The Case of the Fan-Dancer's Horse

Chapter number 5

It was after one o’clock when Mason’s car entered the lighted metropolitan district.

“Tired, Della?”

“Not at all. I enjoyed it. It was a beautiful ride. The moonlight on the mountains was like liquid silver.”

Mason said, “A beautiful setting for something rather grim, I’m afraid. I’m going to see Arthur Sheldon. I’ll take you home first so you can get some rest.”

“No, I’d like to stay with it. Why see Arthur Sheldon at this hour in the morning, Chief?”

“I want to find out some more about that fan-dancer.”

“She was a graceful little thing, wasn’t she?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why do you suppose it never occurred to her to think about the fans? They were her favorites. She must have known they were lost, and yet, all she could think about was the horse.”

“That’s one of the things I want to ask Sheldon about.”

“He’s in the same hotel with Callender?”

“Yes, he has a room directly across the hall, I understand.”

“You didn’t tell Cherie Chi-Chi anything about him?”

“No.”

Della Street said, “That raspberry lipstick seems to have had an effect on your vocal chords. You haven’t averaged a word a mile.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Mason said. “What’s the name of that hotel?”

“The Richmell.”

“Know his room number?”

“Five-ten.”

Mason guided the car silently for a few blocks, then said, “I’ll jingle a couple of keys in my hand as we walk across the lobby. Try to make it seem casual, as though we’re going up to a room after a show and a midnight supper.”

“He’ll be in bed.”

“We’ll get him up.”

“You don’t want to phone him first?”

“No. The call might attract attention. An operator might listen in and remember about it afterwards. It’s late.”

“Why so furtive?” she asked.

Mason merely shook his head and smiled.

“Holding out on me?”

“It’s not that, Della. I’m just not certain. I want to get a few more facts before I even dare to formulate a theory... Here we are.”

Mason had some difficulty finding a parking place near the hotel, even at that hour of the morning. He locked the ignition, said to Della Street, “Remember now, we’re a married couple beginning to get just a little bit bored with each other’s society. It’s been a nice evening and now we’re getting back to the humdrum, thinking in terms of tomorrow morning. I’ll barge across the lobby a little in advance of you. You can perhaps manage a yawn.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she said, in mock alarm, “is marriage like that?”

Mason said, “It’s just an act we’re putting on for the benefit of the house dick.”

“Do you suppose he thinks marriage is like that?”

“I’m quite certain he does. Try walking across a hotel lobby at one-thirty in the morning any other way and you’ll find out. Here we go.”

They entered the hotel. Mason perfunctorily held the door open for Della Street, started for the elevator when she was still a step behind him, apparently caught himself with a self-conscious gesture, and slowed down to wait impatiently for her to catch up.

They entered the elevator. Mason somewhat tardily removed his hat. “Six,” he said.

Della Street glanced swiftly at him, then turned away.

The elevator deposited them on the sixth floor. Mason hurried Della Street down the corridor.

“It’s 510,” she said.

“I know, but I’m trying to protect my clients.”

“Who? Lois Fenton?”

“No, us.”

Mason opened a door marked stairs, ran down the flight of uncarpeted, concrete stairs, pushed open a door at the bottom of the staircase and then suddenly stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Della Street whispered.

“Someone coming down the corridor directly toward us,” Mason said, letting the door ease back until it held a scant two inches of opening.

“The house detective?”

“No. Hush... Della, it’s Harry, the big waiter from Palomino.”

They stood tense, without motion, holding their breaths, waiting. Through the narrow opening of the door they could hear steps approaching. Then suddenly the steps stopped. Knuckles tapped gently on a door.

They heard a bolt click back. A door opened. A man’s voice said, “Hello. You made a quick trip, come in.”

The voice of the visitor muttered something that was unintelligible. The room door closed and Mason, waiting a full second, pushed open the door from the staircase and said to Della, “Come on.”

“Was that Harry? Are you certain?”

“Yes, that was Harry. I think he went into a room on the other side of the corridor. Let’s see. Yes, it’s across the corridor from our side. The even numbers are on this side and the odd numbers over there. Wait a minute, Della. That may have been the room, directly across. 511. That’s where Callender is supposed to be located.”

“Think he’s likely to come out?” Della whispered.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to knock gently on Sheldon’s door,” Mason said, tapping very lightly with the tips of his fingers. He waited several seconds as nothing happened, then knocked again more loudly.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice asked.

Mason made no answer. Unshod steps sounded behind the door. The man’s voice was closer to the door this time. There was a trace of fear in the voice which came through the panels. “Who is it? I won’t open until I know who it is.”

Mason took a card from his pocket, slipped it through the crack under the door.

A light switch clicked on in the room. A knife edge of light became visible under the door. Hands on the inside pulled Mason’s card the rest of the way through the crack and into the room. There was an interval of silence during which Mason glanced over his shoulder at the door of room number 511. A ribbon of light also was visible beneath the door of that room.

Abruptly there was the sound of a turning bolt, a clicking night latch. The door of 510 opened. Sheldon, standing in bare feet and pajamas in the doorway, saw Della Street and instinctively ducked back behind the door, trying to close it.

Mason pushed the door open, entered the room, kicked it shut behind him, said, “Sorry, Sheldon, there’s no time for being polite.”

“I didn’t know. Your secretary — you’ll pardon me, I’m...”

Mason said, “Forget it. Keep your voice low. Come over here. Sit down on the bed. Let’s talk things out. You got a robe?”

“Yes.”

“Put it on.”

“Can I comb my hair, or...”

“No.”

Sheldon put on a bathrobe, sat down beside Mason and Della Street on the bed.

Mason said, “I saw a fan-dancer. I want to know something more about her.”

“What about her?”

Mason said, “I think there’s been a ringer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean a ringer.”

“You mean the one in Palomino isn’t the right one?”

“Yes.”

Sheldon sat motionless for several seconds, then he said, “Yes, I guess so. How did you find out?”

“I went up there.”

“But you don’t know the real Lois.”

“I know the ringer.”

“I didn’t think you’d find out — so soon. What do you want?”

“I want you to come clean. I want you to start talking, and I want you to start talking fast.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who’s Cherie Chi-Chi? Who’s John Callender? Why is the horse so damn important?”

Sheldon said, “John Callender is... that is, in a sense...”

“Come on,” Mason said, “out with it.”

“He’s her husband,” Sheldon blurted. “The real one. I mean the real Lois.”

“And what about the horse?”

“Callender thinks he could use the horse as evidence — that is, if he can find the horse.”

Mason said, “If you start at the beginning and give me the whole story we won’t waste so much time.”

Sheldon said, “It’s hard to tell you about Lois Fenton so you’ll understand her.”

“Then skip her,” Mason said, “and just tell me about facts.”

Sheldon said, “The facts won’t mean anything to you unless you understand Lois.”

“Well, Lois won’t mean anything to me unless I have the facts.”

Sheldon ran his spread fingers through his tousled hair. “The trouble is, there just aren’t words to describe that sort of thing. Have you ever seen a deer when it didn’t know you were watching it? It’s something about the way it walks... well, wild is the only way you can express it. Well, that’s Lois. She has that same sort of thing about her. She’s wild in the sense that she’s untamed and just the way she wants to be. You couldn’t ever put her into a routine job anywhere.”

“And she married Callender?”

“I’m coming to that. There are lots of these carnival girls who are tough. They let the life coarsen them.”

“And Lois didn’t?” Mason asked. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Exactly. Lois never had any advantages. She wanted to express herself in motion. Look here, Mr. Mason, you say you saw a fan-dancer. If you ever saw Lois Fenton, the real Lois Fenton, you wouldn’t call her a fan-dancer. You don’t think of sex when she’s dancing, not in that way. You think of beauty.”

Mason glanced at Della Street.

Della said, “You’re in love with her, perhaps that’s why.”

Sheldon said, “No, it isn’t that. You’ve got the cart before the horse. It’s because she’s so beautiful and all of that that I’m in love with her, not that I just think she’s beautiful and clean and fine because I’m crazy about her.”

Mason said, “All right. Now let’s have the facts.”

“There are two dancers using the name of Lois Fenton, but the real Lois... I can’t explain fully right now, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “I can’t do a thing until you’ve given me the facts and I know where to start working and how to start working.”

“Lois Fenton has a brother, Jasper Fenton,” Sheldon said. “He’s made a lot of trouble for Lois. Callender met Lois. He fell for her like a ton of bricks. Because he was rich, he thought that was all there was to it. Then he found Lois wasn’t for lease and wasn’t for sale. He gave Jasper a job, running his office. It was a nice job. It had a good salary.

“That’s Calender’s way. It was easy for Jasper to play the horses. Callender made it easy. He’s a deep one, make no mistake about that, Mr. Mason.

“The boy forged two checks for around three thousand dollars. That gave Callender everything he wanted. Don’t try to tell me those crude methods don’t work any longer. They do. I saw them work. John Callender is a big shot in his home county. When he whistles, the prosecutor jumps through hoops. Callender pretended that he was surprised and shocked to death. He made it stick. Actually, he’d watched the kid like a hawk, putting temptation in his way and waiting for him to fall. He wanted to make certain the kid stole enough to make restitution impossible, not enough to really hurt. When he gave Jasper that job...”

“All right, never mind that,” Mason interrupted. “Regardless of whether it should have worked or not, the fact is it did work. She married him. Is that right?”

“She married him.”

“And broke your heart?” Della Street asked.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us about the marriage?” Della asked.

“Callender trapped her into marriage and it was like trapping a wild thing. Lois was like a wild animal in a cage. But she played fair with John. She would have continued to stay with him until it killed her if he’d played fair with her.

“But he didn’t, and Lois pulled out.

“She’d become very much attached to this horse that John had given her. Well, she pulled out and took the horse with her, and then Callender went nuts. He dragged out these old checks, swore he was going to prosecute Jasper for forgery. Lois claimed her marriage had wiped out that indebtedness; that all she had agreed to do was to marry John and give him a chance, fair and square, to prove that the thing would work. Well, a week or so ago someone on horseback quietly rode up to Cal-lender’s place, slipped in the office, opened the safe, and was discovered. He got away, but the watchman took a shot at him. He says he knows he hit the horse from the way the animal jumped.”

“Why did the burglar ride in on horseback?” Mason asked.

“Because a man on foot would have stood no chance of sneaking into the grounds without having the dogs corner him. But a man on horseback, if he was bold enough and daring enough, and in particular if he had a horse that the dogs knew, could get away with it hands down.

“There’s the story in a nutshell, Mr. Mason. The check business is pretty well washed up. A jury might not convict when the full story came out. But if Callender can prove that either Lois Fenton or her brother rode her horse up to his house, opened the safe and tried to steal those checks, he’d then have a brand new hold on her. Callender wants to find Lois’ horse. He can’t. Lois says someone stole it the night of the burglary — or else that it just strayed away, saddle and all.

“So you can see what happened when your ad appeared in the paper... Now then, that’s all I know about it.”

Mason jerked his thumb toward the door leading into the corridor and said, “And Callender has the room right across the hall?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re here trying to spy on him?”

“I want to try to find out what he’s doing.”

“Does he know you by sight?”

“No.”

“By name?”

“I hope not, but he may. I’m not certain about that.”

“Just what do you expect to accomplish by keeping an eye on him this way?”

“I don’t know. I do know that if he finds that horse and tries to drag Lois back to him that I’ll... Well, I guess there’s nothing I can do.”

Mason said, impatiently, “Don’t lie to me. You’re not just spying on him. You intend to search his room when he’s out. Is that it?”

Sheldon squirmed uncomfortably inside his robe.

“Is it?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“You’ve been in there already?”

“Yes.”

“More than once?”

“Yes.”

“Find anything?”

“Not the checks. I found a receipt from the newspaper for the want ad. It had your name on it. That’s how I knew what Callender wanted when he came to your office.”

“You have a key to his room?”

“A passkey. I borrowed the maid’s passkey for a minute, made a wax impression, had one made.”

“And you want me to help Lois Fenton?” Mason asked.

“God, yes. I’ll mortgage my soul to pay you. I’ll...”

“Get out of here,” Mason said. “Pack up, check out and bear it. Bring Lois Fenton to my office tomorrow — the real one. Have her there at ten-thirty. Now dress, pack and get out.”

“But hotel rooms are scarce, and...”

“I said check out.”

“I’d have to sleep on a bench in the park or a railroad station...”

“I don’t give a damn where you sleep. If I’m going to have anything to do with you, I want you to quit being across the hall from this woman’s husband. You’re crazy about his wife. You dog his steps, shadow his room... Get the hell out of this hotel. Leave Callender to me.”

Mason got to his feet. “Come on, Della.”

They left Arthur Sheldon still sitting on the edge of the bed, shivering slightly.

From a phone booth in an all-night restaurant two blocks down the street from the hotel, Mason called the night number of Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency. “How quick can you get some shadows on a man in the Richmell Hotel, Paul?”

Drake said, “Have a heart, Perry. I can get competent men these days. But trying to get a room in a hotel...”

“How soon?” Mason interrupted.

“How urgent?” Drake countered.

“Damned urgent.”

“Say half an hour?”

“Okay,” Mason said, “we’ll compromise on twenty minutes. I want to have a man planted in the corridor on the fifth floor. I want him to cover room 511.”

Drake’s voice, more wide-awake now, registered a protest. “It’s damn near impossible, Perry.”

Mason said, “We’ll talk over the difficulties in the morning.”

“We’ll have to cut the house dick in on it.”

“Why?”

“Cripes, have a heart, Perry! You can’t stick a man in the corridor of a hotel at this time of night without having the house dick pick him up within an hour or so. That’ll mean ten bucks, maybe twenty-five bucks.”

“Here’s a tip for you, Paul. Room 510 is being vacated immediately. Your man can move into that room.”

“Okay, Perry, that’s a break. The hotel is the Richmell, that right?”

“That’s right. Here’s something else,” Mason said.

“What?”

“Don’t go to sleep after you get your man on the job at the Richmell. I have another job for you.”

“I was afraid of that,” Drake groaned. “What else?”

“I want you to find a horse.”

“Oh, sure,” Drake said. “Something nice and gentle for Della to ride? Or would you like a little more spirited mount for yourself, Perry? I can get...”

“Skip the wisecracks,” Mason interrupted. “We haven’t time. The horse I want belongs to a fan-dancer.”

“A what?”

“A fan-dancer.”

“Say, look here,” Drake said, suddenly suspicious, “you aren’t stepping out with a few drinks under your belt, are you, Perry, just giving me...?”

“Hell, no,” Mason interposed, irritably. “This is important. The horse is a seven-year-old chestnut gelding, American saddle bred, fifteen hands high, white star on the forehead, white right hind foot. The horse belonged at one time to a man by the name of Callender, who is a big shot. He has a ranch in the Imperial Valley near the Mexican border. He gave the horse to a fan-dancer who covered a catch-as-catch-can night club in Brawley. The horse was stolen while she was there, or it may have just wandered away. I want you to cover the whole Imperial Valley. Start looking for that horse. When you find it, keep it under cover. Have your men on the ground by daylight.”

“How many men do you want?”

“Enough to find the horse.”

“Hell, they’ll find it,” Drake said, gloomily. “My men are good detectives, but that doesn’t mean they know one end of a horse from the other. They’ll be so anxious to get home from that desert heat that every man I send down there will telephone by ten o’clock in the morning that he’s found your chestnut gelding with a white star on his forehead and a white right hind foot. And then I’ll have to go down there myself to see if it’s the right one... Say, Perry, how the hell would I go about finding out whether the horse is the right one, or not? What name does he answer to?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Well, for the love of Mike, Perry, there are probably a million horses in the Imperial Valley and... Hell, Perry, when someone wants you to find a dog they tell you the name he answers to.”

“Just how would a horse answer?” Mason asked.

Drake thought that over and then said, “I’m damned if I know, Perry.”

“I take it you don’t know much about horses?”

“I know enough about them,” Drake said, “to know that unless we get a better description than that you’ll have two dozen horses by ten o’clock in the morning.”

“Not if your men are really on their toes,” Mason said. “The horse was lost about a week ago. It will have to be a stray horse that has wandered into some ranch. It will be an American saddle-bred gelding, fifteen hands high, chestnut...”

“Yeah,” Drake interrupted wearily, “I wrote all that down when you gave it to me the first time. I still claim that we’ll have a whole flock of horses by nine o’clock unless I can get something more definite to go on.”

“Well,” Mason said, “I’ll give you something more definite to go on. Unless I’m mistaken, the horse will have a bullet wound.”

“A bullet wound!”

“That’s right. If it isn’t in the horse, it will be a bullet implanted in the saddle. The saddle is a nice, hand-tooled saddle made by Bill Wyatt of Austin, Texas. Now then, get busy and get your man on the job at the Richmell right away.”