Erie Gardner - The Case of the Crying Swallow

Drake hung up the receiver, saying, “Well, that’s it. We’ve got him located.”

“Where?”

“Little down-at-the-heel trailer camp in a eucalyptus grove about three miles from here. Not much of a place, auto-court cabins in front and, as an afterthought because there was lots of room, the owner strung up some wires and advertised trailer space in the rear. The conveniences aren’t too good and it’s patronized mostly by people who want to save two bits a day on the regular parking rate. The chief advantage is lots of elbowroom. The grove consists of several acres, and if a man wants to walk far enough to the bath and shower, he can pick his own parking place for the trailer.”

“Any details?” Mason asked.

“One of my men just located it. The trailer came in yesterday night. The man who runs the place was busy selling gasoline at the time, and the driver of the car called out that he’d come back and register later. He tossed the man a silver dollar and the man told him to park any place he wanted to where he could find a plug for his electric connection.”

Mason said, “Let’s go. Della, you stay here and run the place. We’ll telephone you in half an hour or so.”

They drove down to the trailer camp in Mason’s car. Drake’s operative, lounging casually in the door of one of the auto cabins, gave the detective a surreptitious signal and pointed toward the adjoining cabin.

Registering simply as “P. Drake,” the detective rented the vacant cabin, then settled down with Perry Mason. A few moments later Drake’s operative came across to join them.

“Ever met Pete Brady?” Drake asked Mason.

Mason shook hands, saying, “I’ve seen him once or twice before around your office.”

“Glad to know you,” Brady said to Mason, and then to Drake, “I’m not certain but what the guy who runs the place is getting a little suspicious. I asked too many questions.”

“What’s the dope?”

“The trailer’s out there attached to the car. So far, I haven’t had a glimpse of the man who is in it, but it’s the license number of the car we want okay — 4E4705.”

“Let’s take a look around,” Mason said.

“You’ll have to take it easy,” Brady warned. “Just sort of saunter around.”

“How about the gag of buying a trailer?” Drake asked. “Have you used that?”

Brady shook his head.

“We’ll try that,” Drake said. “You can wait here for a while. What’s the guy’s name who runs the place?”

“Elmo, Sidney Elmo.”

“Did he see you come over here?”

“No. I waited until he was selling gas.”

“Okay. Stick around. I’ll go tell the bird that we heard one of the trailers here was for sale. He won’t know anything about it. That gives us an opportunity to go sauntering around looking them over.”

Five minutes later when Drake returned, Mason joined him and they walked slowly out past the line of somewhat dilapidated cabins into the eucalyptus grove. Late afternoon shadows made the place seem cold and gloomy. The ground was still moist from the rain and the drippings of the trees when ocean fog enveloped that portion of the country.

“There’s the outfit,” Drake said. “What do we do? Go right up and knock and ask him if it’s for sale?”

Mason said, “Let’s try one of the other trailers first. We can talk loud enough so our voices will carry over here.”

“Good idea,” Drake said.

“Take this one,” Mason suggested.

The two walked over to the small homemade trailer Mason had indicated. It was parked about a hundred feet from the green trailer. Electric lights showed a well-fleshed woman in her late forties cooking over the stove. On the outside, a man was taking advantage of the failing light to tinker with the bumper on the trailer. There was an Oklahoma license plate on the car.

“This the outfit that’s for sale?” Mason asked.

The man looked up, a long, thin mouth twisted into a smile. He said with a drawl, “I ain’t saying yes, and I ain’t saying no. You want to buy?”

“We’re looking for a trailer that we heard was for sale here.”

“What sort of a trailer?”

“We just heard it was a good one.”

“That’s the description of this job all right.”

Drake interposed, “You’re not the man who spoke to the manager of the Silver Strand Trailer Camp and said he wanted to sell, are you?”

“Nope. Fact is, I’m not particularly anxious to sell. But if you wanted to buy it, I’d be willing to listen.”

“We’re looking for a particular trailer that’s for sale,” Mason explained. “How about that green one over there? Know anything about it?”

“No. It just came in last night.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve talked with the people who own it?”

“I ain’t seen ’em. They haven’t been around all day.”

Mason said, “That looks like it. Let’s go over there, Paul.”

“Take it easy,” Mason said as they approached. “Ever use a house trailer, Paul?”

“No. Why?”

“The steady weight of the trailer has a tendency to wear out springs. So most trailers are equipped with an auxiliary wheel which can be screwed into position when the trailer is parked.”

“There isn’t any here,” Drake said.

“That’s just the point. Furthermore, no spout bucket has been put out under the spout. And to cap the climax, the cord hasn’t been connected with the electric outlet.”

“What are you getting at, Perry?”

By way of reply, Mason knocked loudly on the trailer door. When there was no response, the lawyer tentatively tried the knob.

The door swung open.

There was still enough afternoon light to show the sprawled figure lying on the floor. The dark pool eddying out from under the body showed little jagged streaks of irregularity, but its ominous significance could not be misjudged.

“Oh-oh!” Drake exclaimed.

Mason stepped up and entered the trailer. Carefully avoiding the red pool, he looked down at the body. Then he bent over, touched the high-heeled cowboy boot, moved it gently back and forth.

“Been dead for some time, Paul. Rigor mortis has set in.”

“Come on out,” Drake begged. “Let’s play this one on the up-and-up and notify the police.”

“Just a minute,” Mason said. “I...” He bent over, and as he did so a shaft of light struck his face.

“What’s that?” Drake asked.

Mason moved slightly so that the beam of light struck his eyes.

“That,” he announced, “is a hole in this trailer, directly in line with the window of that Oklahoma trailer. Light from the window over there where the woman is cooking comes through the hole in this trailer. The hole could have been made by a bullet.”

“Okay, Perry. Let’s notify the police.”

Mason said, “First I want to find out a little more about that Oklahoma trailer.”

“For the luvva Mike, Perry, have a heart! You’re in the clear on this one — so far.”

Mason, moving cautiously, left the trailer. He hesitated a moment when he stepped to the ground. Then he carefully polished the doorknob with his handkerchief.

“That’s removing evidence,” Drake said. “There are other prints there besides yours.”

“How do you know?”

“It stands to reason.”

“You can’t prove it,” Mason said. “The murderer probably wiped his fingerprints off the door just as I did.”

Mason walked back to the trailer with the Oklahoma license. The man, still bent over the bumper at the rear of the trailer, seemed to be working aimlessly, stalling for time. The position of his head indicated an interest in what had been going on over at the other trailer.

“That the one?” he asked as Mason approached.