Erie Gardner - The Case of the Crying Swallow

Perry Mason, tilted back in his walnut desk chair, was studying a recent decision of the state supreme court when Della Street, his secretary, opened the door from the outer office, advanced to the desk and quietly laid ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills on the blotter.

Mason, too engrossed to notice what she was doing, continued his reading.

Della Street said, “A client sends his card.”

Mason straightened in the swivel chair and for the first time caught sight of the money which Della Street had so neatly spread out.

“He said his name was Mr. Cash,” Della Street explained. “Then he handed me ten one-hundred-dollar bills and said these were his cards.”

Mason grinned. “So the black market begins to turn yellow. What does Mr. Cash look like?”

“He’s a floor walker.”

Mason raised his eyebrows, glanced at the cash. “A floorwalker ?”

“No, no, not a department store floorwalker! I mean that he’s a floor walker, the same as you are. He paces the floor when he’s worried. He’s doing a carpet marathon out there right now.”

Mason said, “I don’t know whether civilization is breaking down the character of our criminals or whether the black market operators haven’t been in business long enough to develop intestinal stamina. The bootleggers were a tougher breed. My own opinion is that these black market operators simply haven’t had time to become accustomed to the fact that they’re on the other side of society’s legal fence. Give them another eighteen months and they’ll be as tough as the old gangsters.”

“He definitely isn’t a black market operator,” Della Street said positively. “He’s distinguished-looking, has a slight limp, is deeply tanned and... and I’ve seen him somewhere before. Oh, now I have it. I’ve seen his picture!”

“Give.”

“Major Claude L. Winnett, polo player, yachtsman, millionaire playboy. When the war came, he quit being a playboy and became an aviator, bagged a whole flock of German planes and then was captured, liberated last fall, discharged because of his wound, returned to his doting mother and...”

Mason nodded. “I remember reading about the chap. He got a citation or something. Didn’t he get married?”

“About four or five weeks ago,” Della Street said. “That was where I first saw his picture — in the paper. Then again last week a reporter for the society supplement paid a visit to the Winnett home — one of the old-time country estates with stables of polo ponies, riding trails, hedges, private golf courses...”

“Show him in,” Mason said. “But let him know first that you’ve placed him. It may save time.”

Major Winnett, lean, fit, bronzed, and nervous, followed Della Street into the office. The excitement and anxiety of his manner were more noticeable than his slight limp. A well-modulated voice and patrician bearing made his surrender to emotion all the more impressive.

“Mr. Mason,” he said as soon as he was in the room, “I had intended to keep my identity a secret and ask you to represent another person. Now that your secretary has recognized me, I’ll put my cards on the table. My wife has disappeared. She needs your help. She’s in trouble of some sort.”

“Tell me about it,” Mason said.

Major Winnett reached into his inside pocket, took out a folded piece of letter paper and handed it to Mason.

The lawyer opened the letter and read:

Claude, my darling, there are some things that I can’t drag you into. I thought I had a way out, but I guess I didn’t. Our happiness was such a beautiful thing. But beautiful things are always fragile. Don’t worry about anything. I am responsible, and I am not going to let you suffer because of what you have done for me. Good-by, my darling.

“What does she mean by saying she’s responsible and not letting you suffer because of what you have done for her?” Mason asked.

Major Winnett’s manner was uneasy. “My marriage was not exactly in accordance with the wishes of my mother. I went ahead with it despite her objections.”

“Spoken objections?”

“Certainly not.”

“Yet your wife knew of them?”

“Women feel many things without the necessity of words, Mr. Mason. I want you to find her and straighten things out for her.”

“And then report to you?”

“Certainly.”

Mason shook his head.

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the faint rumble of traffic and the breathing of Mason’s client. Then Major Winnett said, “Very well. Do it your way.”

“When did your wife leave?”

“Last night. I found this note on the dresser about midnight. I thought she had previously retired.”

“Is there any reason why your wife would have been vulnerable to what we might call an outside influence?”

“Absolutely not — if you mean blackmail.”

“Then tell me why your wife wasn’t free to come to you with her troubles.”

“I don’t know, unless it’s on account of my mother.”

“What about her?”

“My mother is a very unusual person. When my father died, a dozen years ago, Mother stepped in and took charge. She is living in a bygone era. She has old-fashioned ideas.”

“The proprieties?” Mason asked.

“Not so much the proprieties as... well, class distinctions, the aristocracy of wealth and that sort of thing. I think she would have been happier if I had married someone more in our own set.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Oh, I didn’t say any particular person,” Major Winnett said hastily.

“I know you didn’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Well, perhaps Daphne Rexford.”

“You think this caused your wife to leave?”

“No, no. Not directly. My mother has accepted Marcia into the family. Whatever may have been Mother’s ideas about the marriage, Marcia is now one of us — a Winnett.”

“Then suppose you tell me what you mean when you say ‘not directly.’ ”

“Marcia would have done anything rather than subject me to any notoriety because she knew how my mother felt about that. You see, Mr. Mason, we live in a large, rather old-fashioned estate surrounded by hedges, with our private bridle paths, high wire fences, locked gates, no-trespassing signs and all the rest. The more the world moves in a way that meets with the disapproval of my mother, the more she tries to shut that part of the world out from her life.”

“Anything unusual happen within the last few days?” the lawyer asked, probing his client’s mind.

“A burglar entered our house Tuesday night.”

“Take anything?” Mason asked.

“My wife’s jewelry, valued at perhaps twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars, although I don’t suppose a person could get that for it. It had been insured at fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Had been?” Mason asked.

“Yes, my wife canceled the insurance. As it happened, only the day before the burglary.”

Major Winnett glanced almost appealingly at the lawyer.

“Canceled her insurance,” Mason said, “and then twenty-four hours later the burglary took place?”

“Yes.”

“And you fail to see any connection between those two facts?”

“I am certain there is none,” Major Winnett said hastily. “My wife’s reasoning was absolutely sound. She had carried this insurance policy and paid high premiums on it while she was living in apartments and hotels because she wanted to keep her jewelry with her and wanted to wear it. But when she married me and came to live in Vista del Mar, it seemed hardly necessary to continue paying high premiums.”