The man’s face dominated his clothing. Behind that face, a simple, unpretentious soul peered out at a world that was largely foreign. Yet the eyes held no bewildered expression. They were hard, determined and self-reliant.
“Good morning,” Mason said. “Your name is Bowers?”
“That’s right. You’re Mason?”
“Yes.”
Bowers walked across the office, sat down across from Mason and glanced at Della Street.
“That’s all right,” Mason said. “She’s my secretary. She keeps notes on my cases. I have no secrets from her, and you can trust her discretion.”
Bowers clasped the brim of his hat between bronzed fingers, rested his forearms on his knees, let the hat swing back and forth.
“Just go ahead and tell me your troubles, Mr. Bowers.”
“If it’s all the same with you, call me Salty. I don’t like this Mister stuff,”
“Why ‘Salty’?” Mason asked.
“Well, I used to hang around the salt beds in Death Valley quite a bit and they got to calling me that. That was when I was a lot younger, before I teamed up with Banning.”
“And who’s Banning?”
“Banning Clarke. He’s my partner,” Salty said with simple faith.
“A mining partner?” ‘ “That’s right.”
“And you’re having trouble with him over a mine?” Mason asked.
“Trouble with him?”
“Yes.”
“My gosh!” Salty exploded. “I told you he was my partner. You don’t have trouble with a partner.”
“I see.”
“I’m protecting him. It’s a crooked corporation — a crooked president.”
“Well, just go ahead and tell me about it,” Mason invited.
Salty shook his head.
Mason regarded the man curiously.
“You see it’s this way,” Salty explained. “I ain’t smart like Banning. He’s got education. He can tell you about it.”
“All right,” Mason said crisply. “I’ll make an appointment with him for—”
Salty interrupted. “He can’t come. That’s why I had to come.”
“Why can’t he come?”
“The doc’s got him chained down.”
“In bed?”
“No, not in bed, but he can’t climb stairs and he can’t travel. He has to stay put.”
“His heart?”
“That’s right. Banning made the mistake of housing-up. A man that’s lived out in the open can’t house-up. I tried to tell him that before he got married, but his wife had sort of highfalutin’ ideas. Once Banning got rich — and I mean stinking rich — she got the idea he had to get high hat. Well, I shouldn’t say anything against her. She’s dead now. What I’m telling you is that a desert man can’t house-up.”
“Well,” Mason said good-naturedly, “I guess we’ll have to go and see Banning.”
“How far from here does he live?” Della Street asked with sudden inspiration.
“About a hundred miles,” Salty announced casually. Mason’s eyes twinkled. “Put a notebook in a brief case, Della. We’re going to see Banning. I’m interested in the miner who housed-up.”
“He ain’t housed-up now,” Salty said hastily. “I fixed that as soon as I got there.”
“But I thought you said he was,” Della said.
“No, ma’am. The doctors say he can’t leave the place, but he ain’t housed-up.”
“Where is he then?” Mason asked.
“I’ll have to show you. It’d take too long to explain, an’ when I got done, you wouldn’t believe me, anyway.”
Chapter 2
At thirty miles an hour, Perry Mason turned right at the city limits of San Roberto, trailing along behind the battered, unpainted 1930 pickup in which Salty Bowers was leading the way.
The car ahead turned sharply and began to climb.
“It looks as though he’s going to give us a whirl through the exclusive residential district,” Della Street said.
Mason nodded, took his eyes from the road long enough to glance at the ocean far below — a blue, limpid ocean with a fringe of lazy surf, a border of dazzling white sand outlining the fronds of palm trees.
The driveway skirted the crest of sun-drenched hills, spotted with country estates of the wealthy. In a small amphitheater below, less than a mile away, Mason could see the dazzling white of the little city of San Roberto.
“Why do you suppose he’s taking us up here?” Della Street asked. “He certainly can’t—” She broke of! as the dilapidated car ahead, wheezing and knocking, rattling and banging, yet covering the ground with dogged efficiency, swung abruptly to a halt by the side of a white stucco wall.
Mason grinned. “By George, he lives here. He’s opening the gate.”
Della Street watched as Salty’s key clicked back the lock on a big gate of ornamental grillwork.
Salty Bowers returned to his automobile and wheezed it through the gates, and Mason followed.
There were a good six acres in the place, a location where real estate was valued by the inch.
The spacious Spanish-style house with white stucco and red tile had been designed to fit into its surroundings. It sat back high up on the sloping ground, as if it had simply settled itself to enjoy the view. The terraced grounds had been so skillfully landscaped that it seemed as if Nature herself had done most of the work, and man had only added an occasional path, a few stone benches and a fish pond.
The high stucco wall wrapped an air of privacy about the estate, and, at the far corner, outlined sharply the weird forms of desert growth, cacti, creosote and even the gawky arms of a cactus palm.
Della Street all but gasped at the view which swept out before them in a vista of blues, dazzling whites and restful greens.
“Is this Banning Clarke’s house?” Mason asked Salty when the latter had moved up to his running board.
“Yep. This is her.”
“A beautiful house.”
“He don’t live there.”
“I thought you said he did.”
“He don’t.”
“Pardon me. I misunderstood you. I asked if this was his place.”
“It’s his place. He don’t live in the house. I pulled him out of that. We’re camped out down there in the cactus. See that little column of smoke going up? Looks like he’s cooking up a bite to eat. It’s just like I told you. He housed-up. That put his pump on the blink. So I sort of took over. He’s too weak to go gallivantin’ around the desert yet. The doc says he can’t even climb stairs. I’m gettin’ him back in shape. He’s better now than he was last week — better last week than he was last month.”
“You’re eating and sleeping out there in the grounds?”
“Uh-huh. That’s right.”
“Then who’s living in the house?”
“People.”
“Who?”
“I’ll let Banning tell you about that. Come on. Let’s go see him.”
They walked down a trail into the sandy corner devoted to a cactus garden. Here prickly pear grew in ominous clumps. Cholla cactus seemed delicate and lace-like. Only those who were acquainted with the desert would realize the wicked strength of those barbed points or the danger that lurked in the little balls of spine-covered growth which dropped to the ground from the parent plant. Here also were spineless cacti growing to a height of some ten feet, furnishing a protective screen as well as a windbreak for the rest of the garden.
A six-foot wall built of varicolored rocks skirted the cactus garden. “All rocks from desert mines,” Salty explained. “Banning built that wall in his spare time before his heart went bad. I hauled in the rocks.”
Mason let his eye run over the highly colored rocks. “You kept the rocks from each mine separate?” he asked.
“Nope. Just hauled ’em in and dumped ’em. They’re just color rocks. Banning arranged ’em.”