upon to expend it in connection with the affairs of my er... er... I suppose we might say client, I am...”

“Are you a lawyer?” Mason asked.

“Heaven forbid! No, no — now don’t take any offense — I didn’t mean it exactly that way. I merely meant that the life of a lawyer would hardly appeal to me. I am a rancher, Mr. Mason. I have a fairly large estate in the Imperial Valley, between Calexico and El Centra, a very nice place. I do quite a little horse breeding and am very much interested in horses.”

Mason said, “You have something with you to prove your identity, Mr. Callender?”

For a moment Callender’s face darkened angrily, then he said, “Why certainly, Mr. Mason.” He produced a billfold and extracted a driver’s license, a membership card in a country club, and a card showing membership in the Automobile Club of Southern California.

“Thank you,” Mason said. “Now, can you describe the property?”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Mason. He’s a chestnut gelding, fifteen hands high, with one white hind foot — the right. There’s a white star on the forehead. The horse is seven years old, perfectly sound, American saddle bred.”

Mason said, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

“You mean you refuse to turn over that horse?”

“I mean that I can’t help you.”

“Look here, Mason, I don’t think you know with whom you’re dealing. Perhaps you’d better investigate. You’ll find that I’m not a man to be trifled with. I...”

“But,” Mason interrupted, “you have not described the property.”

“Not described it!” Callender said. “You’re crazy! I raised that horse. Why...”

“You still haven’t described the property accurately enough for me to turn it over.”

“Good heavens, what more do you want? The horse has a very slight scar on the inside of the left front leg. It has an unusually long tail...”

Callender suddenly smiled again. “Oh, yes,” he said. “You’ll pardon me. I forgot the first thing I was supposed to do.”

He opened his pocket, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Mason.

The sheet bore the same heavy scent as that of the letter Mason had received, and read:

“The property which I found,” Mason said, “does not exactly answer that description.”

“Well, tell me where it differs,” Callender challenged.

Mason smiled and shook his head. “In dealing with lost property it’s up to the claimant to describe it perfectly.”

“Perhaps some little thing, some little minor thing that’s happened since I last saw the horse, a wire scratch or something of that sort, something that doesn’t affect the basic description of the horse in the least. If it’s a matter of money, I’ll be glad to...”

“It isn’t a matter of money.”

“What is it, then?”

“I want you to describe the property.”

Callender took a deep breath. “Look here, Mr. Mason, I’ll meet your own terms, whatever they may be. Just name the figure. Here, I’ll write you a check for five hundred dollars. That will cover your expenses in the matter and the amount of time you’ve had to expend. I probably should have made that approach first.”

Mason said, “I told you it wasn’t a question of money, Mr. Callender.”

Callender got up out of the chair. “I suppose you’ve sold me out somewhere along the line. I don’t think you can get away with this. Damn it, Mason, I know some law. I’ll have you arrested for extortion.”

“Just what have I tried to extort?”

“You’re trying to hold me up.”

“I told you,” Mason said, “it wasn’t a question of money.”

“The devil it isn’t! You’re just sitting back there, waiting for me to boost my offer. I won’t do it. I’m staying at the Richmell Hotel. I’ll give you until five o’clock this evening to surrender that horse. At the end of that time I’ll take steps. And five hundred dollars is my limit. Good day.”

Callender turned back toward the door through which he had entered, then, seeing the exit door, veered sharply to the left. Only the door check prevented him from slamming the door shut.

Suddenly he caught himself, turned and pushed his way back through the closing door. He was all affability once more. “Of course,” he said, returning to bend over Mason’s desk, “I know what’s wrong now. I didn’t describe the property accurately.”

“Go ahead,” Mason invited.

Callender lowered his head to a level with Mason’s ear and said in a whisper, “The bullet wound.”

“Where?” Mason whispered.

“On the horse,” Callender said, smiling.

Mason shook his head.

Callender straightened, frowned, started to say something else, changed his mind and stalked out of the office.

Mason cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Della Street.

She said, “That seems to be a horse on Mr. Callender.”

“Or a horse on us,” Mason observed thoughtfully. “I’m afraid we’re going to investigate, Della. That crack about the bullet...”

The telephone on Della Street’s desk rang sharply. Della Street picked it up, said, “All right, Gertie, what is it...? Just a moment.”

She turned to Perry Mason. “Another man out there,” she said, “wanting to see you about a horse.”

“What’s his name?”

“Arthur Sheldon.”

“Let’s see what Mr. Sheldon has to say, Della. Tell Gertie to send him right in. One would think we were running a livery stable.”

Arthur Sheldon was in the late twenties, a brown-eyed, light-haired man with quick, nervous mannerisms and a rapid-fire manner of speaking.

“Good morning, Mr. Mason. It was nice of you to see me. My name’s Sheldon, Arthur Sheldon. I can tell you what I want in a very few words. John Callender has just been in here. What did he want? What did he say?”

Mason smiled. “Even if I knew your interest in the matter and it proved to be legitimate, I could hardly divulge the information you have requested.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sheldon blurted, flushing. “I hadn’t realized just exactly how that was going to sound. Look here, Mr. Mason, you aren’t going to give him the horse, are you?”

“No,” Mason said, and then added, “not as yet.”

“Don’t do it. Please don’t do it. He doesn’t own that horse. He gave it to Lois. Look here, Mr. Mason, you’re not his lawyer, are you?”

“No.”

Sheldon’s face showed relief. “That’s fine. I want you to represent us.”

“Us?”

“Well, Lois.”

“In what?”

“Well — in case he starts anything.”

Mason said, “Now let’s get this straight. If you expect to try and bribe me to deliver any certain property to any particular person under the guise of retaining me...”

“No, no, it’s not that at all. Just so you didn’t give him the horse.”

“And what do you want?”

“I want you to represent Lois.”

“In what?”

“I’ve explained to you generally. I want you to see that... Look here, Mr. Mason, would you talk with Lois?”

“Why certainly. Can she come here?”

“Not before tomorrow. She’s working in a night spot up in Palomino. That’s a little town up in the Walker Basin country up back of Bakersfieid. She has to be on there tonight, and she wouldn’t have time to drive in and get back, but she could come down tomorrow, if you could give her an appointment.”

“At what time?” Mason asked.

“Any time after... well, let us say after ten o’clock. Any time between ten and two.”

“Ten-thirty?” Mason asked.

“I’ll have her here,” Sheldon promised. “Mr. Mason, I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this. You want some money now? I...”

“No,” Mason said, “not until after I talk with Miss Fenton. How did you happen to get my address?”

“I followed Callender here. I’ve been following him ever since he got that address from the newspaper. My room in the Richmell Hotel is directly across the corridor from his. I have 510. He’s in 511.”

Mason regarded him with a frown. “I’ll know more about your case when I’ve talked with Lois Fenton. Please see that she keeps her appointment promptly. Ten-thirty on the dot.”

When he had gone, Mason said to Della Street, “The horse with all these claimants, the bullet wound, the fan-dancer. How’d you like to take a drive, Della?”

“Where?”

“To Palomino.”

“I’d love it.”

“Let’s go,” Mason said.