Erle Gardner - The Case of the Lame Canary

“You had the express man call for them while you were there?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you send them?”

“To Mildred Owens, General Delivery, Reno. You see, that’s the name Rosalind had told me she’d register under, so I could keep in touch with her without anyone knowing.”

“Sounds like rather an elaborate set of precautions just to avoid a husband,” Mason pointed out.

“I can’t help it. That’s the truth.”

Mason raised his eyes to Driscoll. “How about you, Driscoll, are you going to keep quiet about my having been here?”

Driscoll said, “You don’t seem to have any confidence in me, and I don’t see why I should have any in you. I’ll give you no promises.”

“Jimmy!” Rosalind Prescott exclaimed. “Can’t you see Mr. Mason is taking a big risk just in order to protect us? Can’t you—”

The telephone rang. Mason pushed past Driscoll to jerk the receiver from its hook and say, “Hello!”

Della Street’s excited voice said, “Sergeant Holcomb and two local deputies, with big sombreros and tanned faces, are just getting in the elevator, Chief.”

“Grab a cab,” he told her. “Beat it to the airport. Meet me there. If I don’t show up in an hour, head back for the office. Hang up your phone, quick!”

Mason jiggled the hook up and down with his finger until the hotel operator said impatiently, “Yes, what is it? No need to have a fit! That hurts my ear.”

Mason said, “I’m in a hurry. This is Perry Mason, a lawyer. I want to report that there are three persons in room three thirty-one who are wanted by the Los Angeles police. There’s Rosalind Prescott, registered under the name of Mildred Owens, Jimmy—”

Jimmy Driscoll lunged for him. Mason, holding the receiver to his ear with his left hand, lashed out with his right, catching Driscoll on the point of the chin. As the young man staggered back, Mason went on evenly into the telephone, as though there had been no interruption, “Driscoll, both of whom are wanted for the murder of Walter Prescott in Los Angeles. There’s also Rita Swaine, Rosalind Prescott’s sister, who is wanted for questioning in connection with the same murder.”

Driscoll, recovering his balance, came charging forward.

Mason slammed the receiver back on its hook and said, “Stop it, you fool! The jig’s up. Now listen, Rosalind, you and Rita are going to be questioned. Don’t answer questions. Don’t waive extradition. Stand on your constitutional rights. Don’t do anything unless I’m—”

A peremptory pounding on the door interrupted him. A man’s voice said, “Open up in there!”

Driscoll stood glowering at Mason. Rosalind Prescott was watching him with a puzzled question in her eyes. Mason pushed past Rita Swaine, and unlocked the door.

Sergeant Holcomb, accompanied by two bronzed men in Stetsons, pushed forward, then came to a surprised halt as he saw Perry Mason.

“You!” he said.

“In person,” Mason assured him.

A grin suffused Holcomb’s features as he said, “Well, isn’t that nice. You knew that these people were wanted by the police. You smuggled them across the state line and—”

“Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “I had nothing to do with their crossing the state line.”

“That’s what you say,” Holcomb sneered.

“It’s what I say,” Mason said, “and it’s what I can make stick.”

“Okay. Anyway, we catch you here, plotting with them, avoiding the police.”

“That wasn’t what I was doing at all.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, try and tell that to the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association.”

Mason said, “As it happens I don’t have to tell anything to the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association. I came here because I had reason to believe a person registered in this hotel as Mildred Owens was, in fact, Rosalind Prescott, who I happened to know is wanted by the police for murder. The fact that she happens to be my client in connection with another matter has nothing to do with it.”

Holcomb said, “Try and make that stick.”

“And,” Mason went on, “as soon as I found out the true facts, I determined to surrender her to the police.”

Holcomb said, “Don’t make me laugh. My side hurts. I’ve heard some wild stories in my time, but that’s the wildest.”

Mason nodded toward the telephone. “If you’ll kindly call the operator you’ll find that I asked her to notify the police several minutes before you arrived.”

Holcomb stared at Mason, said, “I’ll just nail you to the cross on that one before you have a chance to bribe the telephone operator to commit perjury,” picked up the telephone receiver and said, “Did anyone from this room try to call police headquarters?”

The receiver made squawking noises. Holcomb’s face showed chagrin as he listened. He said, “All right, forget it! The police are here,” and slammed the receiver into place. He glowered at Mason. “There’s something fishy about this. We’ll pass it for the moment, but I’m not done with it — not by a long ways. You’re representing Rosalind Prescott, Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Representing Driscoll here?”

“No.”

“Representing Rita Swaine?”

“Yes.”

“All right. How about waiving extradition?”

“You’re arresting them?”

“Yes. On suspicion of murder. Will you waive extradition?”

Mason smiled at him and said, “I’ll wave my hands, and that’s all.”

“Get out!” Holcomb ordered.

Mason picked up his hat and said, “Remember, you two, don’t say a word in answer to any question unless I’m there and advise you to answer that question. They can’t make you talk if you don’t want to. Don’t want to. I’ll do the talking. Don’t waive extradition. Don’t sign anything. Don’t volunteer any information and remember that they’ll pull the old police gag of telling each one of you the other has confessed and—”

The three converged on him, ominous purpose in their eyes. Mason slipped adroitly into the corridor, said, “Good night, gentlemen,” and slammed the door shut behind him.

There was no sign of Della Street in the lobby. He went by cab to the airport, found the pilot and said “Have you seen anything of the young woman you brought up here?”

“Why, no,” the aviator said. “I thought she was with you.”

Mason said, “Get your plane out and warm it up. Hold it in readiness.”

It wasn’t until the motors had been turning for several minutes that a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness to touch Mason lightly on the arm. “Everything okay, Chief?” she asked in a low voice.

“Lord, you gave me a fright!” he said. “I thought they’d nabbed you.”

“No,” she told him, “but I figured it would be a good move for me to keep out of sight in case they came out here prowling around. What did you do?”

“Covered myself with whitewash,” he told her, “by telephoning for the police. Thanks to your tip, I had an opportunity to get the thing all planted before Holcomb pounded on the door. Holcomb’s suspicious, but he can’t prove anything.”

The aviator said, “I’m ready. How about it?”

Mason nodded. “Let’s go,” he said.

Morning sun was streaming through the windows of Mason’s private office, as he opened the door from the corridor and stood regarding Della Street with a whimsical smile.

She was standing by his desk, putting the finishing touches to an arrangement of maps and circulars which completely covered the top.

“Ship ahoy!” Mason called. “Where are we — Java, Singapore, or Japan? Lower the gangplank so I can come aboard.”