Erle Gardner: The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

Perry Mason — Criminal lawyer, who forges a signature to foil a trap

Della Street — His secretary, whose loyalty leads her to a bad tummy-ache

Salty Bowers — A prospector, who loves the desert, with or without gold

Banning Clarke — His partner, who has a weak heart but a fighting spirit

Velma Starler — A trained nurse, who knows what to do for arsenic poisoning, but can’t find the drowsy mosquito

Nell Sims — A cook, who believes that the way to a man’s stomach is through his heart

Dr. Bruce Kenward — Who had to make a night call on himself

Lillian Bradisson — A widow, who is over fifty, admits thirty-eight, and pretends twenty-eight

James Bradisson — Her son, who is cocksure, conceited, and a corporation president

Dorina Crofton — Nell Sims’ daughter, who is absent-minded or in love

George V. Moffgat — A lawyer, who tries to make one stipulation too many

Hayward Small — Who enjoys remarkable success as a mining broker

Lucille Brunn — Who plans to marry Salty Bowers

Lieutenant Tragg — Who doesn’t like country curves

Sheriff Sam Greggory — Who is wise in the ways of the cattle country

Paul Drake — A detective, who has to scout up a couple of burros in the middle of the night

Pete Sims — Who is a good claim-salter but a poor liar

District Attorney Topham — Who is perfectly willing to let Perry Mason solve the case for him

Sun soaked the city streets, filtered through the office window so that the sign reading, PERRY MASON, ATTORNEY AT LAW, was thrown in reverse shadow where the sunlight splashed across the massive table loaded with law books.

It was a benign California sun that still held a touch of the growing greenery of spring. Later on in the season, this sun would burn down from the heavens with a fierce intensity that would dry the countryside to a baked brown, sucking every bit of moisture from the air, leaving a cloudless sky like that of the desert only a hundred and fifty miles to the east. Now it was a golden benediction.

Across the desk, Della Street held a fountain pen poised over the pages of a shorthand notebook. Mason, a pile of correspondence in front of him, skimmed through the letters, dropped some in the wastebasket, tossed others to Della Street with a few crisp comments. Only in cases of the greatest importance did he dictate the exact wording of his reply.

The pile represented accrued correspondence over a period of three months. Mason detested answering letters, and only tackled his mail when the pile had assumed threatening proportions despite the daily weeding of Della Street’s skillful fingers.

The door from the outer office opened abruptly and the girl who operated the switchboard at the reception desk said, “You have two clients out there, Mr. Mason. They’re very anxious to see you.”

Mason looked at her reprovingly. “Gertie, a balmy sun beckons from a cloudless sky; a client, who owns a big cattle ranch, has asked me to inspect a boundary line that’s in dispute. The ranch contains twenty-five thousand acres, and I have just asked Della how she would like to ride a horse with me over rolling cattle country. Think of it, Gertie, acres of green grass, live-oak trees with huge trunks and sturdy limbs. In the background, hills covered with sagebrush, chamise, and chaparral; and behind them, a glimpse of snow-capped mountains outlined sharply in the clear air of a blue back-drop... Gertie, do you ride a horse?”

She grinned. “No, Mr. Mason. I have too much sympathy for the horse. The out-of-doors is a swell place on moonlight nights, but aside from that I like food and leisure. My idea of a perfect day is to sleep until noon, have coffee, toast and bacon in bed, and perhaps a dish of deep red strawberries swimming in thick yellow cream that melts the sugar when you pour it on. So don’t try to tempt me with bouncing up and down on the hurricane deck of a cattle pony. I’d shorten his wheelbase and ruin his alignment, and he’d wreck my stance.”

“Gertie, you’re hopeless. As an assistant cowpuncher, you’re a total loss. But how would you get along as a bouncer, a Mickey Finn chasing unwelcome clients out of the office? Tell them I’m busy. Tell them I have an important appointment — an appointment with a horse.”

“They won’t chase. They’re insistent.”

“What are they like?” Mason asked, glancing speculatively at the electric clock on the desk.

“One of them,” she said, “is a typical picture of middle-aged prosperity. He looks like a banker or a state senator. The other is — well, the other is a tramp, and yet he’s a dignified tramp.”

“Any idea what they want?”

“One of them says it’s about an automobile accident, and the other wants to see you about a question of corporation law.”

Mason said, “That settles it, Gertie. The tramp’s entitled to justice and may have trouble getting it. I’ll see him. But the banker, with his question of corporation law, can go to some other attorney. I’m damned if I—”

Gertie said, “It’s the tramp that wants to see you about the corporation law.”

Mason sighed. “Gertie, you’re hopeless! Your mind is steeped in strawberries swimming in cream, hot coffee-cake, and sleep. A tramp comes to my office to consult me on corporation law, and you treat it as a purely routine affair! Della, go out and chase the banker away. Treat the tramp as an honored guest. We’ll put off our horseback riding until tomorrow.”

Della Street followed Gertie through the door to the reception room. She was back in a matter of five minutes.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“He’s not a tramp.”

“Oh,” and Mason’s tone showed disappointment.

“I don’t quite make him out,” Della said. “His clothes are not exactly shabby, but they’re well worn and sun-bleached. I place him more as a man who has lived outdoors for some definite purpose, and he’s taciturn and suspicious. He won’t tell me a thing about his business.”

“Let him get sore and leave then,” Mason said irritably.

“And he won’t do that. He’s waiting with the patience of a — of a burro. Chief, I’ve got it! The man must be a prospector. I should have realized it sooner. He has the stamp of the desert on him, the patience acquired from associating with burros. He’s here to see you, and he’s going to see you — today, tomorrow, or next week. Someone told him to see Perry Mason, and he’s going to see Perry Mason.”

Mason’s eyes twinkled. “Bring him in, Della. What’s his name?”

“Bowers. He didn’t give me any first name or initials.”

“And his residence?”

“He says just a blanket roll.”

“Splendid! Let’s have a look at him.”

Della smiled knowingly, withdrew and returned with the client.

Bowers, standing in the doorway, surveyed Mason with an appraisal which held just a trace of anxiety. He was neither deferential nor affable. There was about the man an aura of simple dignity. The sun-bleached workshirt was scrupulously clean, although it had been laundered so many times it had gone limp and frayed around the collar. The leather jacket was evidently made of buckskin, and it definitely was not clean. It had been worn until various incrustations of dirt had brought to it a certain polish, like the glaze on pottery. The overalls were patched and faded — but clean. The boots had acquired a pastel shade from long miles of plodding travel. The broad-brimmed hat had seen years of service. Perspiration had left deep permanent stains around the hatband. The brim had curled up into a distinctive swirl.