Mason nodded.
“Do we pick it up and...?”
“We touch nothing,” Mason said. “This way, Della.”
Automobiles which had been driven through the low brush out towards the steep slope had made a roadway which consisted of but little more than two parallel lines of broken low brush.
Mason led the way to a point where there was a cleared space right at the edge of the steep slope. Petting parties had parked here, then turned their cars and gone back to the highway so that there had been left a circular space virtually devoid of vegetation.
Mason switched out the flashlight and listened.
From Mulholland Drive there was the occasional whine of a car. Far, far below, the noises of the city, muted by distance, furnished a rumbling undertone. A sea of twinkling lights stretched as far as the eye could see until a dark segment marked the location of the ocean. Overhead, stars blazed in tranquil steadiness.
“What a beautiful, beautiful spot,” Della Street said. “Wouldn’t this make an ideal—” She broke off abruptly with a half-scream.
Mason’s flashlight, which had been switched on once more and was exploring the edges of the clearing, came to rest on a sprawled shape lying on its back in the unmistakably grotesque posture of death.
Mason moved closer.
The odor of raw gasoline permeated the atmosphere.
The lawyer’s flashlight came to rest on the features.
“Chief,” Della Street said, half-hysterically, “it’s Lowry — Ken Lowry, the manager of the mine.”
Mason nodded. The beam of the flashlight continued to move.
“And here are account books,” Della Street said, “all soaked in gasoline.”
Mason nodded, approached the body of Ken Lowry. The lawyer bent over him and felt for a pulse.
“All right, Della,” he said, “let’s go.”
“Chief, what happened? What...?”
“We were too late to prevent a murder,” Mason said. “We may have been early enough to have prevented the destruction of evidence.”
“You mean fire?”
Mason nodded. “Let’s be careful, Della. There’s probably a cold-blooded murderer watching everything we do.”
He retraced his steps to Mulholland Drive, took Della Street’s hand in his and ran down to where he had left his car. He jumped in the car, drove it to the service station.
“Got a phone?” he asked the attendant.
The man nodded, motioned to a telephone.
Mason hurried inside, dialed police headquarters. “Homicide,” he said.
A moment later, when he had the connection completed, he inquired, “Lieutenant Tragg happen to be there?”
“He dropped in for a minute and is just leaving. I can perhaps catch him in the corridor if—”
“Get him!” Mason shouted. “Tell him it’s Perry Mason. Tell him it’s important.”
Mason heard a voice shouting at the other end of the line, “Hey, grab Tragg! Don’t let him leave the building.”
Several seconds later, Mason could hear the sound of footsteps approaching the telephone and Tragg’s voice saying, “Yes, hello... Tragg talking.”
Mason said, “You aren’t going to like this any more than I do, Lieutenant. I’ve found a body.”
“I see,” Tragg said dryly. “And you are quite correct.”
“In what?”
“In that I don’t like it any more than you do, probably not as much. Now, where are you and what’s it all about?”
Mason said, “The body is soaked in gasoline and I believe the murderer intended to set fire not only to the body but to some documentary evidence that is nearby. I’m going back and try to prevent it. Get officers up on Mulholland Drive just as fast as you can. I’m going to try and stand guard. I’ll put Della Street on the telephone. She’ll tell you where I am and how to get here.”
Mason handed the phone to Della Street.
“You talk with him, give him directions,” he said. “I’m going back.”
“No, no,” she cried. “It’s dangerous. You can’t... you’re unarmed...”
“Once this evidence gets destroyed,” Mason said, “our client goes to the gas chamber. I don’t think the murderer will start the fire if he knows there’s a witness.”
“He’ll kill the witness,” Della Street said.
“You tell Tragg how to get here,” Mason said. “That’s the best you can do. Tell him to rush up a radio prowl car and then get up here himself.”
The lawyer gave Della Street no more time to argue but dashed past the startled attendant at the station, jumped into his car, drove back to the wide place in the road, turned his car so that the headlights were shining down the road which had been made by petting parties, shut off the motor and rolled down the windows. He sat there watching the roadway, which was outlined in the beam of the headlights, listening intently.
Mason had waited some ten minutes when he heard the distant sound of a wailing siren. The wailing rapidly grew to a scream. The rays of a blood-red spotlight tinged the brush with a sinister glow, then etched Mason’s car into brilliance.
The siren died to a throaty gurgle. An officer leaving the car came hurrying over to Mason’s car, his hand on his gun.
“All right,” he said, “what is it?”
Mason said, “I’m Perry Mason, the attorney. I telephoned Homicide and asked Lieutenant Tragg to get out here as soon as he could and to send a radio car out here at the first opportunity. There’s a body over there about a hundred yards from the road and it’s soaked with gasoline. I think the murderer intended to set fire to the body but was interrupted by my arrival.”
“Oh, you do, eh? And how did you happen to arrive so opportunely?”
“I was running down a clue,” Mason said.
“A clue to what?”
“A clue to an entirely different matter, although it may have been connected with the murder.”
“Who’s the person who was murdered, do you know?”
“To the best of my belief,” Mason said, “the body is that of Kenneth Lowry, who was employed as manager of a mine operated by the Mojave Monarch Mining Company.”
The officer hesitated a moment, then said, “You wait right here. Don’t move. Don’t go away. Don’t get out of the car.”
The officer went back and conferred with the other officer, then took a powerful hand flashlight and started walking down the road, being careful to keep to one side in the brush so as not to obliterate any tracks.
Mason sat there waiting.
Another twelve minutes passed and a second siren screamed in the distance. A short time later, another police car pulled to a stop. Lt. Tragg alighted, and crossed over to Mason’s car.
“What’s the idea, Mason?”
“I was reporting a body, that’s all.”
“Murder?”
“I would gather as much.”
“Weapon?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Identity?”
“I believe it is Kenneth Lowry, the manager of the Mojave Monarch mine.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Late this afternoon. I saw him then for the first and last time.”
“Where?”
“In Mojave.”
“Then he must have followed you over here.”
“He may have preceded me,” Mason said.
“All right, what’s your interest in the Mojave Monarch?”
“I was checking some of the financial affairs.”
“Who for?”
“A client.”
“Who’s the client?”
“At the moment,” Mason said, “I am not at liberty to divulge the client. However, I am going to make one suggestion, Lieutenant.’’
“What’s that?”
“Amelia Corning was staying at the Arthenium Hotel. She seems to have left the hotel rather mysteriously. She had an appointment with me at seven-thirty and she wasn’t there to keep it. I have every reason to believe that prompt action on the part of the police may prevent her murder.”