Abruptly Velma wakened. Definitely, she was going to put that annoying mosquito out of the room. She reached for her flashlight, waited to hear the mosquito once more.
She heard the peculiar buzz and snapped on the flashlight. The low-pitched buzzing noise abruptly ceased.
Velma was up out of bed with a start. That mosquito was acting peculiarly. Mosquitoes usually buzzed around in concentric circles, coming closer. This one didn’t seem to like light. Perhaps she could locate him again if she switched out the light and waited in the dark.
Velma turned off the flashlight, walked over to stand at the window.
It would be daylight within an hour or two. A big moon hung low in the west, suspended over the reflecting surface of the calm ocean — a moon that was just past the full, shining in Velma’s face, making a golden path to Fairyland along the ocean, flooding the grounds of the estate with a light that radiated tranquility. Somewhere across that ocean Rinkey would be flying. Not a breath of air was stirring — just the calm, limpid moonlight, the glassy surface of the ocean far below, the dark splash of shadows where... Something moved down in the yard.
Velma’s eyes hardened into searching scrutiny of a dark patch of shadow that wasn’t a shadow. It was an object. It had moved. It — it was a man crouched over, motionless now, apparently trying to escape attention by making it seem he was merely one of the dark shadows. But there was nothing at that spot to cast such a shadow.
The window was open. Almost without thinking, Velma released the catch on the screen, flung it back, swung her five-cell flashlight into position and pressed the button.
The beam of the light was a vivid white against the soft gold of mellow moonlight. Concentrated by the big lens into a spot of brilliance, the pencil of light just missed the crouching man. Velma swung it toward him.
Two orange spots of light centered with bluish brilliance winked at her from the darkness. Two crisp, businesslike explosions rudely ripped apart the moonlit tranquility. Two bullets crashed through the window just over Velma’s head.
Involuntarily, Velma jumped back. The instinctive realization that the flashlight made her a perfect target caused her to thumb back the catch as a purely reflex action.
The man was running now — across the strip of white moonlight into the shadows, down the hedge, around by the end of the stone wall...
Two thoughts flashed through Velma Starler’s mind. One was concern for the safety of her patient. The man was running toward the cactus gardens. If he came on Banning Clarke, the shock wouldn’t do Clarke’s heart any good. The other thought was definite annoyance that her hair was full of the glass splinters which had rained down on her head when the bullets had crashed through the window above her.
Velma could hear sounds in the house now — bare feet thudding on the floor, voices raised in question. She’d have to get down to reassure Lillian Bradisson and her son... Just a minute more...
Banning Clarke’s voice, high-pitched and querulous, yelled, “Hey!”
From the shadows down near the lower gate came another spurt of orange flame, the sound of another shot.
Almost instantly there were two answering flashes from the cactus gardens. The pow-w-w-ie... pow-w-w-ie of a big-caliber gun. That would be Clarke’s forty-five.
Velma saw the skinny figure of Banning Clarke, attired in long underwear and nothing else, running awkwardly out of the cactus gardens toward the place where the fugitive had disappeared.
Instantly she forgot her fright. Her professional instincts came at once to the surface. “You stop that running,” she called authoritatively. “That’s dangerous. Go back to bed. I’ll call the police. Where’s Salty?”
Banning Clarke looked up at her. “What’s happened? Some son-of-a-gun took a shot at me.”
“He shot at me, too — shot twice — a prowler. Where’s Salty?”
“Here,” Salty Bowers said, emerging into the moonlight, struggling with the belt on his overalls. “Better get dressed, Banning.”
For the first time, Banning became conscious of his wearing apparel, such as it was. “Oh, my gosh!” he said, and scuttled off into the cactus like a startled rabbit.
“Quit running,” Velma shouted, her voice sharp with exasperation. “I’ve seen underwear before.”
Chapter 5
The cattle ranch was a huge, sprawling anachronism which continued to exist within a hundred miles of Los Angeles much as it had seventy-five years ago, a tract of many thousands of acres of rolling plateau country garnished with picturesque live-oaks, canyons green with sycamore, and peaks covered with chaparral and greasewood, watched over by brooding, snow-capped mountains in the purple distance.
The cat-footed cattle horses came winding in single file down from the rugged back country, following a rough cattle trail which was all but obliterated in places. Down below, ranch headquarters rested in a little tree-studded valley. There was still a faint trace of green in the grass, but for the most part it had turned to a parched brown, tribute to the dry air, the cloudless skies, and the blazing sunlight.
Della Street, the notebook in her right saddlebag well filled with data concerning old corners, witness trees, abandoned roads, and burned fences, rode with that easy rhythm which absorbs the motion of the saddle and is so easy on both horse and rider.
“Tired?” Mason asked.
“No. I think it’s delightful.”
Harvey Brady, the owner of the ranch, half turned in the saddle and grinned. “Think you’ve got it all straight now?” he asked. “Otherwise, we can go back.”
“I think,” Della Street laughed, “I’ll settle for something to eat instead.”
The cattleman tilted the sweat-stained sombrero back on his head and looked out over his vast domain with shrewd sun-bleached eyes that saw everything. The little cavalcade hit a more traveled trail now. A cloud of reddish-gold dust enveloped them, a dust cloud heavy enough to cast a shadow in the sunlight. Fine particles of dust settled on the riders. The horses, their sides incrusted with the salt of dried perspiration, increased their rapid walk.
Down far below, a horse was standing in three-legged relaxation, head drooped forward. The reins casually dropped to the ground held him as motionless as though he’d been tied, a sure sign of the trained cattle horse.
Harvey Brady said, “Don’t know what they’ve got that horse out there for — standing in the sun. Must be waiting to pick up our dust... That’s right, here comes one of the men.”
A cowpuncher, running awkwardly in black leather chaps and high-heeled boots, emerged from the ranch house, picked up the reins, tossed them back over the horse’s neck and grasped the horn of the saddle. Instantly all awkwardness left him. The man swung into the saddle, the whirl of the horse circling him into a firm seat. Thereupon, horse and rider became merged into a streak of motion which dust-spurted across the little amphitheater of valley at a gallop, and then started climbing the zigzag trail.
The cattleman pushed his horse into swifter motion. “Looks like something’s gone wrong,” he said.
The courier met them within a matter of minutes, a bronzed, slim-waisted cowpuncher who reined back to the side of the trail, the horse balanced precariously on the edge of the steep slope, moving restlessly, apparently in danger of losing his footing at any moment and precipitating both himself and his rider down the sharp declivity.
The cowpuncher sat easily in the saddle, his body swaying with the motions of the horse, paying no attention to the sharp drop behind him, holding the sensitive-mouthed animal with a light hand on the reins.
“Long-distance Los Angeles operator’s been trying to get Perry Mason all day. They really began burning up the wires about twenty minutes ago. They say the call’s terribly important. He’s to take it just as soon as he can.”