"When Dutton came out of the booth after that last call, he was going like a house afire. My man figured he'd retrieve the wire recorder later on or ring the office and tell somebody to go and get it. He stayed with Dutton."
Mason nodded. "That was the thing to do."
"But Dutton drove like crazy. He went through three red lights that my man followed him through, hoping that a traffic officer would tag both of them. On the fourth red light, Dutton almost had a collision. The intersection was blocked. Dutton got away and my man was stymied by traffic."
"Going through red lights that way, didn't Dutton know he was being followed?"
"Probably," Drake said. "He may even have been trying to shake pursuit, but somehow the way my operative felt, Dutton was going someplace in too much of a hurry to give a hoot about anything-and that's the way it turned out."
"Go on," Mason said.
"Well, after my man lost him and knew he'd lost him for good, he went back to the phone booth and picked up the wire recorder, turned back the wire recorder to the starting point and then listened to the conversation. Of course, he could only hear one end of the conversation. It was brief and to the point."
"What was it?" Mason asked.
"The first thing Dutton said was a question. 'What's new? You know who this is.' Then he waited for the answer and then said, 'I called the other number and was told to call you at this pay station I'll pay over the five thousand if you're acting in good faith.' Then there was a period of silence while he was evidently getting instructions, and then he said, 'Give me that again… the seventh tee at the Barclay Country Club, is that right? -.. Why pick that sort of place?' Then he said, 'All right, all right, it's nearly that time now… Yes, I've got a key…' Then he hung up the phone and that was the end of the conversation."
"Your man followed up that lead?" Mason asked.
"My man went to the Barclay Country Club. It's a key job, and my man didn't have a key, and at that hour of the night there wasn't any chance of getting in without one, but there were three or four cars parked and one of them was Dutton's. My man checked the license number."
"So what did he do?"
"Put himself in a position where he could pick up the car when it left, and waited it out. He got there at ten minutes after ten o'clock."
"Mow long did he have to wait?"
"About twelve minutes."
"Then what?"
"Then Dutton came out at ten-twenty-two and started driving south. My man tailed him without headlights for a while and it was pretty damn risky. But Dutton stopped after a short distance and got out of the car. My man went on past, then pretended to have tire trouble, jacked up the car and waited until Dutton came sailing past.
"Dutton drove to the border, kept on driving down to Ensenada. He had no idea he was tailed. Me's staying at the Siesta del Tarde Auto Court. He is registered under the name of Frank Kerry."
Mason said, "He doesn't need any credentials in the way of tourist cards or anything of that sort as long as he's no farther south than Ensenada, eh, Paul?"
"That's right. If he gets below Ensenada, he's going to need a tourist card or an entry permit of some kind; but as far as Ensenada he's on his own."
"Your man still tailing him?"
"That's right. Me's doing the best he can. Of course, one man isn't much good on a twenty-four-hour-a-day job… Do you want me to send a relief down?"
Mason was thoughtful. "Might as well, Paul," he said. "And I think the time has come for me to assume the role of a Dutch uncle."
"Doing what?" Drake asked.
"Getting this thing cleaned up before I get too deeply involved," Mason told him. "After all, Dutton is a client of mine but- Well, I may have to insist that he surrender himself or go to the police."
"And then what?"
"Then," Mason said, grinning, "I'll try to beat the rap."
The lawyer turned to Della Street. "How," he asked, "would you like to take a couple of notebooks, plenty of pencils, a briefcase and a quick trip down to Ensenada, Mexico? This time I think we'll get the real story."
Chapter Eight
Mason and Della Street left Tijuana behind, took the smooth, new road to Ensenada.
"The old road," Mason said, "was more scenic."
"Wasn't it? But these days one sacrifices everything to speed. However, it's nice to get where you're going without fighting the steering wheel around a lot of curves. Do you think he's really embezzled money, Chief?"
"I don't know," Mason said. "The way he acts, I'm afraid he's leaving me to hold the sack."
"In what way?"
"There'll be a hue and cry," Mason said, "and I'll be in there pitching, assuring everybody that things are going to work out all right; that I have every confidence in my client; that I know the facts; that I have advised him and that he hasn't committed any crime; that in due course everything will be explained and cleared up-,,
"And then?" she asked.
"And then," Mason said, "after a while it may dawn on me that my client is being hard to find."
"You mean in Ensenada?"
" Ensenada," Mason said, "could be simply the first stop. He's going to stay there long enough to get out from under the telltale registration of his automobile and all that. He'll probably leave the car where it can be found; double back to the United States; grab a plane for Brazil or someplace, and leave me behind to make explanations."
"You think he's that kind?" she asked.
"No," Mason said shortly, "I don't."
"Then what?"
"That," the lawyer told her, "is the reason we're making this trip, Della."
They drove into Ensenada, threaded their way down the busy main street, and Mason asked directions to the Siesta del Tarde.
"Will you know Drake's man?" Della Street asked as they drove up in front of the auto court.
"He'll know me," Mason said.
The lawyer got out and stood stretching and yawning, looking around at the scenery, soaking up the sunlight, before helping Della from the car.
The two of them walked toward the office of the auto court, then paused and looked back toward the car. Mason caught the eye of the man who was sauntering down the street.
The man winked at Mason, put a cigarette in his mouth, fumbled through his pockets and said, "Pardon me, could you let me have a match?"
"I can do better than that," Mason said. "I have a Zippo lighter."
The lawyer snapped the lighter into flame, held it toward the man with the cigarette.
"In Unit nineteen," the detective said. "He hasn't been out, unless he sneaked out while I was telephoning a report to Los Angeles.
"That's his car over there, the Chevvy with the license number, OAC seven, seven, seven."
"Okay," Mason said, "we're going in and talk with him. Keep an eye on things. I may want you as a witness… How are you feeling? Pretty well bushed?"
"Staying awake is the hardest part of a job like this, Mr. Mason. I was up all night and sitting here in the car where it's warm, I kept wanting to take forty winks. If I had, I'd be apt to wake up and find the bird had flown the coop."
Mason said, "You can either check out within the next thirty minutes, or we'll have a relief for you. Paul Drake got in touch with a relief operative in San Diego this morning and he's on his way down."
"That'Il help," the detective said. "I'm not complaining, I'm just trying to stay awake and sometimes that's just about the hardest job a man can have."
"Okay," Mason told him, "we're going in."
The lawyer nodded to Della Street.
A long driveway led to the office; then down to a parking place by the cabins. Palm trees and banana trees shaded the units of the court.
Mason, ignoring the sign which said Office, guided Della to the unit occupied by Kerry Dutton.
The lawyer turned to his secretary and said, "When I knock on the door, say, 'Towels.'"
The lawyer knocked.
A moment later, Della Str
eet said, "Towels."
"Come in," a man's voice called, and a hand on the inside turned the knob on the door.
Mason pushed his way into the room, followed by Della Street.
Kerry Dutton stared at them in speechless amazement.
Mason said, "When I'm representing a person, I like to do a good job, and in order to do a good job I have to have the real facts. I thought perhaps you could tell me a little more about your problem."
Dutton's eyes went from one to the other.
Mason moved over to a chair; held it for Della, then seated himself in the other chair, leaving the bed for Dutton.
Dutton's legs took him over to the bed and seemed to give way as he settled down on the counterpane.
"Well?" Mason asked.
Dutton shook his head.
"What's the trouble?" Mason asked.
"It isn't what you think," Dutton said.
"How much of what you told me was untrue?"
"What I told you was generally true," Dutton said. "It was the things I didn't tell you that-oh, what's the use?"
"There isn't any," Mason assured him. "That is, no use in trying to hold out on your lawyer. Sooner or later the facts will come to light, and if your lawyer doesn't know what they're going to be in advance, he's pretty apt to be caught at a disadvantage."
Dutton simply shook his head.
"Now then," Mason went on, "no matter how legal your actions may have been in the first place, you weakened your position by resorting to flight. In California, flight is considered evidence of guilt, and a prosecutor is permitted to introduce that evidence in a criminal trial."
Dutton started to say something.
There was a knock on the door.
Dutton looked at Mason, then at Della Street, apprehension on his face.
"Expecting visitors?" Mason asked.
Dutton got up from the bed, started for the door, stopped.
The knock was repeated, this time in a more peremptory manner.
"Better see who it is," Mason said.
Dutton opened the door.
Two men came in, one in the uniform of a police officer; one in plain clothes.
The man in plain clothes sized up the occupants of the room, bowed, and said, "The sefiorita, I hope, will excuse me. I am the Jefe of Policia. May I ask which one of you gentlemen is Kerry Dutton from Los Angeles?"
"And the reason for the request?" Mason asked.
The chief of police regarded him with appraising eyes. "I do not think," he said pointedly, "that I have the honor of your acquaintance, sir."
"I am Perry Mason, an attorney at law," Mason said, "and this is my secretary, Miss Della Street."
The chief bowed deferentially. "It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir, and I am so sorry that I have to interfere with what was perhaps a professional conference-no?"
"That is right," Mason said. "I am conferring with my client, and my secretary was preparing to take some notes. If you could spare us perhaps a half an hour, I am quite certain that we will be at your service at that time."
The eyes softened into a smile. "That is what you would call a good try, but unfortunately, Senor Mason, the business that I have with Mr. Dutton is of the urgency."
Me turned to Dutton. "Senor Dutton, it is with great regret that it is necessary for me to inform you that you are in custody of the policia."
"And the charge?" Mason asked.
"A warrant of first-degree murder which we will honor here to the extent of declaring that Senor Dutton is an undesirable alien. As such, we will escort him to the border and ask him to leave Mexico immediately."
"Murder!" Mason exclaimed. "Who was killed?"
"That information will, I trust, be forthcoming when Senor Dutton reaches the border. It is my unpleasant duty to see he is promptly escorted to the border."
"And at the border?" Mason asked.
The officer smiled. "At the border," he said, "I feel quite certain that police from your country will be waiting. What would you do if you were a police officer in the United States, and you knew that a man whom you wished to arrest for murder was to be deported as an undesirable alien?"
"That procedure seems a little high-handed to me," Mason said.
"Doubtless, it does," the officer announced, "but we do things in our country the way we wish to do them in our country, just as you are permitted to do things in your country the way you wish to do them in your country. That is, we do not interfere with you and we do not care to have you interfere with us.
"I am going to ask you to withdraw, if you will please be so good."
Mason said, "I am an attorney at law. My client is accused of a crime and I demand the right to represent him and consult with him."
The chief smiled. "You are an attorney in the United States?"
"Yes."
"And in Mexico?"
Mason hesitated.
"In Mexico," the chief of police went on, "attorneys in good standing are referred to as licenciados. That means they have a license granted by the Mexican government to practice law. You perhaps have such a license, Senor Mason?"
Mason grinned. "All right, it's your country, your customs and your prisoner."
"Thank you," the chief said, "and there is no reason why we should detain you further, Senor Mason."
"But this man is charged with murder," Mason asked, "and his attorney can't talk with him?"
The chief shrugged his shoulders. "You are licensed in your country. You can talk with your client there at any time. Here he is charged only with being an undesirable alien. We do not wish undesirable aliens in our country any more than you do."
"What's undesirable about him?" Mason asked.
The chief smiled and said, "He is a fugitive from justice in the United States. This makes him very undesirable as a Mexican visitor."
"There are legal proceedings looking to his deportation?" Mason asked.
"Only the proceedings necessary to get him transferred to the border. Mere in Mexico we expedite the process of justice as much as possible."
Mason looked at Dutton, then back at the chief of police. "Zip the lip," he said.
The chief raised his eyebrows. "I'm afraid I didn't understand you."
"Pardon me," Mason said, "it was just a bit of American slang."
"Oh, yes-you Americans. And now, Senor, if you and your so charming secretary will just step this way, please-and I strongly recommend the restaurants here. You will find the service excellent and the food beyond compare. As tourists, we will try to make you happy."
"But not as an attorney?" Mason asked.
The chief shrugged expressive shoulders. "Unfortunately, you are not an attorney in Mexico. If you would reside in Mexico and comply with the requirements, I have no doubt but that you could become a licenciado, but until then…"
There was another expressive shrug of the shoulders.
The police officer held the outer door open.
Mason put his hand on Della Street 's arm, and together they stepped out of the room into the shaded walkway which was filled with the sound of whitewinged doves, the scent of flowers and the beauty of semitropical foliage.
Chapter Nine
As Mason and Della Street walked down the little sidewalk in front of the auto courts, Drake's detective came running toward them, motioning frantically.
Mason quickened his step.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I called Drake to report, and he's on the phone. Something he wants to tell you about right away. Says it's terribly important; that I should get you. He's going to hold the line until you can come."
Mason nodded to Della Street, hurried down the walkway under the palms and banana trees, his long legs making the detective trot to keep up, while Della Street made no attempt to match the pace.
In the phone booth, where the receiver was off the hook, Mason closed the door, picked up the receiver, said, "Yes? Hello."
Drake's voice said, "That you, Pe
rry?"
"Right."
"All right," Drake said, "there's a rumble. I don't know how bad it is as far as your client is concerned, but it's pretty bad at this end."
"Murder?" Mason asked.
"Right. How did you know?"
"The officers moved in on Dutton while I was talking with him."
Drake said, "Here's all I know. An early golfer found a body on tee seven at the Barclay Country Club. The man had been shot once."
"Did they find the weapon?" Mason asked.
"I don't know," Drake said. "This much I do know. An attempt had been made to keep the police from identifying the victim and apparently that attempt has succeeded to date.
"Everything in the man's pockets had been taken. There isn't so much as a handkerchief. The labels had been cut from the inside of the coat pocket and on the little hanging strap at the back of the neck.
"The cutting had been skillfully done with a very sharp knife or a razor blade.
"The time of death hasn't been officially determined as yet, but it could be at just about the time our man tailed Dutton out to the golf club-that's within the general over-all time limit that they've mapped out for the murder. After they have a complete autopsy, they may let Dutton off the hook. Right now I understand the tentative time is fixed between nine-thirty last night and two-thirty this morning."
"All right," Mason said. "Now, your man couldn't get into the club because it was a key job?"
"That's right. You have to go in through the clubhouse to get to the course."
"There must be a service road," Mason said.
"There is, somewhere. I haven't looked it up."
Mason said, "At that hour of the night, the murdered man probably let himself in with a key. It's a cinch that Dutton did."
"Dutton's a member of the club," Drake said.
"All right, probably the other man is, too. Get photog'raphs from the newspaper reporters and start covering members who are regular players and-"
"We're way behind on that," Drake said, "the police have five detectives interviewing all the members whose record of greens fees shows that they've been playing regularly. They have photographs of the dead man and they're trying to make an identification."
The Case of the Troubled Trustee pm-78 Page 5