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:
Dear Box 9062: The enclosed will introduce Mr. John Callender, who is hereby authorized to receive from the finder the horse which I lost a few days ago, said horse being described as American saddle bred, gelding, fifteen hands high, white star on forehead, white right hind foot. Mr. Callender will accept delivery on my behalf and for me will pay any and all claims and incidental expenses.
“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.”