“It’s arsenic?”

  “Undoubtedly. Mrs. Sims checked up on all the others. No one else was sick. Therefore, it must have—You checked up on Banning, didn’t you?” Ken ward’s voice was sharp with anxiety.

  “Yes. I tiptoed out to the cactus garden. He and Salty were snoring peacefully away in their sleeping bags.”

  “They ate dinner at the table?”

  “No, they didn’t. They eat out there about half the time. Salty is quite a camp cook.”

  Dr. Kenward said, “Not exactly the sort of treatment you’d prescribe, and yet it seems to be doing the work, which is all one can ask of any treatment. I give it my frowning disapproval, which makes the pair of them feel something like a couple of schoolboys who have sneaked out for an adventure. That’s half of the battle—gives them that mental stimulus which comes of doing something they shouldn’t be doing. Now, is there any possible way that you can think of—” He broke off at the sudden flash of expression which crossed her face. “Yes ? What is it, Velma?”

  “The salt shaker.”

  “What about it?”

  The words were coming quickly now, rushing from the tip of her tongue as she suddenly realized the full import of the idea which had occurred to her.

  “The salt shaker—Jim and his mother are both great salt eaters. They’ve developed such a taste for it that they pile salt on everything in sight, and Mrs. Sims finally gave them a special salt shaker. Every piece of chicken they ate they salted liberally, and I’ll bet they’re the only ones at the table that put salt on it. It was seasoned just right as it was.”

  Dr. Kenward ground out the half-smoked cigarette, was on his feet. “Let’s go take a quiet look at that salt shaker.”

  They tiptoed through the corridors of the big, silent house, down the stairs, and into the dining-room. Velma finally located the saltcellar on the huge sideboard. Dr. Kenward spilled out some of the salt in the palm of his hand, took a small magnifying glass from his pocket, inspected it carefully, rubbed the salt around in his hand, then abruptly slipped the saltcellar into his pocket. “I think that does it,” he said. “It will take an analysis to make certain. You had a bright idea there, Velma. It was the saltcellar—an easy way to eliminate the others. Don’t say anything about it for the moment. I suppose we’ve got to go to the District Attorney with this, and I’d like to find out just a little more about it before I notify him. Of course, Jim Bradisson will accuse Banning Clarke of trying to administer poison.—How do these two rate with the others here ?”

  “Jim is all right,” Velma said somewhat dubiously. “He has a repertoire of nineteen-thirty-four jokes. The polite ones are insipid, the impolite ones are strained, heavy—just aren’t clever. But on the whole, he tries to be affable and agreeable, and if it weren’t for that assumption of infallible superiority, he’d be popular.”

  “How about his mother?”

  Velma shook her head. “She’s vain, selfish, and so completely enraptured with that son of hers that she’s absolutely impossible. She’s full of little tricks—cheating on herself, announcing what she’s going to do in regard to diet, what she’s going to eat and what she isn’t going to eat; then pretending that she’s forgotten all about it until after she’s taken the second helping. Or surreptitiously taking a second piece of cake when she thinks we’re not looking—as though that, somehow, would make it less fattening. She’s fifty, admitting thirty-eight, pretending twenty-eight.”

  “Enemies?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “But mostly, the situation revolves around this mining proposition?”

  “Yes. And that fraud suit.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing much. Naturally, they don’t discuss their business matters before me. There’s friction. Pete Sims salted a claim and sold the string of mines to Jim Bradisson. I guess he really salted them. He’s an old reprobate, a periodical drunkard.

  Does things and tries to blame them on a split personality. Then there’s some trouble over control in the corporation. It’s not at all a happy household, but they try to keep up appearances—in front of me, at any rate.”

  “How about this mining man?”

  “Hayward Small? He’s a live wire all right, but I wouldn’t trust him. He’s personally magnetic—a good salesman. Incidentally, he’s paying a lot of attention to Nell Sims’ daughter, Dorina—and he must be twelve or fifteen years older than she is.”

  “He has some sort of business hookup with Bradisson?”

  “He’s been scouting mines for the corporation.”

  Dr. Kenward said, “Well, I’ve got to notify the authorities. I think I’ll wait until morning and get in touch with the District Attorney personally. In the meantime, you keep an eye on things. I’ll take this salt shaker with me as evidence. I’ll leave it to you to see that the patients eat absolutely nothing until I advise you. And that will be after the District Attorney has been notified—perhaps around eight o’clock.”

  When Dr. Kenward had left, Velma looked in on the patients to make certain they were resting easily, and then went back to her room and stretched out on her bed. Almost immediately she became drowsy. “Strange,” she reflected; try to sleep and she couldn’t. But once let her get hold of a case where she might have to take her sleep in little cat naps and she could stretch out on the bed and almost instantly start dozing—sleeping with one eye open—senses alert underneath a veneer of relaxation. No trouble now to drift off to sleep … Only thing to guard against was too deep a slumber … Just drift halfway into unconsciousness then stop, resting, but ready at the slightest… noise… noise … Not a noise connected with a patient, just a… a mosquito noise. That was it. Neglected to find that mosquito … Somewhere in the room… peculiar mosquito… doesn’t come closer… buzzes for a second or two, then seems to light… there he goes again… perhaps the mosquito’s sleepy too … Do mosquitoes sleep?… Why not?… But this mosquito is drowsy… tired …

  Abruptly Velma wakened. Definitely, she was going to put that annoying mosquito out of the room. She reached for her flashlight, waited to hear the mosquito once more.

  She heard the peculiar buzz and snapped on the flashlight. The low-pitched buzzing noise abruptly ceased.

  Velma was up out of bed with a start. That mosquito was acting peculiarly. Mosquitoes usually buzzed around in concentric circles, coming closer. This one didn’t seem to like light. Perhaps she could locate him again if she switched out the light and waited in the dark.

  Velma turned off the flashlight, walked over to stand at the window.

  It would be daylight within an hour or two. A big moon hung low in the west, suspended over the reflecting surface of the calm ocean—a moon that was just past the full, shining in Velma’s face, making a golden path to Fairyland along the ocean, flooding the grounds of the estate with a light that radiated tranquility. Somewhere across that ocean Rinkey would be flying. Not a breath of air was stirring—just the calm, limpid moonlight, the glassy surface of the ocean far below, the dark splash of shadows where … Something moved down in the yard.

  Velma’s eyes hardened into searching scrutiny of a dark patch of shadow that wasn’t a shadow. It was an object. It had moved. It—it was a man crouched over, motionless now, apparently trying to escape attention by making it seem he was merely one of the dark shadows. But there was nothing at that spot to cast such a shadow.

  The window was open. Almost without thinking, Velma released the catch on the screen, flung it back, swung her five-cell flashlight into position and pressed the button.

  The beam of the light was a vivid white against the soft gold of mellow moonlight. Concentrated by the big lens into a spot of brilliance, the pencil of light just missed the crouching man. Velma swung it toward him.

  Two orange spots of light centered with bluish brilliance winked at her from the darkness. Two crisp, businesslike explosions rudely ripped apart the moonlit tranquility. Two bullets crashed through the window just over Velma’s head.

  Involuntarily, Velma jumped back. The instinctive realization that the flashlight made her a perfect target caused her to thumb back the catch as a purely reflex action.

  The man was running now—across the strip of white moonlight into the shadows, down the hedge, around by the end of the stone wall …

  Two thoughts flashed through Velma Starler’s mind. One was concern for the safety of her patient. The man was running toward the cactus gardens. If he came on Banning Clarke, the shock wouldn’t do Clarke’s heart any good. The other thought was definite annoyance that her hair was full of the glass splinters which had rained down on her head when the bullets had crashed through the window above her.

  Velma could hear sounds in the house now—bare feet thudding on the floor, voices raised in question. She’d have to get down to reassure Lillian Bradisson and her son … Just a minute more …

  Banning Clarke’s voice, high-pitched and querulous, yelled, “Hey!”

  From the shadows down near the lower gate came another spurt of orange flame, the sound of another shot.

  Almost instantly there were two answering flashes from the cactus gardens. The pow-w-w-ie … pow-w-w-ie of a big- caliber gun. That would be Clarke’s forty-five.

  Velma saw the skinny figure of Banning Clarke, attired in long underwear and nothing else, running awkwardly out of the cactus gardens toward the place where the fugitive had disappeared.

  Instantly she forgot her fright. Her professional instincts came at once to the surface. “You stop that running,” she called authoritatively. “That’s dangerous. Go back to bed. I’ll call the police. Where’s Salty?”

  Banning Clarke looked up at her. “What’s happened ? Some son-of-a-gun took a shot at me.”

  “He shot at me, too—shot twice—a prowler. Where’s Salty ?”

  “Here,” Salty Bowers said, emerging into the moonlight, struggling with the belt on his overalls. “Better get dressed, Banning.”

  For the first time, Banning became conscious of his wearing apparel, such as it was. “Oh, my gosh!” he said, and scuttled off into the cactus like a startled rabbit.

  “Quit running,” Velma shouted, her voice sharp with exasperation. “I’ve seen underwear before.”

  Chapter 5

  THE cattle ranch was a huge, sprawling anachronism which continued to exist within a hundred miles of Los Angeles much as it had seventy-five years ago, a tract of many thousands of acres of rolling plateau country garnished with picturesque live-oaks, canyons green with sycamore, and peaks covered with chaparral and greasewood, watched over by brooding, snow-capped mountains in the purple distance.

  The cat-footed cattle horses came winding in single file down from the rugged back country, following a rough cattle trail which was all but obliterated in places. Down below, ranch headquarters rested in a little tree-studded valley. There was still a faint trace of green in the grass, but for the most part it had turned to a parched brown, tribute to the dry air, the cloudless skies, and the blazing sunlight.

  Della Street, the notebook in her right saddlebag well filled with data concerning old corners, witness trees, abandoned roads, and burned fences, rode with that easy rhythm which absorbs the motion of the saddle and is so easy on both horse and rider.

  “Tired?” Mason asked.

  “No. I think it’s delightful.”

  Harvey Brady, the owner of the ranch, half turned in the saddle and grinned. “Think you’ve got it all straight now?” he asked. “Otherwise, we can go back.”

  “I think,” Della Street laughed, “I’ll settle for something to eat instead.”

  The cattleman tilted the sweat-stained sombrero back on his head and looked out over his vast domain with shrewd sun- bleached eyes that saw everything. The little cavalcade hit a more traveled trail now. A cloud of reddish-gold dust enveloped them, a dust cloud heavy enough to cast a shadow in the sunlight. Fine particles of dust settled on the riders. The horses, their sides incrusted with the salt of dried perspiration, increased their rapid walk.

  Down far below, a horse was standing in three-legged relaxation, head drooped forward. The reins casually dropped to the ground held him as motionless as though he’d been tied, a sure sign of the trained cattle horse.

  Harvey Brady said, “Don’t know what they’ve got that horse out chere for—standing in the sun. Must be waiting to pick up our dust … That’s right, here comes one of the men.” ‘ A cowpuncher, running awkwardly in black leather chaps and high-heeled boots, emerged from the ranch house, picked up the reins, tossed them back over the horse’s neck and grasped the horn of the saddle. Instantly all awkwardness left him. The man swung into the saddle, the whirl of the horse circling him into a firm seat. Thereupon, horse and rider became merged into a streak of motion which dust-spurted across the little amphitheater of valley at a gallop, and then started climbing the zigzag trail.

  The cattleman pushed his horse into swifter motion. “Looks like something’s gone wrong,” he said.

  The courier met them within a matter of minutes, a bronzed, slim-waisted cowpuncher who reined back to the side of the trail, the horse balanced precariously on the edge of the steep slope, moving restlessly, apparently in danger of losing his footing at any moment and precipitating both himself and his rider down the sharp declivity.

  The cowpuncher sat easily in the saddle, his body swaying with the motions of the horse, paying no attention to the sharp drop behind him, holding the sensitive-mouthed animal with a light hand on the reins.

  “Long-distance Los Angeles operator’s been trying to get Perry Mason all day. They really began burning up the wires about twenty minutes ago. They say the call’s terribly important. He’s to take it just as soon as he can.”

  “Thanks, Joe. We’ll be moving right on,” the cattleman said.

  Della Street exclaimed, “Oh, do be careful. That horse is going to lose his balance and—”

  White teeth flashed a contrast against the bronze skin. “Don’t worry, ma’am. He knows that slope’s there just as well as I do.”

  Harvey Brady spurred his horse into motion.

  “Take it easy,” Mason called. “All clients have a way of thinking their particular business is terribly important. But thanks for letting me know, Joe.”

  The cowpuncher grinned an acknowledgment. As the horses moved on past, his mount, eager to get in the lead, threw back his head, showed the whites of rolling eyes, distended red nostrils. “Thought I’d better let you know,” the rider said, and then fell into place behind the little cavalcade.

  The slope became less abrupt. The trail ceased to zigzag. The cattleman ahead, setting the pace, broke into a full gallop; the horses lunging up the short climbs, scurrying down the slopes, leaning far over to one side and then the other as they followed the winding turns of the cattle trail.

  Mason, swinging from the saddle, seemed stiff and awkward beside the easy grace of the professional cattlemen. They clumped across a porch, opened a door marked Office and entered a room with an unpainted floor splintered from the pounding of many heels. A counter ran two thirds of the length of the room. A stove made out of a fifty-gallon gasoline drum reposed in the center of the room. A girl working over some books at a desk smiled at Perry Mason. “There’s the telephone, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason nodded thanks, walked across to the telephone, picked up the receiver and asked for the Los Angeles operator.

  Della Street saw the morning newspaper which had just been brought in with the mail. And, while waiting for the call to come through, she turned to the “Vital Statistics.”

  “Looking for corpses?” Mason asked, smiling.

  She said, “You have no romance in your soul. You wouldn’t—Oh, here it is.”

  “Here what is?”

  “The notice of intention.”

  Della Street folded back the paper, circled the item in the Vital Statistics with a pencil and read: “Bowers—Brunn, Prentice C., 42, 619 Skyline, San Roberto; Lucille M., 33, 704 6th Street, San Roberto.” She smiled across at Perry Mason. “I’m glad they’re going ahead with it. Somehow I had an idea that romance might have hit a legal snag. There was so much—”

  The telephone rang. Mason picked up the receiver.

  Banning Clarke’s voice, shrill with excitement, said, “This you, Mason?”

  “That’s right. Mason talking.”

  “Been trying to get you all day. They said you were just out on the ranch somewhere, so I kept thinking you’d call any minute. How big is that ranch, anyway?”

  Mason laughed. “You could ride all day getting to one boundary fence and back.”

  “Heck, I thought it was just a ranch. Told ‘em to get you about half an hour ago—couldn’t wait any longer.”

  “So I understand. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m in a mess. Got to see you just as soon as you can get here.”

  “That may be some time the latter part of the week. I—”

  “No, no. I mean right now—today—as soon as you can drive up here. They’ve dug up the old by-laws. Seems as though there’s a regular annual stockholders’ meeting due for today. They’ve been kind of slipping one over on me. They’ve got some smart lawyer coming up to put me in a jack pot.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mason said firmly. “I’ve been out ever since daylight looking over a disputed boundary line and—”

  “And last night somebody poisoned my mother-in-law and Jim Bradisson. Then somebody took a couple of shots at my nurse. That, and the arsenic in the food …”

  Mason’s face twisted into a grin. “The shooting does it. I’ll be up just as soon as I can get there.”

  “Be sure to come to the back door,” Clarke said. “I want to see you before any of the others know you’re here.”

  Mason hung up and turned to Della Street. “Want to take a fast ride?” he asked.

  “On a horse?”

  “Definitely not on a horse.”

 

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