Erie Gardner - The Case of the Crying Swallow

“Suppose they aren’t inches?” Mason said. “Suppose they’re ditto marks.”

“Well, it could be.”

“Then what?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “Then the numbers could have something to do with a lottery of some sort.”

“Add them up,” Mason said dryly.

“The total is already here,” Drake said. “49″37817.”

Mason handed him a pencil.

Della Street, leaning over Drake’s shoulder, was the first to get it. “Chief,” she exclaimed, “the total isn’t correct.”

“I knew it wasn’t,” Mason said. “I didn’t know just how much it was off, however. Let’s find out.”

Della Street said, “The total is... Wait a minute, Paul, I’ll get it... 45″33113, but the total that’s marked there is 49″37817.”

“Subtract them,” Mason said. “What do you get?”

Della Street’s skillful fingers guided the pencil as she hastily wrote down numbers and performed the subtraction. “4″4704,” she said.

Mason nodded. “I think,” he said, “when we get this case solved, we’ll find the important figure is the one that isn’t there. Bear that figure in mind, Paul. It may turn up later.”

Perry Mason took the steep stairs to the observation tower two at a time.

There was no one in the cupola. The binoculars, however, had once more been swung so that they were pointing to the grove of trees where the trailer had been parked. Mason placed his eyes to the binoculars. The left eye showed a clear vision, the right was blurred.

Mason bent over to study the adjustment on the right lens, saw it was set once more at negative five, then he changed the focus on the binoculars.

As he did so, he heard motion behind him and straightened abruptly.

Mrs. Victoria Winnett was standing in the doorway. At her side was a slender brunette in riding clothes whose face showed startled surprise. Mrs. Winnett’s face showed no expression whatever.

“I hardly expected to find you here,” Mrs. Winnett said to Mason and then, turning to the young woman at her side, said, “Miss Rexford, permit me to present Mr. Perry Mason, the lawyer.”

Daphne Rexford favored Mason with a smile which went only as far as her lips. Her eyes showed an emotion which might have been merely nervousness, might have been panic.

Mason acknowledged the introduction, then said, “I’m fascinated with the view you get from here, Mrs. Winnett.”

“My late husband spent much of his time here. The place does hold something of a fascination. Daphne loves it.”

“You’re here frequently?” Mason asked Daphne Rexford.

“Yes, I study birds.”

“I see.”

“But,” she went on hastily, “since you’re here, I’ll postpone my bird study until some other time.”

“On the contrary,” Mason said, “I was just leaving. I wanted to get the lay of the land.”

“He’s working with Claude on a mining deal,” Mrs. Winnett hastened to explain to Daphne Rexford. “There’s a mining engineer with him. And Mr. Mason has his secretary. You’ll meet them if you’re over for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, thank you, but I... I don’t think I can make it for dinner tonight. If Claude’s going to be busy... Where’s Marcia?”

“Visiting friends,” Mrs. Winnett said dryly. “Please come.”

“Well, I... I should...”

Mason said as she hesitated, “Well, I must get down and hunt up my client. After all, I must earn my fee, you know.”

“I feel quite sure you will,” Mrs. Winnett said with a certain subtle significance. “Come, Daphne, dear. Draw up a chair. What was it you were saying about swallows?”

Daphne said hurriedly, “Oh, there’s a meadowlark! I think there must be a nest down by that bush. I’ve seen that same lark so many times in that exact position...”

Mason quietly closed the door and walked down the stairs.

Major Winnett was in the drawing room. He looked up as Mason crossed toward the patio. “What luck?” he asked.

“Progress,” Mason said.

Major Winnett’s lips tightened. “Can’t you do better than that? Can’t you give me something definite? Or are you just running around in circles?”

“A good hound always runs around in circles to pick up a scent.”

“Then you haven’t anything definite yet?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You intimated it.”

Mason slid his right hand down into his trousers pocket and abruptly withdrew the diamond and emerald brooch he had taken from the swallow’s nest.

“Seen this before?” he asked, extending his hand.

Major Winnett stiffened for a moment to rigid immobility. “It looks... Mr. Mason, that certainly is similar to a brooch my wife had.”

“One that was stolen?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Thank you,” Mason said and slipped the brooch back into his pocket.

“May I ask where you got that?” Claude Winnett asked excitedly.

“Not yet,” Mason told him.

The telephone rang sharply. Major Winnett moved over to the library extension, picked up the receiver, said “Hello,” then turned to Mason. “It’s for you.”

Mason took the telephone. Drake’s voice said, “We’ve got something, Perry.”

“What?”

“That oblong slip of paper from the cash register. We’ve located the store. The girl that was on duty remembers our party. We’ve got a good description now. With that to go on, we had no trouble picking up his trail in a trailer camp. He registered under the name of Harry Drummond.”

“There now?” Mason asked.

“Not now. He pulled out early yesterday morning. I’ve got men covering every trailer camp anywhere near here. We should pick him up soon. We have the license number and everything. And here’s a funny one, Perry. There’s a jane looking for him.”

“You mean...?”

“No, not the one we’re interested in, another one. She’s brunette, snaky, young and tall, and she was asking the cashier about him earlier in the day. Had a good description. Wanted to know if such a man had been in.”

“Are you located there in the hotel?”

“Yes. I’ve fixed up an office here and have half a dozen men out on the job, with more coming in all the time.”

Mason said, “I’ll be right up.”

“Okay, be looking for you. Good-by.”

Mason heard the click at the other end of the line but did not immediately hang up. He stood holding the receiver, frowning at the carpet.

Abruptly he heard another sharp click and the telephone bell in the library extension gave a little tinkle.

Mason dropped the receiver into place and turned to Major Winnett. “I take it,” he said, “you have several extensions on the phone?”

“Four,” Major Winnett said. “No, there’s five. There’s one up in the observation tower. I almost forgot about that.”

“Thank you,” Mason said, and then added after a moment, “so did I.”

Paul Drake was talking on the phone as Mason entered the suite of rooms Drake was using for headquarters. In an adjoining room Della Street, a list of numbers at her elbow, was putting through a steady succession of calls.

“Come in, Perry,” Drake said, hanging up the receiver. “I was trying to get you. We’re getting results fast.”

“Shoot.”

“Our party is a man thirty-eight years old, bronzed, wears cowboy boots, a five-gallon hat, leather jacket, Pendleton trousers, rather chunky and has a wide, firm mouth. The license number of his automobile is 4E4705. He’s driving a Buick and has quite an elaborate house trailer painted green on the outside with aluminum paint on the roof. Up until Saturday morning he was in the Silver Strand Trailer Camp. He left Saturday, showed up again late Monday night, pulled out again Wednesday morning and hasn’t been seen since.”