“I think so. If she isn’t, it’s a cinch she’s listed in the city directory. Here, let me look her up.”
Gibbs ran the pages of a thick, blue book through his long, listless fingers, then said, “Here it is, 219 East Wilmington Street. You go out Main Street ten blocks and come to a wide street. That’s Washington. The next street on the other side is Wilmington. Turn to the right and go for two blocks, and you’ll be right near the place.”
Mason said, “Thanks. I wonder if we can compensate you in any way for your trouble...”
“Not at all,” Gibbs said. “I’m glad to do it.”
“Well, we certainly appreciate it.”
“You don’t know whether we’d find Miss Monteith at the library now, or whether she’d be at her residence, do you?” Drake asked.
Before the man could answer, Mason said, “I don’t think that angle is particularly important, Paul. After all, it’s just a matter of someone asking a casual question. Good Lord, if we’re going to try to run down everyone who orders parrot food, we’ll be working on this thing for a year.” He turned to Gibbs with a smile and said, “It looked as though we were on the track of something, but the way it’s turning out now, I guess it doesn’t amount to much.”
He took Paul Drake’s arm and led him to the door. When they were out on the sidewalk, Drake said, “What was the idea, Perry? He might have given us a little more information.”
“Not much more,” Mason said, “and I don’t want to let him think we consider this as being too important. Later on he’s going to read his afternoon newspaper. Then, if he thinks we struck a hot trail, he’ll tell the police, and...”
“That’s right,” Drake interrupted. “I’d overlooked that.”
“What luck?” Della Street asked.
“Plenty,” Mason said, “but whether it’s good, bad, or indifferent is more than we know yet. Swing over to Main Street and run out until after you’ve passed Washington, then turn to the right on the next block. We’ll tell you where to stop.”
She touched two fingers of her right hand to the abbreviated rim of her tilted hat. “Aye, aye, sir,” she said, and started the car.
“We don’t want to try the library first?” Drake asked. “It’s probably nearer.”
“No,” Mason said. “A woman wouldn’t keep a parrot in a library. She’d keep it in her home.”
“Do you think she’s keeping a parrot?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ll tell you more about it within the next ten or fifteen minutes.”
Della Street swung the car skillfully through the late afternoon traffic. Drake, with his head pushed outside the car, reading street signs, said, “That’s Washington, Della, the next is the one we want.”
“There’s no sign on this corner,” Della said as she slowed the car.
“I think it’s the corner we want,” Mason told her. “Go ahead and make the turn anyway... Good Lord, I don’t know why it is that a city will go to all sorts of trouble and expense to attract tourists and strangers with advertising, and then act on the assumption that only the natives, who know every street in the city, are going to be looking for residences. It wouldn’t cost much to put up a sign big enough to read on every street intersection of any importance... This is it, Della, pull in to the curb.”
The house was a small California bungalow which dated back to an era of older and cheaper buildings. The outside consisted of redwood boards with strips of batten nailed across the cracks. Back of the house was a small garage, the doors of which stood open, disclosing an interior which was evidently used as a wood-shed and storehouse.
As Mason got out of the car, a parrot squawked in a high, shrill voice. “Hello, hello. Come in and sit down.”
Mason grinned at Drake. “Well,” he said, “I guess we’ve found a parrot.”
“There he is,” Della Street said, “in a cage on the screen porch.”
“Do we go to the front door and interview Helen Monteith?” Drake asked
“No,” Mason said, “We go to the back door and interview the parrot.”
He walked directly across the strip of dry grass which had evidently been a lawn at one time, until lack of care and the long Southern California dry spell had forced it to give up the struggle for existence. The parrot, in a bell-shaped cage on the screen porch, executed a peculiar double shuffle on the round perch of the cage. His feet fairly streaked back and forth in excitement as he squawked, “Come in and sit down. Come in and sit down. Hello, hello. Come in and sit down.”
Mason said, “Hello, Polly,” and went up close to the screen.
“Hello, Polly,” the bird replied.
Mason pointed at the parrot. “Oh, oh,” he said.
“What?” Drake asked.
“Look at the right foot. One of the toes is gone,” Mason said.
The parrot, as though mocking him, burst into high, shrill laughter; then, evidently in high good humor, preened his glossy, green feathers, smoothing them carefully between the upper hooked beak and the surface of the black-coated tongue. Abruptly, the bird turned its wicked glittering eyes on Perry Mason. It ruffled its feathers as though showing great excitement and suddenly squawked, “Put down that gun, Helen! Don’t shoot! Squawk. Squawk. My God, you’ve shot me!”
The parrot paused and cocked its head on one side as though seeking by a survey of the three startled faces lined up in front of the screen to estimate the sensation its words had produced.
“Good Lord,” Drake said. “Do you suppose...”
He broke off as a woman’s voice said, “Good evening. What was it you wanted, please?”
They turned to see a matronly woman with broad, capable shoulders staring curiously at them.
“I’m looking for a Miss Monteith,” Mason said. “Does she live here?”
The woman inquired, with just a trace of reproof in her voice, “Have you been to the front door?”
“No, we haven’t,” Mason admitted. “We parked the car out here at the curb and saw the garage was empty... Then I became attracted by the parrot. I’m interested in parrots.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Mason,” the lawyer told her, “Mr. Mason, and may I inquire yours?”
“I’m Mrs. Winters. I’m Helen Monteith’s next-door neighbor, only her name isn’t Monteith any more.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. She was married almost two weeks ago... a man by the name of Wallman, George Wallman, a bookkeeper.”
“Do you,” Mason asked, “happen to know how long she’s had the parrot?”
“I believe the parrot was a present from her husband. She’s had it for almost two weeks. Did you have some business with Mrs. Wallman?”
“Just wanted to see her and ask her a few questions,” Mason said with his most disarming manner, and as Mrs. Winters looked at the other two as though expecting an introduction, Mason detached himself from the group and took her to one side where he could lower his voice in confidence. Della Street, interpreting his tactics, touched Paul Drake with her elbow, and they walked back to the automobile, got in and sat down.
Mason asked, “How long has Mrs. Wallman been gone, Mrs. Winters?”
“About half or three quarters of an hour, I guess.”
“You don’t know where she went or when she expects to be back, do you?”
“No, I don’t. She came home in an awful hurry and ran across the lawn to the house. I don’t think she was in the house over two or three minutes, then she came tearing out and got her car out of the garage.”
“Didn’t she drive up in her own car?” Mason asked.
“No, she doesn’t usually take her car to work with her. It’s only eight or ten blocks and, when it’s nice, she walks to work.”