“Beg your pardon, Mister,” he said to Perry Mason, “but we’re just a little short of dancing partners up here. I’m a committee from the table over there. A committee of one. We think the young lady had ought to dance.”
Della Street flashed him a smile. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m not dancing tonight.”
“Well, now, that’s a shame. We couldn’t change your mind?”
Her smile was friendly, but her voice was firm. “Definitely not. I’m sorry.”
“So’m I.”
The man stood there awkwardly for a moment, then turned and walked back to a table where three other men were sitting. His face reddened somewhat at the raucous laughter of their greeting as he once more sat down.
“I wish she’d come out,” Della Street said, “and let us get out of here. You sent her a message, Chief?”
“That’s right — through the master of ceremonies. And the five-dollar bill that I used as a postage stamp should have been a guarantee of delivery.”
The lights dimmed and the master of ceremonies announced the feature performance of the evening, little Miss Cherie Chi-Chi, the wonderful, incomparable light-footed dancer.
The orchestra made noise. The lights went down until there was almost total darkness, then flared up in a deep green simulation of moonlight. Bare feet thudded on the floor. From the crowded masculine humanity which packed the place came an audible inhalation, and then, whirling around, with plumed fans showing startlingly white against the deep color of the spotlight, a girl glided into the center of the floor.
For a moment Cherie Chi-Chi stood poised, smiling, the fans held so as to conceal much of her body. Then the fans began to move. The slender white body glided through a series of dance steps. The light, a deep violet, now showed high, pointed breasts, a slender waist, smooth hips.
As the eyes of the audience accustomed themselves to the semi-darkness, it seemed that the light was getting stronger. The tempo of the orchestra became faster and faster. Then, suddenly the figure faced the audience. The fans opened for a moment, then were pressed tightly against the body and the girl’s smiling face, white gleaming teeth and the waving plumes of the fan caught the light as she backed from the dance floor, then suddenly turned and vanished through the entrance to the dressing rooms.
The flimsy walls of the place threatened to bulge out and collapse with the roar of applause.
The lights went on hurriedly, signifying that there would be no encore.
Della Street glanced at Mason. “Some dance,” she said.
“Darn good-looking kid,” Mason observed. “Apparently she has no Mexican blood though, very white skin, red hair— The eyes, I believe, were blue.”
“Yes, I saw you studying her face.”
Mason grinned.
The audience continued to demand an encore, but the master of ceremonies announced two gifted hula dancers straight from the Island of Oahu. Someone started ukulele music and once more the lights went down.
The grass-skirted, full-figured, tawny girls who bounded out into the spotlight soon demonstrated their ability to hold the attention of a masculine audience anywhere.
By the conclusion of the second hula, the two Hawaiians had so completely captivated the audience no one recognized Cherie Chi-Chi, attired now in a neat-fitting suit of small patterned plaid which made it almost appear to be a tweed, when she glided quietly up to Mason’s table.
He was on his feet at once. “Do sit down,” he invited.
“Thank you. The head waiter gave me your note.”
“I’m Mr. Mason. This is Miss Street, my secretary.”
She smiled a greeting to Della, said to Mason, “You’re the man who put the ad in the paper in El Centro?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see a Mr. Callender?” she asked.
“I saw him.”
“Oh,” she said, shortly, and made no other comment.
“How about a drink?” Mason asked.
She nodded. A waiter who had been watching her attentively, glided quickly to her side.
“The usual thing, Harry,” she said.
The waiter glanced inquiringly at Perry Mason and Della Street.
“We’ll nurse these,” Mason said.
The waiter noiselessly dissolved into the blue haze of tobacco smoke which hung over the tables.
“Been here long?” Mason asked.
“Not very.”
“Like it?”
“Uh huh.”
“You seem to know the waiter quite well.”
She laughed and said, “We all of us pull together. Something about a job like this that makes you get acquainted fast and stay friendly.” Her eyes became wistful as she went on. “Traveling around this way, those who are in the same line of work are the only friends you have. The real friends.”
“What’s the elevation up here?” Mason asked.
“Around fifty-five hundred. We’re a little over a mile high.”
“Quite a change in the climate from the Imperial Valley.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
“Well,” Mason asked, laughingly, “are you going to ask about your property?”
“My horse?”
“Of course,” Mason observed, “as the finder of property, I have to keep it in the vague category of personal property until you have identified it.”
“But it’s mine.”
“All you have to do is to identify it.”
“A chestnut horse. A little taller than the average. He handles his legs nicely. Slim barreled, hot-blooded, but not too hot. A saddle made by Bill Wyatt, Austin, Texas.”
“Anything else?” Mason asked.
“Oh, yes, a Navajo blanket and a quilted under-pad to go next to the horse.”
“You have had the horse long?” Mason asked.
“Two or three months.”
“White star on his forehead?”
“That’s right.”
“One white hind foot?”
“Yes, the right.”
Mason smiled and said, “I haven’t seen him”
She was frowning now, irritably. “Don’t be silly.”
“I tell you, I haven’t seen him.”
“Of course you have. You even know the description. You know about that star on the forehead and you know about the white right hind foot.”
“Just because I describe a horse doesn’t mean I have him.”
The waiter brought the drink.
She said, angrily, “What are you trying to do, hold me up? Is this a blackmail proposition?”
The waiter produced a check from his pocket, stood casually by the table.
“Simply put it all on my check,” Mason said.
“Yes, sir.” The big waiter moved closer to the table. “The drink all right, Miss Cherie?” he asked.
She smiled at him. “Fine, thanks.”
He continued to hover around.
Cherie Chi-Chi looked at Perry Mason. “You didn’t find a horse?”
Mason made his smile affable. “No horse.”
The index finger of her left hand was tracing little designs on the tablecloth. “You found something. You put an ad in the paper.”
Mason nodded. The waiter whisked an imaginary crumb from the corner of the table with a napkin.
“You found something...” Suddenly her finger stopped its motion. She raised eyelashes heavy with mascara. “You found two fans,” she said. “Two ostrich-plume fans with the initials ‘L. F.’ on them. You found a pair of high-heeled slippers.”
Mason nodded.
She threw back her head and laughed. “And I thought it was the horse! That’s all, Harry. The drink’s fine. I won’t need you any more.”
The waiter abruptly withdrew.
“Where are they?” Cherie Chi-Chi asked.
“In my car.”
She laughed. “All right, I’ll identify them. They were made by a firm in St. Louis. The initials ‘L. F.’ are inlaid in the fans in gold and the slippers were also made in St. Louis. I can give you the name of the store, if I think long enough.”