Chapter 7 Chapter VII

A light came on in Mason's office as his rubber heels struck the tiled floor in the hallway; he gently inserted a key into the lock on the door, turned it back, and pushed the door open. Della was sitting at Mason's desk, her neck resting on her arms, apparently fast asleep. Mason closed the door carefully, hung up his hat and coat, and walked to the desk. He stood there looking at Della with concern for a moment, then reached out and brushed Della's hair that was hanging in front of her face back behind her shoulders. "You didn't come home?" he asked kindly. Della woke up with a start. She turned her head, blinked in the light, and smiled at Mason. "I have to know what happened, and that means I have to wait here."

"Nonsense! You're waiting here because you thought I might call back for something? Have you had dinner yet?" "not yet." "What about lunch?" "I asked Gertie to help me out and bring back two sandwiches and a bottle of milk." "You should at least have a regular diet," Mason said. "Any new developments?" she asked. Mason scrutinized her face and saw that she was tired. "The so-called 'new development' is that you should go home and get some sleep." "what time is it now?" "It's past eleven o'clock."

"My God! I've been asleep for over an hour." "Where is Paul?" "He came home." "It's time for you to go home too, come on! Pack your things." "I was afraid you might call back to the office," she said. "So I'm here to stand by..." "Forget it!" Mason interrupted. "I have your home phone number. If anything happens, I'll call there too! Don't take this matter so seriously, take it easy." "What the hell happened?" she asked. "We drove up the coast road," Mason said, helping her into her coat. "We got to a very fancy motel. Della, we really had to stop there for a while. It's called Surf and Sun, and it's in a great location, and there's a cold wind blowing off the sea today. I can just imagine how fun that place must be in the summer."

"Have you found Roger Burbank?" "Found it, but he wasn't there." "Where are the others?" "In a restaurant on Ventura Boulevard, about half an hour from here." "What's the connection between the motel and the restaurant?" "Well," Mason said. "It seems that Burbank met with some important politicians there. They were all well planned so that they could with good reason deny ever having attended any such rally." "why?" "These people are all big figures in the current political circle. Maybe the governor himself was there at the time! They are discussing some kind of political strategy. If the press finds out, there may be a shocking inside story."

"Is the Governor really there?" "This ... may actually be: He wasn't invited," Mason said. "You mean: some parliamentary leaders are plotting some kind of conspiracy behind his back?" "Yes, judging from Carlo's tone, it may indeed be the case." Della frowned. "I suppose it would be inconvenient, under the circumstances, for a murder to be committed on one's own yacht." Mason said, "And..." He stopped talking and put his tongue on his cheek, making it puff up. "What's that?" Della asked. "Chewing tobacco?"

"No, just to let you know that my tongue is behind my cheek. Come on, miss, turn off the light." She turned off the light, and Mason waited for the door to click shut before turning the knob with his hand to make sure the door was locked. As they walked down the hallway, Mason said, "Before we arrived—I think it was about a minute or two—team leader Trager and a fingerprinting officer named Yafan seemed to have been at the house. Found Burbank in the restaurant." "Is that the Dobo restaurant?" "yes." "Then what happened?" "Carlo told her father that he had to reveal what he had done that day. After some hesitation, the old fellow finally stopped denying that he had indeed been there."

"That's a rather peculiar situation for him, isn't it?" Della asked. "What I mean is: since those people are bound to deny ever being there with him, wouldn't it be weird for him to tell the police he'd partyed there with them?" "It's really weird," Mason admits. "This is really a very difficult question for Trager. Moreover, Trager is currently facing an important figure in the political arena; if he believes Burbank's statement, he believes that Burbank Not on the yacht, that's one thing; but on the other hand, if he insists on having solid evidence and starts investigating, he's probably going to make enemies everywhere and get those politicians on the line. You should know, Choi Ge still has to rely more or less on a little support from the political world."

Mason pressed the switch of the elevator. "Is there any solid evidence?" "There is very strong evidence," Mason said. "And it's produced with a mind carefully crafted to be powerfully persuasive." "What kind of evidence is it?" "Burbank's hand reached into his coat pocket and produced a key to the room rented by the politicians - no doubt a key from Room 14 of the 'Surf and Sun' motel .” "What does Trager say about that?" Mason said: "Trigger seemed so convinced that he immediately jumped out of his seat and drove on to the coast road. Captain Trager never let a meal get in the way of business."

"You mean he left without finishing his dinner?" "We didn't even have to wait for the waiter to bring the food, and it was a good dinner: green turtle soup, and a delicious, hot, sizzling steak, with lettuce salad, a plate of red pepper beans and Cornbread..." "Boss! Are you trying to make me hungry on purpose?" "are you hungry?" "I still don't get it, it looks like I'm just... well, I guess I still don't get it, but I'm really hungry." Mason said: "You should be hungry, yes, go eat something-yes, I don't want to see you still lingering in that poorly ventilated office on Saturday afternoon and evening. How is the investigation going?"

"I have here a written report which makes some brilliant and striking points. Come and see! I haven't imagined what will happen to the papers. It should appear in the evening papers." Mason pressed his thumb on the elevator button again for a few seconds, then said to Della, "You should go get some hot soup and a steak." "It would be nice to have some hot soup," she admitted, before asking, "Where are we going to eat?" "That cozy little restaurant on Ninth Street, where we can find a booth to eat and talk. Where's Paul's report?"

"In my purse." "Okay, let's take a walk there and book another table." The administrator lifted the elevator up and looked at Mason with a frown, as if he was a bit reproachful—maybe it was because of the ringing that lasted for a while. Mason and Della remained silent. After stepping out of the elevator, they walked onto the street, smiling at each other and talking about how the administrator was a little angry and dissatisfied just now.They walked to Ninth Street, entered a small restaurant, found a booth with a curtain near the exit, entered and took seats. The restaurateur they had known, a stocky, lively man in a chef's hat and apron, came to welcome them. "Ah—the great Perry Mason, and the charming Della Streeter, welcome! I, Pierre, myself, will cook what you want to eat, and serve you what you want to drink." "Great," Mason said. "We're honored. Give Della a martini and a whiskey and soda for me. Then give Della a nice fish fillet, some potatoes, and two cups of coffee. Pierre, you have fresh and delicious fish fillet Bar?" "Does Miss Straiter want something? Of course she does. Just order whatever she wants. I'll bring the wine and drinks right away, please wait." He walked out through the curtain.Della opened her purse, took out Derek's homicide investigation report, handed it to Mason, and said, "There are also a few photos of the 3.25 by 4.25 that Paul said he will be in tomorrow or Can get a few blown-up pictures by Monday." The proprietor brought their drinks, and he stood looking at them and said, "Are you here on business? With such a pretty lady--twenty years younger than me, Pierre, at least--huh ! On business?" Mason picked up his glass, took a sip, and reached across the table to take Della's hand. "Now, Della, let's take it easy. You used to say that I should just sit in my office and wait for clients to come to me like other lawyers. It's a lot easier. Pierre was right. , we talked too much about business." Della said gravely, "You'd better read Paul's report." Mason wanted to speak, but hesitated to speak. After changing his mind, he opened Derek's report and looked at it casually. It was a neatly typewritten report, and on the first page it read:

Mason glanced at some of the documents attached to Derek's report and studied the photographs; Della watched him quietly as she finished her cocktail and lit a cigarette. Pierre brought the food, looked at Mason with a frown, and then bravely said to Della, "I would give up my right arm in exchange for twenty years. Oh, no!" He changed his words suddenly: " Even twenty years younger, Pierre still needs to keep his right arm." Mason looked up at him and said with a smile, "Pier, that's a really good line. By the way, the phone on your desk has a long extension, can you get it for me, please? I want to call A phone call." Pierre sighed, and then said protestingly, "Always business." He left the cubicle and dialed the extension.Mason dialed Derek's number and pressed his lips to the receiver so his voice wouldn't come out of the cubicle. When Derek answered, Mason said, "Hey Paul, do you have a pencil handy?" "Have." "Okay. Mark it down: J. C. Lessing, LASSING. Got it? Paul." "All right." "Very well," Mason said. "Now remember--a Surf and Sun motel on the road between Ventura and Santa Barbara. Remember it?" "Remember it." "Okay. Yesterday J. C. Lessing should have registered Room 14 at the 'Surf and Sun' motel. I want to know more about Mr. Lessing." "Okay, I'll go investigate right away." "I'm reading your report," Mason said. "Paul, who found the body?" "A shepherd named Palermo. He was looking for Milfy, because he thought he was on the yacht in Burbank, so he went there to find him." "How did he get on the yacht?" Mason asked. "Palermore's a mean guy," Derek replied. "He'd rather make do with his collapsible skiff than rent a rowboat for fifty cents. There's a lake around Skinner Hill where they used to shoot mallards, Parler. Moore took people from the city on safari for ten dollars a day, prepared boats for them, and provided them with bait for ducks. So he often loaded his collapsible boat on a trailer. Run around." "Just to save fifty cents?" Mason asked. "It's a rumor about him. I haven't talked to him personally. The boy at the newspaper said that once you meet the guy, you will find that what I just said is very credible. Paley, one more thing —Van Nuys told the bellboy at the hotel where he was staying that if he hadn't stopped Mrs. Milfie from taking the plane to San Francisco yesterday afternoon, she would probably be gone by now. One of my agents deliberately Prowling the corridors of the hotel lobby, trying to hear as much of the conversation as possible to ascertain the point of the conversation." "Well done, Paul. I'll see what he has to say about it." "Please keep my agents out of this if possible." "No problem," Mason said. "You get in touch with J. C. Resing. I want to speak to Van Nuys at once—hope I get there before the police. Is he at the Cornish Hotel now?" "Based on the last report I got, he was there," Derek said. "When was that report received?" "About thirty minutes ago." "Okay," Mason said. "I'll pay him a visit. By the way, why did the police ignore him?" "The police obviously don't know much about the Skinnerhill deal; we got a head start when we started investigating the karakul wool deal." "Okay," Mason said. "I'll call you if things change." "I don't get a report until about two or two-thirty," Derek said. "But please don't call me after that unless it's really important." Mason hung up the phone, pushed it aside, and asked, "Della, how does it taste? Is it delicious?" "Very nice. Tell me about Carlo?" "What's up with her?" "When you went back to the office just now, why did you put your tongue on your cheek?" Mason reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the bundle of twenty-dollar bills that Carlo had given him. "What's that?" Della asked him. "pay expenses." "It looks as if she thinks you're going to have a lot of money." "is not that right?" "What exactly is going on?" Mason said, "Della, when do the banks close?" "You mean... oh, I see, it's Saturday." "That's right. I've got five hundred dollars here, all in twenty-dollar bills, and they're bound together with a sticky note stamped 'National Trust Savings Bank of the Seashore'; very nice new bills--interesting ,Yes or no?" "You mean, Carlo has already raised this fee from the bank?" "indeed so." "But she said she didn't know about the murder until noon, didn't she?" Mason smiled and said, "I didn't ask her. I was too careful to ask her lightly. Della, if you found yourself faced with a problem requiring a fabricated alibi, what would you do?" "You mean, if I have to invent an alibi out of thin air?" "yes." "My God, I don't know. It seems like an impossible puzzle to me." Mason said: "Even if you had ample time to think about it, I bet you would never think of such a clever way-claiming that you were attending a political rally at the time of the crime, and that the meeting was so important that all the dignitaries at the meeting were not Dare to let the outside world know their identities, and even firmly deny that they were there. Then deliberately arrange a witness to go to the meeting place, let him see with his own eyes the ashtrays with cigarette butts and cigar residues, and the trash cans full of empty bottles , a bathroom with dirty towels, and even a 'dad's razor on a shelf in the bathroom' at the end - it's a deliberate, well-designed ruse, I confess." "It's really amazing." "Then, if the police happened to find 'Dad' at the right time, 'Dad' seemed in no hurry to provide his alibi, but did so under pressure from the outside world—as if Rather reluctantly, reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a key to the room of the so-called meeting place. That's a pretty well-disguised, nearly perfect alibi, isn't it?" "Do you think the whole thing is a hoax?" "I'm not sure, I'm just presenting what I've observed," Mason said. "But wouldn't the police investigate every detail?" "Do you mean 'could' or 'would' by 'would'?" "What's the difference?" "I ask you: If you were a police officer, what would you do?—would you try to lift the mask of mystery that certain important political figures have carefully crafted?" Mason asked. Della said: "Well! I might try to find out the truth; and then... I might just let it go and stop pursuing it—and stop it right away." "Exactly," Mason said. "Obviously," Della said thoughtfully. "Carol Burbank was a rather unusual girl." "Or rather, her father was a rather unusual man," said Mason. "Which one is it? I'm very interested in this question, and I want to find out... At the same time, please finish your dinner quickly, because you have to go home to get some sleep." Della smiled at Mason, who was sitting across the table, and said, "If you're going to get to the Cornish Hotel one step ahead of the police, I won't eat any more, remember to take a notebook there, it will come in handy sooner or later. " Mason said with a smile: "If you don't eat it, you will miss the dessert!" "I don't want to eat anyway." "That would raise Pierre's blood pressure." Della opened her purse, calmly began to apply lipstick, and said at the same time, "It is inferred that ... Pierre's blood pressure has been fluctuating for the past forty years." Mason said, "So Pierre had been hypertensive probably as early as fourteen years old." "Well," said Della, putting the lipstick and compact back into her purse, "then let's say it's between forty-two years!"