Erle Gardner - The Case of the Singing Skirt

"Hi, Perry," Drake said. "Della was telling me about your Rowena case."

"Quite a case," Mason said.

"Well, I'll be on my way and let you get to work. I just dropped in to make a report on that Finsley case. I gave it to Della. There's nothing you need to take any action on at the moment."

"Don't run away, Paul," Mason said. "We haven't had a visit for quite a while. I don't have anything pressing this morning."

"On the contrary," Della Street said firmly. "This is the morning you are going to dictate replies to the letters in that file of urgent mail. On your way, Paul."

"I've been ordered out," Paul Drake said, grinning.

He started for the door, paused midway and said to Perry Mason, "You're all cleaned up with that bunch down in Rowena?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's rather a mess down there," Drake said. "The joints actually control the town. It's a prosperous little community as far as outside money pouring in is concerned, but this fellow Anclitas you tangled with is quite a guy."

"How come?"

"I don't know too much about him," Drake said, "except that he's supposed to be bad medicine. He fights dirty. He has the city attorney and the chief of police in his pocket. I don't know whether you remember reading about it, but about a year ago there was a case in the papers."

"Involving him?"

"That's right. He filed charges against a girl who had been working there, claimed that she had been stealing money from the cash register and that she had stolen a gun. They found the gun in her possession, and she claimed the whole thing was a frame-up. There was an investigation. I guess the kid had been smoking marijuana. Quite a lot of those people connected with music go for that type of junk. The police found some marijuana in her apartment along with this stolen gun. Then George's friend, the chief of police down there, took the girl's fingerprints and from them dug up an FBI record which showed a prior conviction for marijuana."

"What happened?" Mason asked, interested.

"I think the girl went up, as I remember it, but she was making some wild accusations, claiming that George and his partner had framed her. Just keep an eye on those boys, Perry, and remember they've got the town all sewed up. If you have any trouble with George Anclitas, don't leave your car parked in front of a fireplug in Rowena or you'll be in jail for six months. And if they can get you where there are no witnesses, they'll charge you with resisting an officer and show bruises on your face to prove the charge."

"A nice cozy little setup," Mason said.

"It is for a fact," Drake told him. "Well, I'll be on my way, Perry. I'm keeping on the job on that Finsley case. I expect to hear something definite by tomorrow. You get back to your dictation."

"Thank you, Paul," Della Street said sweetly.

"I like to make him work," Drake said and left the office.

Perry Mason sighed, said, "One cup of coffee and one cigarette, Della."

"All right," she said, "only answer those two top letters while you're sipping the coffee and smoking the cigarette."

"Slave driver!" he charged.

Della Street adjusted her shorthand notebook on her knee. "I'm the slave," she said. "What do you want to tell that fellow?"

Della Street 's phone rang while she was in the midst of taking Mason's dictation on the letter.

Della said, "Hello," listened, then cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and said to Perry Mason, "Your girl friend."

Mason raised his eyebrows.

"Ellen Robb," Della Street said.

"All right," Mason said, "we've wasted enough time with her, Della. She can't keep dropping in on us this way without an appointment. Tell Gertie to explain to her I'm busy, that I see clients only by appointment and… well, you'd better go out and tell her yourself. I don't want to be too obvious with the brush-off. I'm afraid this is getting to be one of those things."

" I'll send her on her way," Della Street said.

She pushed back her chair, walked quickly out of the office, and Mason, waiting to resume his dictation, studied the letter to which he had been replying. After some thirty seconds he began to frown impatiently. He put the letter down, took a cigarette from the silver case on the office desk and was just lighting it when Della Street returned to the office.

"Perhaps I've been uncharitable," she said.

"What is it?" Mason said.

"This time," Della Street said, "she has a story and a black eye."

"How come the black eye?"

"George."

Mason's face darkened. "I'm afraid," he said, "George needs something in the way of a lesson."

"I thought you might feel that way."

"How's she dressed?" Mason asked.

"Same outfit she had on yesterday," Della Street said, "and she'll probably lean over and put her hands on the arm of your chair. But… well, Chief, you have to feel sorry for her. She's been batted around, and, after all, that figure of hers is her showcase. And someone has planted a gun in her baggage."

"A gun?" Mason asked.

Della Street nodded.

"So," Mason said, smiling, "I take it you didn't send her on her way."

Della Street shook her head. "I told her that I thought perhaps you'd be able to see her, that you were very busy this morning and that you usually only saw people by appointment but that you might be able to see her. She's quite upset."

"Let's take a look," Mason said. "Bring her in. This gun business-I don't understand that. Tell her to come in. But I warn you, Della, I'm going to put her through a wringer this time."

"The poor kid is pretty much upset," Della said.

"You've changed your tune quite rapidly," Mason observed.

"I have," she admitted. "If there's anything that riles me it's the idea of these big burly men who demonstrate their manhood by hitting a good-looking girl in the eye. I hope you take this man George and put him through the hoops. After all, Miss Robb didn't sign anything, and there really wasn't any settlement within the legal meaning of the term. I think sticking George for about five thousand dollars would teach him a mighty good lesson."

"Let's get her in," Mason said. "I'm interested in the gun."

Della Street returned to the outer office and ushered Ellen Robb into Mason's presence.

Ellen Robb tried a lopsided grin. "Isn't it a beaut?" she said, fingering her swollen eye.

"All right," Mason said, "let's cut out the window dressing and get down to brass tacks. What happened?"

"I don't know. George was in a terrible mood last night. Every time I said anything he'd snap me up, and finally I couldn't take it any more and I told him I didn't have to. Then he really gave me a bawling out."

"What sort of a bawling out?" Mason asked.

"I think a lawyer would refer to it as loud, vulgar and obscene language."

"And then what?"

"Then he said something I just wouldn't take, and I slapped his face and.-. well, I have a shiner to show for it."

"No one interfered with your packing up?"

"No one interfered with my packing up. I got out and took a taxi to another motel. This morning when I was going through my things, I looked in my bag and… well, there was a gun in it."

"What sort of a gun?"

Ellen Robb opened her purse. "This," she said. "And I'm quite certain it's one of the guns he keeps there for protection. He has three or four of them by the various cash registers. This looks exactly like one of those guns. So, what do I do?"

Mason took the gun, motioned to Della Street to take her notebook. "A.38-caliber Smith amp; Wesson revolver with the number stamped in the metal, C 48809," he dictated.

He pushed the catch which released the cylinder, swung out the cylinder, said, "One empty cartridge case in the cylinder."

Mason put the gun down on his desk, then after a few seconds picked it up and dropped it in his right coat pocket.