Erle Stanley Gardner
The Case of the Fan-Dancer’s Horse
Chapter number 1
It was a blistering hot morning in the Imperial Valley.
The big sedan speeding up behind the car Perry Mason was driving rocketed past at eighty miles an hour, the air currents generated by its passing swaying the lawyer’s car on its springs.
“How do you suppose his tires stand up?” Mason asked Della Street, his secretary. “They must be melting.”
Della Street leaned forward in the seat, so that the hot dry air could circulate around her shoulders, evaporating the perspiration. “Perhaps he hasn’t gone far... Oh! He’s going to hit that car!”
Mason instinctively slammed on his own brakes as he saw the car ahead weave slightly as it swung to the left to pass another car going in the same direction. An oncoming car caused the driver of the big sedan to cut in. Fenders seemed only to have given a gentle kiss, but the northbound car went out of control, teetered on two wheels, swerved off the highway into the hot sand, and rolled over.
A cloud of dust which obstructed what was taking place was still hanging over the scene as Mason eased his car to a stop and jumped out.
The overturned car was a jalopy of ancient vintage, all but devoid of paint, its old-fashioned, high wheels making it seem strangely anachronistic. It lay quietly on the desert as though, having wrestled too long with the vicissitudes of life, this crowning misfortune had taken all the fight out of it.
A door on the upper side was slowly pushed open and as Mason approached the vehicle a Mexican woman groped with age-stiffened fingers for sufficient support to enable her to get out of the machine.
Mason helped her out of the car, noticing as he did so that one arm was dangling uselessly. It brushed against the edge of the door and she winced sharply with pain.
But her voice was calm with the courtesy of a polite race. She said, “Gracias, Señor.”
“Are you hurt anywhere except the broken arm?” Mason asked.
The old Mexican woman’s face, lined with the placidity of one who has learned to take life as it comes, regarded him calmly. “No speek Ingleesh,” she said.
The driver of another car, who had stopped out of curiosity, said, “Perhaps I can help. I was raised on the border. I speak it like a native. My name’s Newell. A big sedan went past me eighty miles an hour. I suppose it’s responsible for this.”
“Yes. I’m trying to find out whether she’s hurt.”
Newell engaged in a somewhat one-sided conversation in Spanish, then reported to Mason, “She says that only her arm is hurt. That, she thinks, is broken.”
“We’d better get her to a doctor,” Mason said. “What’s her name?”
“Maria Gonzales.”
“Where does she live?”
“She says, ‘With her nephew.’ ”
“Where?”
The woman waved her good arm in an inclusive gesture.
“Here in the Valley,” Newell reported.
Mason smiled. “That’s rather vague. Let’s have a look at her driving license.”
“I’m afraid you’re not going to get very far with this,” Newell said. “They have a way of quitting cold on you, just going around in circles. Very nice and courteous, but just going round and round.”
“But why doesn’t she want us to know where she lives?”
“Oh, it probably isn’t that. It’s the fact that she just doesn’t react well to questions, or she may think you’re going to make trouble for someone. Just a minute, I’ll find out about the driving license.”
He questioned her in Spanish and smiled as he translated the reply. “She says, ‘But I am not driving the car.’ ”
“But she was driving the car,” Mason said.
Newell interpreted. The old woman indicated the car lying on its side, said something in Spanish which Newell translated. “It is not on the highway. It cannot move. There is no one in it. Therefore no license is required.”
“She must have a driving license,” Mason said.
Newell grinned. “She says, ‘But with one arm, Señor, I cannot drive.’ ”
“Oh, well,” Mason said, “there’s a registration certificate on the automobile. Not that it makes any difference. Where’s the nearest hospital?”
Another northbound car had stopped and a wooden-faced Mexican some forty-five years of age approached them. “Someone is hurt?” he inquired courteously.
“This woman,” Mason said. “She was driving the car. She has a broken arm, I believe.”
The Mexican looked at the car, then at the woman. He asked four or five rapid-fire questions and received equally rapid answers. “I will take her to a doctor,” he said.
“Do you know her?”
“I know her relatives.”
Mason started to hand the man one of his business cards, then fearful that the words “attorney at law” on the card would be taken as an ambulance-chasing solicitation, took out his notebook and scrawled his name and the address of the apartment house where he lived.
“In case she should want a witness, my name is Mason. This is Miss Street. We saw the accident. My address is on this paper. Miss Street can be reached through me.”
The Mexican gravely inclined his head. “Many thanks. My own name is Jose Campo Colima, and now, if you will pardon me, I will assist this unfortunate woman.”
With courtly grace the Mexican escorted the injured woman to his automobile and tenderly placed her inside. A door slammed and the car was off down the hot highway.
“Well,” Newell said, “I’ll be on my way. Here’s my card. We’d better see that she gets something out of that chap.”
“If we can ever find the driver of that other car,” Mason said.
“I’ll drive in to Calexico and telephone the highway police.”
“See what you can do,” Mason said.
He started back for his own car as Newell drove away, then said, suddenly, “I wonder if that woman left anything in her car, Della? She might have some personal belongings in there which she forgot about in the excitement. We’d better take a look just to be sure. I’d hate to leave any of her property in the car.”
Already, the sun, beating down on the exposed metal of the car, made it almost too hot to touch with the bare hand. The door, however, was still open and Mason peered inside.
The upholstery was battered and tattered. There was an aura of dispirited obsolescence about the entire interior, but it was void of any sign of personal belongings.
Mason looked for the registration certificate on the post of the steering wheel. There was none.
“Well,” the lawyer said, “we’d better take a look in the trunk just to make certain.”
Mason pulled up the cover, then regarded the contents with some surprise.
“What is it?” Della asked.
“Apparently two very fine ostrich-plume fans initialed L. F.,” he said, “and that seems to be about all. No, wait a minute. Here’s a pair of white dancing slippers. The trunk’s recently been lined with clean newspapers. It looks like we’re standing in the middle of a fan-dancer’s wardrobe.”
“I’ll bet that’s exactly what it is!” Della Street exclaimed. “How in the world would it get in this sort of a car?”
“There’s probably a local night club around here. Perhaps her granddaughter is an entertainer. Those newspapers look clean. They must have been freshly pasted in the trunk. What’s the date, Della?”
“They’re Los Angeles newspapers,” she said. “Yesterday’s papers.”
“Well, we’d better take the fans along. We’ll call the police later on and get the woman’s address from the accident report. Let’s get out of this oven, Della. I’m so dehydrated now that all I need is a cellophane wrapper and a label to be desiccated soup.”