Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

“Long-distance Los Angeles operator’s been trying to get Perry Mason all day. They really began burning up the wires about twenty minutes ago. They say the call’s terribly important. He’s to take it just as soon as he can.”

“Thanks, Joe. We’ll be moving right on,” the cattleman said.

Della Street exclaimed, “Oh, do be careful. That horse is going to lose his balance and—”

White teeth flashed a contrast against the bronze skin. “Don’t worry, ma’am. He knows that slope’s there just as well as I do.”

Harvey Brady spurred his horse into motion.

“Take it easy,” Mason called. “All clients have a way of thinking their particular business is terribly important. But thanks for letting me know, Joe.”

The cowpuncher grinned an acknowledgment. As the horses moved on past, his mount, eager to get in the lead, threw back his head, showed the whites of rolling eyes, distended red nostrils. “Thought I’d better let you know,” the rider said, and then fell into place behind the little cavalcade.

The slope became less abrupt. The trail ceased to zigzag. The cattleman ahead, setting the pace, broke into a full gallop; the horses lunging up the short climbs, scurrying down the slopes, leaning far over to one side and then the other as they followed the winding turns of the cattle trail.

Mason, swinging from the saddle, seemed stiff and awkward beside the easy grace of the professional cattlemen. They clumped across a porch, opened a door marked OFFICE and entered a room with an unpainted floor splintered from the pounding of many heels. A counter ran two thirds of the length of the room. A stove made out of a fifty-gallon gasoline drum reposed in the center of the room. A girl working over some books at a desk smiled at Perry Mason. “There’s the telephone, Mr. Mason.”

Mason nodded thanks, walked across to the telephone, picked up the receiver and asked for the Los Angeles operator.

Della Street saw the morning newspaper which had just been brought in with the mail. And, while waiting for the call to come through, she turned to the “Vital Statistics.”

“Looking for corpses?” Mason asked, smiling.

She said, “You have no romance in your soul. You wouldn’t— Oh, here it is.”

“Here what is?”

“The notice of intention.”

Della Street folded back the paper, circled the item in the Vital Statistics with a pencil and read: “Bowers — Brunn, Prentice C., 42, 619 Skyline, San Roberto; Lucille M., 33, 704 6th Street, San Roberto.” She smiled across at Perry Mason. “I’m glad they’re going ahead with it. Somehow I had an idea that romance might have hit a legal snag. There was so much—”

The telephone rang. Mason picked up the receiver.

Banning Clarke’s voice, shrill with excitement, said, “This you, Mason?”

“That’s right. Mason talking.”

“Been trying to get you all day. They said you were just out on the ranch somewhere, so I kept thinking you’d call any minute. How big is that ranch, anyway?”

Mason laughed. “You could ride all day getting to one boundary fence and back.”

“Heck, I thought it was just a ranch. Told ’em to get you about half an hour ago — couldn’t wait any longer.”

“So I understand. What’s wrong?”

“I’m in a mess. Got to see you just as soon as you can get here.”

“That may be some time the latter part of the week. I—”

“No, no. I mean right now — today — as soon as you can drive up here. They’ve dug up the old by-laws. Seems as though there’s a regular annual stockholders’ meeting due for today. They’ve been kind of slipping one over on me. They’ve got some smart lawyer coming up to put me in a jack pot.”

“I’m sorry,” Mason said firmly. “I’ve been out ever since daylight looking over a disputed boundary line and—”

“And last night somebody poisoned my mother-in-law and Jim Bradisson. Then somebody took a couple of shots at my nurse. That, and the arsenic in the food...”

Mason’s face twisted into a grin. “The shooting does it. I’ll be up just as soon as I can get there.”

“Be sure to come to the back door,” Clarke said. “I want to see you before any of the others know you’re here.”

Mason hung up and turned to Della Street. “Want to take a fast ride?” he asked.

“On a horse?”

“Definitely not on a horse.”

“That,” she announced, “is quite different.”

The cattleman’s voice was dry. “Try to get away from here without a drink and something to eat, and I’ll show you what shooting really is.”

The back door of the big house was opened by Nell Sims almost as soon as Mason knocked.

“You alone?” she asked suspiciously.

“Miss Street, my secretary, is the only one with me.”

“That’s fine. Come in. The boss is anxious to see you. He told me to let him know just as soon as you came.”

“Where is he, in the cactus garden?”

“Yes.”

“And still batching?” Mason asked jovially.

“He eats one square meal every other day here,” Nell Sims snapped. “That keeps him from starving to death. The rest of the time, he eats that awful slum that he and Salty cook up. — I guess this has been a hard day for you, hasn’t it?”

Della Street and Mason followed her into the kitchen. Mason said cheerfully, “Oh, well, there’s no rest for the wicked.”

“That’s right,” Nell Sims said, regarding him in serious contemplation, “but blessed be the pure in heart, for they shall multiply as the grains of sand.”

Della Street glanced mischievously at Mason. Mason regarded Nell Sims with a coldly suspicious eye, but she met his gaze with bland innocence. “Do you,” she asked, “want something to eat?”

“Got anything without arsenic in it?” Mason asked.

“It’s a little bit early to tell, yet. Land sakes, I certainly had trouble enough getting them to eat a thing this noon. And it was even worse than that for dinner.”

“What do you know about the poisoning?” Mason asked.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“But surely you know in general what happened.”

“Where ignorance is bliss, a little learning is a dangerous thing,” Nell Sims proclaimed. “I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t intend to know anything about it. The police have been traipsing all over the house. As far as I’m concerned, let ’em...”

The back door opened and Banning Clarke grinned with relief when he saw Mason. “Been sort of keeping an ear to the ground,” he said. “Thought I heard you come in. Good evening, Miss Street.”

Della smiled a greeting. Mason shook hands.

“How about some dinner?” Banning Clarke asked.

“Maybe he’s afraid of arsenic,” Nell Sims suggested. “Everybody else seems to be. People barely touched their dinners.”

Mason laughed. “We’ll take a chance. We’ve only had a few sandwiches. Bring out your arsenic.”

Nell Sims said, “There’s lots of fried rabbit left. It’s a case of one man’s poison being another’s meat.”

Banning Clarke drew up a chair and sat down, jerking his thumb toward the front of the house. “They’re having a regular stockholders’ meeting in there. I want your advice. Should I burst in and take part in it, or should I not take part in it?”

“What do you have to gain by attending?” Mason asked.

“Nothing. Under that pooling agreement Salty can vote my stock.”

“What have you to lose if you don’t attend?”

“That,” Clarke confessed, “is something that’s been worrying me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

Mrs. Sims opened the oven, took out a big pan of fried rabbit, placed tea in a teapot, poured on boiling water. “My boarders would hardly touch a thing tonight,” she snorted indignantly.