minutes."
"Where did you get it?" Mason asked, pressing the buzzer summoning Della Street.
"In the barber's chair this morning. I wish you'd get your brainstorms during office hours. You always want your rush stuff put through at night."
"I can't help it," Perry Mason told him, "if murderers insist on claiming their victims after office hours. Did you find out anything?"
"I found out lots," Drake said. "I had twenty operatives working on the thing at one time, chasing down different angles. I hope you've got a client with long purse strings."
"I haven't, but I'm going to have. What's the dirt?"
"It's quite a story," Drake told him; "one of those human interest yarns."
Mason indicated the big over-stuffed leather chair.
"Sit down and spill it."
Paul Drake jack-knifed his long length into the chair, sliding around and sitting sideways, so that his back rested against one of the arms, while his knees draped over the other arm. Della Street came in, smiled at the detective and sat down.
"It goes back to one of these romantic betrayals of the mid-Victorian Era."
"Meaning what?"
Drake lit a cigarette, puffed out a cloud of smoke, waved his hand in an inclusive gesture and said, "Picture to yourself a beautiful farming community, prosperous, happy and narrow-minded – accent on the narrow-minded."
"Why the accent?" Mason inquired.
"Because it was that sort of a community. Everyone knew what everyone else did. If a girl turned out in a new dress, there were a dozen different tongues to wag in speculation on where she got it."
"And a fur coat?" the lawyer asked.
Paul Drake threw up his hands in a gesture of mock dismay and said, "Oh, my God! Why blacken a girl's character that way?"
Mason chuckled and said, "Go on."
"A girl lived there named Sylvia Berkley – rather a pretty girl – trusting, simple, straight-forward, clear-eyed."
"Why all the niceties of description?" the lawyer asked.
"Because," Drake said seriously, "I'm for that kid in a big way. I've got a description of her. I've even got photographs."
He searched in his pocket, brought out an envelope, took from it a photograph and handed it over to Perry Mason. "If you think it didn't take engineering to dig out that photograph at four o'clock in the morning, you've got another think coming."
"Where did you get it?"
"From the local paper."
"She made the headlines then?"
"Yes; she disappeared."
"Abducted, or something?"
"No one ever found out. She just disappeared."
The lawyer looked searchingly at the detective and said, "You've got the story behind that disappearance, haven't you?"
"Yes.
"All right, go ahead and tell it to me."
"If I seem to get romantic or poetic or something, it's because I've been up all night," Drake told him.
"Never mind that; get down to brass tacks."
"There was a traveling man who was selling dry goods. His name was Pete Brunold."
"He had one eye?" Mason inquired.
"No, he had two eyes at that time. He picked up his artificial eye later on. That's one of the reasons I'm a little mushy about them."
"Where does it start?" Mason asked.
"I guess it starts with Sylvia Basset's folks. They had ideas. You know, the type that stood so straight they leaned over backwards. Traveling salesmen were slickers from the city. When Brunold started to take the girl out, the folks hit the ceiling.
"There was a little movie house in the burg. You know, there weren't any radios in those days. The movies were just graduating from the galloping cowboy stuff. The town wasn't big enough to get many of the old stock melodramas, and…"
"Forget the community," Mason said impatiently. "Did Brunold marry her?"
Drake, in his slow drawl, said, "I can't forget the community without forgetting the story. No, he didn't marry her, and, brother, this is my yarn and I'm going to stick to it."
The lawyer signed, gave Della Street a half humorous glance and said, "Okay, go ahead with the lecture."
"Well, you know how a high-strung girl does things.
"Where did you get it?" Mason asked, pressing the buzzer summoning Della Street.
"In the barber's chair this morning. I wish you'd get your brainstorms during office hours. You always want your rush stuff put through at night."
"I can't help it," Perry Mason told him, "if murderers insist on claiming their victims after office hours. Did you find out anything?"
"I found out lots," Drake said. "I had twenty operatives working on the thing at one time, chasing down different angles. I hope you've got a client with long purse strings."
"I haven't, but I'm going to have. What's the dirt?"
"It's quite a story," Drake told him; "one of those human interest yarns."
Mason indicated the big over-stuffed leather chair.
"Sit down and spill it."
Paul Drake jack-knifed his long length into the chair, sliding around and sitting sideways, so that his back rested against one of the arms, while his knees draped over the other arm. Della Street came in, smiled at the detective and sat down.
"It goes back to one of these romantic betrayals of the mid-Victorian Era."
"Meaning what?"
Drake lit a cigarette, puffed out a cloud of smoke, waved his hand in an inclusive gesture and said, "Picture to yourself a beautiful farming community, prosperous, happy and narrow-minded – accent on the narrow-minded."
"Why the accent?" Mason inquired.
"Because it was that sort of a community. Everyone knew what everyone else did. If a girl turned out in a new dress, there were a dozen different tongues to wag in speculation on where she got it."
"And a fur coat?" the lawyer asked.
Paul Drake threw up his hands in a gesture of mock dismay and said, "Oh, my God! Why blacken a girl's character that way?"
Mason chuckled and said, "Go on."
"A girl lived there named Sylvia Berkley – rather a pretty girl – trusting, simple, straight-forward, clear-eyed."
"Why all the niceties of description?" the lawyer asked.
"Because," Drake said seriously, "I'm for that kid in a big way. I've got a description of her. I've even got photographs."
He searched in his pocket, brought out an envelope, took from it a photograph and handed it over to Perry Mason. "If you think it didn't take engineering to dig out that photograph at four o'clock in the morning, you've got another think coming."
"Where did you get it?"
"From the local paper."
"She made the headlines then?"
"Yes; she disappeared."
"Abducted, or something?"
"No one ever found out. She just disappeared."
The lawyer looked searchingly at the detective and said, "You've got the story behind that disappearance, haven't you?"
"Yes.
"All right, go ahead and tell it to me."
"If I seem to get romantic or poetic or something, it's because I've been up all night," Drake told him.
"Never mind that; get down to brass tacks."
"There was a traveling man who was selling dry goods. His name was Pete Brunold."
"He had one eye?" Mason inquired.
"No, he had two eyes at that time. He picked up his artificial eye later on. That's one of the reasons I'm a little mushy about them."
"Where does it start?" Mason asked.
"I guess it starts with Sylvia Basset's folks. They had ideas. You know, the type that stood so straight they leaned over backwards. Traveling salesmen were slickers from the city. When Brunold started to take the girl out, the folks hit the ceiling.
"There was a little movie house in the burg. You know, there weren't any radios in those days. The movies were just graduating from the galloping cowboy stuff. The town wasn't big enough to get many of the old stock melodramas, and…"
"Forget the community," Mason said impatiently. "Did Brunold marry her?"
Drake, in his slow drawl, said, "I can't forget the community without forgetting the story. No, he didn't marry her, and, brother, this is my yarn and I'm going to stick to it."
The lawyer signed, gave Della Street a half humorous glance and said, "Okay, go ahead with the lecture."
"Well, you know how a high-strung girl does things.
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