Perry Mason - The Case Of The Singing Skirt Part 1

Gardner, Erle Stanley.

Perry Mason.

The Case Of The Singing Skirt.

CHAPTER ONE.

George Anc.l.i.tas looked at Ellen Robb with the shrewd appraisal of a cattle buyer inspecting a s.h.i.+pment of beef. "Black stockings," he said.

Ellen nodded.

"Long black stockings, way up," George said, making a gesture which included the hips.

"Leotards," Slim Marcus added parenthetically.

"I don't care what you call 'em," George said. "I want the black s.h.i.+ny ones that are tight and go way, way up."

"That's the stuff," Slim said. "Leotards."

"And the skirt," George went on, eying Ellen appraisingly, "about halfway down to the knees with a little bit of a white ap.r.o.n. You know, that thing about the size of a pocket handkerchief with a lot of lace on it that you tie on."

"Tonight's the night?" Slim asked.

"Tonight we take him," George said.

"All of it?"

"Why stop halfway?"

"Now, he likes you," George went on to Ellen. "He can't take his eyes off you when you're in your working clothes. Every time after you finish a number, grab the tray and come on in. Always walk on the side of the table where he can see you and keep his attention distracted, except when I give you the signal."

"Now, don't forget that signal," Slim said. "George takes his right hand and rubs it along his head, sort of smoothing back his hair."

George raised a well-manicured hand to black, wavy hair and ill.u.s.trated the signal.

"Now, when you get that signal," Slim explained, "you come right over to the table, but come up behind him. Now, get this. If he's only got two pair or three of a kind, you say, 'You want a cigarette, Mr. Ellis?' Remember, whenever you say 'you,' that means three of a kind or less. Now, if you stand back and say impersonally, 'Cigars, cigarettes,' that means a full house, and if you say 'Cigars or cigarettes' twice, that means the full house is higher than jacks. If you just say it once, it means it's below jacks--three tens and a pair of something, or three nines and a pair of something."

"And," George went on, "if he's got better than a full house, if he's got a straight flush or four of a kind, you reverse the order and say--"

Ellen Robb spoke for the first time. "No," she said.

Both men looked up at her incredulously.

"I'm not going to do it, George. I'll sing and I'll show my legs but I'm not going to help you cheat Helman Ellis or anyone else."

"The h.e.l.l you aren't!" George said. "Don't forget this is a job you've got here, sister. I'm running this joint. You do like I tell you. What's the matter? You falling for that guy?" Then after a moment he added, less roughly, "It's only if I give you the signal, Ellen. I don't think we'll have to do it. I think we've got this sucker staked out cold. But he likes you. He likes to look you over. That's one of the reasons he hangs around. We've been fattening him up, letting him lose a little, then letting him win a little, then letting him lose some more. We know just about how he plays. But there'll be a couple of other fellows in the game tonight and that may make it a little more difficult to size up his play."

"I'm not going to do it," Ellen Robb repeated.

"Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned!" Slim said.

George pushed back his chair and got to his feet, his features dark with rage. Then he took a deep breath and smiled. "All right, girlie," he said, "go get dressed. If you don't want to, you don't have to. Just go ahead with your singing. Just forget all the signals. We'll play it straight across the table, right on the up and up, won't we, Slim?"

Slim seemed bewildered by this abrupt change of manner. "Well," he said . . . "yes, I guess so . . . sure, if that's the way you want it, George. We can take him."

"Sure, we can," George said. "Forget it, Ellen. Go get your things on. Remember, black stockings."

Ellen Robb glided from the room. Slim Marcus watched her hips until the green curtains had settled into place behind her retreating figure.

"Nice scenery," George said. "But it's strictly for customers. Sucker bait."

"What the h.e.l.l's the idea?" Slim asked. "I thought you were going to give her the works, tell her to follow orders or else."

Anc.l.i.tas shook his head. "It would have been the or else," he said. "That dame has a mind of her own."

"So what?" Marcus asked. "Who's running the place?"

"We are," George said, "but we tie the can to her, take five grand from Ellis tonight and then she'd go to Ellis' wife and tell her the game was rigged. You know what'll happen then."

"Keep talking," Slim said.

"The minute she refused to ride along," George Anc.l.i.tas explained, "she was done as far as I'm concerned. But there's no reason to be rude about it. When I get rid of 'em I get rid of 'em right."

"What you going to do?" Slim asked.

"Frame her," George said, his face darkening. "Frame her for stealing and kick her the h.e.l.l out. Tell her if she ever shows her face in these parts again, she'll be thrown in the can. I'll give her enough money for a bus ticket to Arizona and tell her if she isn't out of the state within twenty-four hours, I'll prosecute.

"She knows too much now. We have to discredit her. Remember that other broad we framed? She's still in."

"Think we can take him without signals?" Slim asked.

"Sure we can take him," George said. "We've done it before, haven't we?"

Slim nodded.

"Well, then, quit worryin'."

"I ain't worryin'. I just want to be sure."

"In our game, that's worryin'," George said.

CHAPTER TWO.

Della Street, Perry Mason's confidential secretary, stood in the doorway between the lawyer's private office and the pa.s.sage leading to the reception room. An amused smile tilted the corners of her mouth.

At length, Mason, sensing her immobility, looked up from the volume he was studying.

"You have always said," Della Street observed archly, "that you didn't like cases involving figures."

"And that's right," Mason observed emphatically. "I want cases involving drama, cases where there's a chance to study human emotions. I don't want to stand up at a blackboard in front of a jury and add and subtract, multiply and divide."

"We now have a case waiting in the outer office," Della Street said, "involving a figure, rather a fancy fig. ure I might add."

Mason shook his head. "We're booked solid, Della. You know I don't like routine. I . . . " Something in her manner caused a delayed reaction in Mason's mind. "What did you say the case involved?"

"A fancy figure."

Mason pushed the book back. "Now, by any chance, young woman," he said sternly, "is this an animate figure?"

"Very animate," Della Street said.

Mason grinned. "You mean it undulates?"

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "it sways."

"Smoothly?"

"Seductively."

"The age?"

"Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six."

"And the figure?"

"Superb."

"The name?"

"Ellen Robb, formerly a photographic model. Now a singer in a night club, doubling as a vendor of cigars and cigarettes."

"Show her in," Mason said.

"It will be some show," Della Street warned. "She's garbed."

"Most women are," Mason said and then added, "when they visit offices."

"This," Della Street said, "will be different."

Mason placed the fingers of his left hand on his right wrist, consulted his wrist watch. "Pulse a hundred and twenty-eight," he said. "Respiration rapid and shallow. How much more suspense, Della? Now that you've aroused my interest to this extent, what are we waiting for?"

"What was the pulse?" she asked.

"A hundred and twenty-eight."

"In exactly five seconds," Della Street said, "take it again, and if it hasn't reached a hundred and eighty, you can cut my salary."

She vanished momentarily, to return with Ellen Robb.

Mason glanced quizzically at the determined young woman, who was wearing a long, plaid coat.

"Miss Robb, Mr. Mason," Della Street said, and then to Ellen, "If you'll slip off your coat so Mr. Mason can see what you showed me, he will . . . "

Ellen Robb opened the coat. Della Street's hands at the collar of the coat pulled it back and slipped it off the girl's shoulders.

Ellen Robb stood gracefully and without the least self-consciousness. She was clad in a tight-fitting sweater, a skirt which terminated some six inches above the knees, and black leotards. A small diamond-shaped ap.r.o.n, about the size of a pocket handkerchief, adorned with a border of delicate lace, was tied around her waist.

Despite himself, Mason's eyes widened.

"Miss Robb," Della Street explained, "won a bathing-beauty contest which included a trip to Hollywood, a screen test and a certain amount of resulting publicity."

"The screen test?" Mason asked.

Ellen Robb smiled and said, "It was part of the publicity. I never heard anything from it again. I sometimes doubt if there was film in the camera."

"The trip to California?"

"That was real," she said. "I had to wait to travel when the plane had some extra seats. However, it was nice," and then she added, "while it lasted."

"When did it quit lasting?"

"About six months ago."

"And you've been doing?"

"Various things."

"The last," Della Street said, "was being employed as a cigarette girl and novelty singer at a place in Rowena."

"Rowena," Mason said frowning, "that's the small town where--"

"Where gambling which doesn't conflict with the state law is authorized by city ordinance," Della Street said. "The place is just big enough to get incorporated. It pays its munic.i.p.al expenses from the gambling and nicking the unwary tourist who goes through the eighteen blocks of restricted speed limit faster than the law allows."

"The police force," Ellen Robb said with a smile, "consists of one man. When he's at the east end of town, he makes it a rule to issue at least one citation on his westbound trip. People who are going east are immune if they go tearing on through. On the other hand, when the city's police force is at the west end of town, people going east had better crawl along at a snail's pace or they'll have a citation."

"I take it the officer is exceedingly impartial," Mason said.