The Case of the Grinning Gorilla

Della street laughed. “I caught you that time,” she said. “You haven’t even read it yet.”

Mason grinned, unfolded the slip of rice paper, read the printed message, then passed it across to Della Street.

The message read:

“To reach your goal, remember that courage is the only antidote for danger.”

“Well,” Mason said, “I guess we’d better telephone Drake’s office and see if they’ve uncovered anything.”

“Chief, somehow I... do you feel that there’s anything to these fortunes?”

Mason laughed. “Of course not, Della. They have them printed by the hundred. They’re inserted in the cakes and the cakes are baked so that when you break the cake the fortune is inside of it. I don’t know how many different fortunes there are. Probably not over a hundred or so.”

“Have you ever received a duplicate in any of the cakes you’ve eaten?”

“Come to think of it,” Mason said, “I don’t know that I have. I haven’t given it a great deal of thought.”

“Do you believe in Fate?”

Mason said, “The Chinese do to this extent. They’ll put a hundred different messages in a hundred different fortune cakes. They feel that the one you pick out was really intended for you. That’s the way most of their fortunetelling works. Sometimes you shake fortune sticks in a bowl until one drops out.”

She said, “I have a feeling that your fortune has a really personal message for you.”

Mason laughed. “What you’re really trying to say, Della, is that you hope the fortune you picked out has a personal message to you.”

Her face became a fiery red.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mason said, quickly and impulsively reaching out to place his hand over hers. “I was only kidding, Della. I didn’t want you to take me seriously — although,” he added, “I thought your psychology was a bit obvious.”

“Well, I didn’t,” she said. “Do you want me to call Paul Drake’s office?”

“Sit there and drink your tea,” Mason said, “and get over being angry, Della. I’ll go call Paul Drake.”

“I’m not angry. I... I’m...”

“Well, your face flushed up,” Mason said.

Abruptly she averted her eyes, said, “All right, go ahead. Call Paul Drake. You have his number.”

Mason went to the public phone, dropped a coin and dialed the number of Drake’s office.

When Drake’s switchboard operator answered, Mason said, “This is Perry Mason. I’m wondering if Paul Drake...”

“Just a moment,” the voice at the other end of the line interrupted with crisp efficiency.

Mason heard the click of a connection, heard the operator’s voice saying, “Mr. Mason for you, Mr. Drake,” and Drake exclaimed, “Good for you! Where did you get him?”

“I didn’t. He called in. He...”

“Hello, hello, Perry, Perry!” Drake said excitedly.

“Okay Paul, what is it? I thought you were asleep. Have you struck pay dirt?”

“Struck pay dirt by the ton,” Drake said. “Jeepers, what a hunch you had. You’d better play the races tomorrow and mortgage the family fortune.”

“Go on, Paul, what is it?”

“B. F. Barnwell and Helen Cadmus were married in a little Nevada town that no one would ordinarily check up on. A little place where a person would hardly think to look, a place north and east of Las Vegas on the road to Ely.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Give me the dope, Paul.”

“Got a pencil there?”

“Just a minute. I’ll get Della. Hang on.”

Mason left the receiver off the hook, hurried back to the booth, beckoned to Della Street. “Get your pencil and notebook, Della.”

Della pushed back the carved teakwood chair, ran to the telephone, opened her purse, hurriedly pulled out a shorthand notebook, hooked one strap of the purse over her left wrist, held the receiver to her ear and said, “Go ahead, Paul.”

Her pencil, flying over the page of the shorthand notebook, made a series of pothooks, then a figure and a name.

“That all?” she asked. “All right, the boss wants to speak with you.”

She turned away from the telephone. Mason grabbed the receiver, said, “Yes, Paul?”

“I’ve given the dope to Della, Perry. I’ve got the thing sewed up. The main thing is that after the marriage was performed, the Justice of the Peace wanted to know where he should send the documents after all the red tape had been complied with, and there was a moment’s silence, then the woman said, ‘Send them to Mrs. B. F. Barnwell.’ She gave an address, a little California town up on the edge of the desert.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Della has the dope?”

“Della has it. Now, for the love of Mike, Perry, don’t expect me to go tearing up there and...”

“I don’t,” Mason said. “Here’s what I want you to do, Paul.”

“What?” Drake asked in a weary voice.

“Go take a good hot bath,” Mason said. “Finish up with a cool shower, crawl into bed and sleep just as long as you can, because when I wake you up you’re going to have to go to work.”

Drake said wearily, “Is that music to my ears? I’d just started to go home when that message from Nevada came in. The elevator operator said you folks had just gone out for chow. I’ve been calling all the restaurants where you usually eat.”