Chapter number 2
It was in his office the next day that Della Street reminded Perry Mason of the auto accident. As she handed him a sheaf of letters, she said, “That automobile accident, Chief. You telephoned the police at El Centro last night. They were going to notify you.”
Mason said, “Get them on the phone, Della. We can’t have fan-dancers running around naked.”
Della Street laughed, put the call through, and nodded to Mason when his party was on the line.
Mason picked up the receiver, said, “Hello. This is Perry Mason. I left a memo there yesterday about being called in connection with an automobile accident. I have some property which was taken from a car that was crowded off the road. There was a woman with a broken arm. You were going to get her address and call me back.”
“Oh, yes,” the man said. “I have the memo on my desk, but I didn’t call you back because there’s been no report of an accident.”
“No report made by anyone?”
“No.”
“That’s strange. The accident took place two or three miles north of Calexico.”
“There’s a car overturned by the side of the road down there. We investigated and found out the car belonged to a Ramon Calles, who lives in Calexico. He says the car was stolen a couple of days ago.”
“Did he report it to the police at the time?” Mason asked.
“No, there’s no record of it. He doesn’t seem particularly interested. There’ll be a repair bill on the car and the cost of towing it to a garage. Calles doesn’t seem to think the car is worth that much. You know how these people are. It’s pretty hard to get anything out of them when they want to be evasive. They just go around in circles with you in the center. You can’t ever get any nearer to what you’re trying to find out. Of course, there’s nothing much we can do about it. Were you a witness to the accident?”
“I saw it,” Mason said. “A big sedan sideswiped the car and sent it off the road out of control. An old woman was driving this jalopy. Apparently she talked very little English, if any. I would say she was around sixty-five to seventy, with white hair and a rather lined face.”
“You can’t tell much about these people. Did she give her name?”
“Maria Gonzales.”
“Could you identify her if you saw her again?”
“Certainly.”
“Of course,” the man at the other end of the line said, resignedly, “if we get her and you identify her, then Calles will change his mind about the car being stolen. The driver will turn out to be his grandmother, or his Aunt Mary, or someone and she took the car without telling him about it and it’s all right and that’ll be that. However, we’ll look into it.”
“My interest,” Mason said, “is in returning some property that was in the back of the car.”
“Okay, we’ll let you know. And you might put an ad in the local paper — about the property.”
Mason hung up, said to Della Street, “Know anything about fan-dancing, Della?”
“Were you suggesting I take up the profession?”
“Why not?” Mason asked. “We seem to have been left with a complete wardrobe.”
“No information down there?”
“Not a scrap. The car that was crowded off the highway is supposed to have been stolen. I don’t know who would want to steal a car like that. Ring up the newspaper down in the Valley, Della, and put an ad in the lost-and-found. Make it in general terms. ‘If the fan-dancer who has lost certain property will communicate with box so-and-so, she can have her property restored to her.’ Then have the newspaper forward any replies to the office here. Okay, let’s look at that mail.”
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,’ ”