“And Adelaide Kingman wouldn’t go ahead with a quiet title action?” Mason asked.
“No. She sustained an accident — a broken leg. I understand she’s in a ward in a San Francisco hospital. She is sixty-five years old and virtually without funds. She felt that, under the circumstances, she couldn’t afford to start suit or advance the preliminary costs.”
Mason said, “Sit down, Jackson. Let’s do a little thinking.”
Jackson seated himself across the desk.
Mason asked, “Why do you suppose this Skinner Hills Karakul Fur Company made a settlement in the way they did, and at the time they did?”
“Doubtless they were afraid to go to court when they heard of the manner in which the truck driver had violently taken possession of Arthur Bickler’s notebook and pencil.”
Mason shook his head. “There was an automobile accident,” he said. “A report doubtless was made. Nothing was done until after ten o’clock this morning. Get that point fixed definitely in your mind, Jackson. It was after ten o’clock.”
“What does that have to do with it?” Jackson asked.
Mason said, “That’s something for us to consider. Ten o’clock is significant in what way?”
“It’s the time the banks open?” Della Street suggested.
“And the time that big executives come to work,” Mason added. “So let’s suppose that this report of the accident was handed to an underling, who in turn placed it on the desk of a big executive at ten o’clock this morning. The big executive tried to get in touch with Bickler by rushing an adjuster out to his house. The man found that Bickler had gone to see an attorney. Probably one of the neighbors told him the name of the attorney. Thereupon, this big executive, whoever he was, rings up his attorneys and advises them to settle the case no matter what it costs. Why?”
Jackson shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
Mason said, “I think I get it. Della, get Paul Drake at the Drake Detective Agency. Tell him to investigate the Skinner Hills Karakul Company; to get in touch with breeders of Karakul fur sheep, and find out to whom sales have been made. Have him look up everything he can in connection with the Skinner Hills Karakul Company and, above, all when that release comes over for Bickler to sign, see if we can’t get Bickler’s notebook back. Then get the license number of the truck in which the sheep were being transported. I think you’ll find that the license number of that truck is the key factor in the whole situation.”
Jackson seemed somewhat dazed. “I am free to confess,” he announced, “that I fail to follow your reasoning processes, Mr. Mason.”
“Never mind trying,” Mason said, and added with a grin, “I’m not even certain I’m following what you would refer to as reasoning processes. I’m playing hunches. Ring up Adelaide Kingman, tell her not to make any settlement of any sort, or sign anything until we tell her, and tell her to refer any inquiries to us. Also advise her that we’re taking her out of the ward and putting her in a private room with special nurses. Then see that the best bone specialist in San Francisco is called into consultation tomorrow morning.”
Jackson’s eyes showed bewildered astonishment. “And who foots the bill?” he asked.
“We do,” Mason said.
Chapter 2
The next morning Paul Drake, long, lean, lanky and moving with double-jointed ease, jackknifed himself into his favorite crossways position in the big overstuffed leather chair and grinned at Perry Mason. “Why the sudden interest in Karakul fur, Perry?”
“I don’t, know, I might want to buy a fur coat. What have you found out, Paul?”
Drake said. “That Karakul fur company is like the rabbit in a magician’s hat — now you see it, and now you don’t. It’s right, out in the open, and yet it isn’t in the open. It’s bought up a lot of property in the Skinner Hills district.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the raising of Karakul fur sheep.”
“Why the Skinner Hills?” Mason asked.
“A staff of glib-tongued realtors have been explaining that. It has just the right amount of sunlight, just the proper amount of rainfall and has a certain percentage of minerals in the soil that are highly advantageous.”
“Who are back of the glib-tongued salesmen?” Mason asked.
“Chap by the name of Fred Milfield seems to be the main one. He lives at 2291 West Narlian Avenue — that’s an apartment house. He’s married. Wife is Daphne Milfield. They both came from Nevada with a background around Las Vegas.”
“Any more salesmen?” Mason asked.
“Man named Harry Van Nuys, thirty-five, thin, slim waisted, pale skinned, eyes dark, rather insolent, also with a background of Las Vegas, Nevada, living in room 618 at the Hotel Cornish, if you can ever find him. My men haven’t been able to so far.”
“How about Milfield?”
“We haven’t been in touch with him directly, just crossed his back trail. About forty-five, self-satisfied, paunchy, blond hair — what there is of it, wide blue eyes that are inclined to pop out a bit, giving him an expression of extreme candor. They’ve been going through that Skinner Hills district like a house afire.”
“Buying or leasing?”
“Buying and contracting.”
“Why do you say that the company is like a rabbit in a magician’s hat, Paul?”
“There’s someone back of it that you can’t smoke out. A man no one ever sees, a man whom no one knows.”
“How do you know?”
“Just various little things.”
“That,” Mason announced, “is the man I want.”
“He’s going to be hard to find. I can tell you this much: Milfield put through a deal that required a lot of cash in a hurry. He and the man with whom he was dealing went to a bank in Bakersfield. Milfield pulled a blank check from his pocket, filled it in for the amount of money he needed and shoved it through the window. There was a little hubbub about it, and the deal was stalled along while the teller went into the manager’s office and was closeted with him just about long enough for a call to have been put through to Los Angeles. The signature on the check that Milfield filled out was in a very peculiar vertical handwriting. The man who was waiting to get the money couldn’t see what the first name of the signature was, but he says the last name was Burbank. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a damn thing,” Mason said, “except that Burbank is pretty apt to be the man I want.”
“Just what do you want with him. Perry?”
“Specifically. I want to sell him eighty acres of sheep land for about a hundred thousand bucks.”
“What’s the idea?” Drake asked.
“Did you smell anything while you were making this investigation, Paul?”
“What do you mean?”
Mason sniffed the air and said, “I can smell it.”
“What?”
“Oil.”
Drake whistled.
“What,” Mason asked, “have they been paying for the land?”