The Case of the Grinning Gorilla

“I’m sorry,” Mason said. “I intended to call your office but I didn’t think you’d get anything this soon. I thought you were asleep. Be seeing you, Paul.”

Mason hung up the telephone, grabbed Della Street’s arm, said, “Come on, Della, we’re on our way.”

He ran toward the cashier’s booth at the head of the stairs, pulled a ten dollar bill from his wallet, threw it on the counter and said to the Chinese cashier, “We haven’t time to wait for a statement. There’s ten dollars. Leave the waiter a dollar tip...”

“Must have waiter’s check,” the calm, unperturbed Oriental said.

Exasperated, Mason threw one of his professional cards on the desk, picked up the ten dollar bill, pulled a fifty dollar bill from his pocket, and slammed it down on the desk. “All right, you don’t trust me. I trust you. You give the waiter a dollar tip, and I’ll come in sometime tomorrow or the next day and pick up the change. Until then — good-by.”

He reached for Della’s wrist, and then went pell-mell down the flight of stairs to the street.

Mason ran to where his car was parked.

“All right, Della,” he said. “Hang on.”

He unlocked the car. Della Street jerked the car door open, jumped in, slammed the door shut behind her, reached across the seat back of the steering wheel to unlock the door on the driver’s side.

Mason slid in behind the steering wheel, stepped on the starter, then, easing the car away from the curb, began to open the throttle.

At the second intersection Della Street said, “and you object to my driving!”

“This time,” Mason told her, “we’re really in a hurry.”

“So I gathered,” Della Street said.

They picked their way through the more congested traffic of the city, hit a freeway and were soon spinning along with the needle of the speedometer indicating seventy miles an hour.

Twice Della Street glanced at Perry Mason, but seeing the fierce concentration of his face knew that his busy mind was working ahead, planning moves even as he crowded the car along.

Twenty minutes later they were out in the open and Mason sent the speedometer up into the eighties.

“What will happen if you get caught?” Della Street said.

“Darned if I know,” Mason said. “We’ll have to find out. Keep an eye on the road behind, Della.”

“At this rate of speed you’ll overtake some traffic officer who’s cruising along about sixty-five,” she said.

“That’s a chance we have to take. I’m watching the license numbers of the cars ahead. You help me keep an eye on the road behind.”

Three hours later Mason slowed the car to read a sign at a crossroad and then turned to the right.

Della Street said, “From the looks of this place they roll up the sidewalks at seven o’clock. You’re not going to find anyone up this time of night.”

“We’ll get them up,” Mason said.

Della Street said, “There’s the place. It’s a motel, Chief, and there’s no one up.”

“We’ll get someone up.”

Mason rang the bell at the office, and after a few minutes later a man, rubbing sleep from his eyes, shuffled to the door. “Sorry,” he said, “we’re full up. Can’t you see that sign No Vacancies? You’re...”

Mason said, “Here’s five dollars.”

“I tell you we’re full up. I couldn’t let you have a place if...”

“I don’t want a place,” Mason said. “I simply want to know what cabin is occupied by Mrs. Barnwell.”

“Mrs. B? She’s in number eleven, but she’s gone to bed.”

“Thanks,” Mason said. “Buy yourself a bottle of hooch, and I’m sorry we woke you up.”

Mason and Della Street walked rapidly down a little cement walk which bordered the patio parking place surrounded by stucco cottages.

“Here’s our cottage,” Mason said.

He looked for a bell. There was none. He tried to open the screen door. It was latched on the inside.

Mason tapped his knuckles on the door.

A woman’s voice, sharp with alarm, said, “Who is it, please?”

“A message,” Mason said, “a very important message.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll have to know who you are. I...”

“Turn on the light,” Mason said. “It’s a message. It has to do with the validity of a marriage ceremony performed in Nevada. Now are you interested?”

A light clicked on inside.

“Just a minute,” the feminine voice said.

A moment later the outer door was opened. A vague, shadowy figure of a young woman bundled in a loose wrapper stood in the doorway. The screen remained latched.

“All right. What is it please?” she said.

Mason, holding a fountain pen flashlight in his right hand, pressed the button. The beam shone through the screen in the door, full in the woman’s face.

She jerked back and said sharply, “Don’t do that!”

Mason said, “I’ve found out what I wanted to know, Miss Cadmus.”

“Mrs. Barnwell, please.”

“I want to talk with you about that.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk with you about anything,” she said sharply, and started to close the door.

“I think you do,” Mason told her. “If you don’t talk with me now, you’ll have to talk with the newspaper reporters two hours from now.”

“The newspaper reporters?”

“Yes.”

“How did they — how could they locate me?”

“Through me,” Mason said.