Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

Mason regarded the picture with an approving eye — a photograph of Paul Drake clad in tattered shirt, patched overalls, wearing a big battered Stetson, leading a burro that had on its back a canvas-covered pack. A pick, shovel and gold pan were roped to the outside of the pack. The entire picture carried an air of authenticity. Paul Drake had managed to get just the proper expression of good-natured sincerity on his face. In the photograph he seemed lean and brown and hard, toughened by years of clean living in the desert. His extended right hand held a buckskin sack.

Underneath the photograph was the caption: “P. C. Drake, Who Claims To Have Rediscovered Famous Lost Mine. In the photo Drake is shown handing a sack of gold nuggets to Harvey Brady, wealthy Las Alisas cattleman. Story on page six.”

The newspaper account was in a position of prominence on page six. Headlines read: “PROSPECTOR LOCATES LOST BONANZA. Southern California cattle king shares clue with penniless prospector.”

Mason read the story with a great deal of interest. Harvey Brady, prominent cattleman of Las Alisas had, it seemed, always wanted to be a prospector, but Fate decreed that he should go into the cattle business on a small scale, make money, invest in more cattle, and then become one of the Southland’s leading cattle barons. But always in the back of his mind was the desire to prospect.

Because his extensive business interests prevented his going into the desert personally, Brady began reading about mines and mining, and, in particular, about the famous lost mines of the Southwest. Painstakingly, laboriously, he devoured every scrap of information that was available, gradually built up one of the most complete reference libraries in the Southwest.

Fearing ridicule, Brady kept his hobby from even his closest friends and associates. Men who had known the cattle king for years never entertained the slightest suspicion that he was interested in lost mines and through intensive research work had developed certain theories by which some of these lost mines might be relocated.

So it was that when some six months ago Brady was motoring through the desert, Fate, which had decreed that Brady should become a cattle king instead of a prospector, apparently decided to reward Brady for his continued interest. At the exact moment when Harvey Brady was driving across the desert to Las Vegas, Nevada, to attend an important livestock conference, P. C. Drake, a typical desert prospector, was sadly shuffling along the hot stretch of desert pavement between Yermo and Windmill Station, lamenting the fact that his burro had died in the desert, and that the only part of his worldly belongings Drake could salvage were the things he could carry on his own back.

Drake, plodding along the highway, heard the sound of brakes and looked up to see the friendly grin of the cattleman. A few moments later Drake, with his heavy pack thrown into the trunk of Harvey Brady’s automobile, was being speeded along the highway toward Windmill Station.

In the conversation which ensued, it appeared that Drake was familiar with a section of the desert in which Harvey Brady had concluded one of the famous lost mines was probably located.

Drake didn’t stop at Windmill Station. He went on to Las Vegas as the guest of Harvey Brady. All during the cattlemen’s convention, Drake stayed in Brady’s hotel. Whenever the cattleman could get a minute to spare, he would be in Drake’s room getting better acquainted, sizing up his man.

Then, on the last day of the convention, Brady made his proposition. He would grubstake Drake. Drake would cease prospecting for just any good body of ore and become, instead, a desert detective tracking down a certain route which Brady deduced must have been followed by one of the men who had located, and subsequently lost, one of the richest mines in the entire Southwest.

The newspaper went on: “Naturally, both parties are secretive as to the detailed conversation which ensued, but an agreement was reached. That agreement culminated yesterday afternoon when Brady, who had all but forgotten the penniless prospector he picked up in the desert, received the welcome news that his powers of deduction had resulted in once more locating one of the most fabulously rich lost mines of the desert.

“And as Fate rang down the curtain on this little drama of casting bread upon the waters, prospector Drake was in the act of handing to Harvey Brady a buckskin sack containing several hundred dollars worth of placer gold which had been picked up in less than twenty-five minutes. It had been found at what must have been the exact spot where two-thirds of a century ago a man went so delirious with joy over the discovery of great wealth that he was unable even to find the place again.”

Mason chuckled. “I’ll hand it to Paul Drake,” he said. “He did a good job.”

“And to Harvey Brady,” Della Street said. “He certainly was a good sport to tag along.”

“He was for a fact. His friends will probably give him an unmerciful ribbing when the blowoff takes place. But, in the meantime, Brady certainly has dressed the thing up for us.”

Della Street’s eyes twinkled. “Somehow I think he got an awful kick out of doing it, too. He has that whimsical sense of humor that makes him so refreshing.”

“And a loyalty to his friends which makes him so dependable,” Mason said. “We haven’t heard anything from Paul Drake?”

“Not a word.”

“I told him to do a little celebrating,” Mason said.

“Drake would enjoy celebrating on an expense account.”

“And how! Let’s see if we can get Brady on the phone, Della.”

Della Street moved over to the telephone on her secretarial desk, gave instructions to Gertie at the switchboard, and within a few minutes had the cattleman on the line.

Mason said, “Sorry I had to ask so much of you on such short notice, Brady. I’ll explain as soon as I see you.”

“Never explain,” Brady said. “A friend who needs explanations isn’t worth keeping. Whenever you ask a cattleman to do something for you, he either tells you to go to hell or he does it and is tickled to death. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Not a thing right now,” Mason told him.

“Your man Drake is getting stinko. Is it all right?”

“It’s all right.”

“He said you wanted him stinko in public so he could make inopportune statements. However, he was just a little under the weather when he made that statement, so I’ve played it safe by keeping him shut up.”

“Isn’t that quite a job?” Mason asked.

“Not so much. He got away once and started running, but I brought him back on the end of a riata and he’s been more tractable since.”

“Is he in any condition to drive a car?” Mason asked.

“Hell, no.”

“Do you have someone who could take him up to Mojave and turn him loose?”

“In his present condition?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. I’ll drive him up myself. If you want to see a couple of real old-time prospectors on the loose, come to Mojave and watch Paul Drake and Harvey Brady celebrating their great strike.”

“I may at that,” Mason said, laughing. “Only don’t—”

Mason heard over the phone the crash of what was evidently breaking glass.

Brady said, “Shucks, that locoed maverick’s jumped through the window.” Then Mason heard the noise as the receiver was dropped, followed by a series of regular rhythmic thumps as the receiver swung back and forth, striking the wall at the end of each pendulum-like swing. He heard Harvey Brady shouting, “Don’t get on that horse! — He bucks!” Then the line went dead.

Mason sighed, hung up the receiver, said to Della, “Were you listening in on that call?”