Notes: Pete Kelton is one of Paul's operatives, played by the wonderful William Boyett in The Case of the Mythical Monkeys.

Chapter Four

Della was still shaken by the note's contents several minutes later, as she rode with Mr. Burger in his car to the first of the two hideouts. She clutched her purse, her thoughts running wild.

Bartlett was so cold, so sneering, in his words. And he didn't even care if he announced that he was the one responsible for what was happening. What kind of horrible torment was he putting Perry through? How much more would Perry have to suffer before they could find him?

"Are you alright?"

She looked to Mr. Burger in surprise when he spoke. He glanced over, his eyes filled with concern, before turning his attention back to the road.

"I'm not the one you should be worrying about," Della said quietly.

"The abducted person is never the only victim," Hamilton answered.

Della had to agree with that. "But they're the most critical," she said.

Guilt rushed over her as soon as the words were out of her mouth. "I'm sorry," she said. "I've been worried for years that something like this would happen. Now it has, and I'm afraid I'm not handling it very well."

"You're doing fine," Hamilton said. "It's never easy to know how to handle something like this."

Della lowered her gaze. That was certainly true.

". . . Trevor Bartlett letting us know he wrote that note is a bad sign, isn't it?" she asked at last.

Mr. Burger sighed. "Yes, it is," he said finally. "It indicates he doesn't care if we know it's him or what happens to him when we catch up."

"Someone like that must be capable of just about anything," Della said. Anger touched her voice now as well as fear.

"Just about," Mr. Burger agreed. He paused. "Of course, there's the possibility that someone is framing Bartlett," he grudgingly admitted. "But his fingerprints were found on every one of those glasses."

"Perry's proved time and again that the most obvious suspect isn't always the guilty one," Della said ruefully. "But in this case I can't think it could be anyone but Trevor Bartlett."

"I agree with you," Hamilton said. "So do the police." He sighed. "If we could just find out who he's working with . . . !"

Della completely concurred.

She came to attention as Hamilton pulled the car over to the curb moments later. They had entered a neighborhood of ill repute; houses on either side of the street were run-down with chipping paint, dying and weed-filled lawns, and roofs in need of repair. And that was only scratching the surface of what was wrong with these homes.

The abode Hamilton had parked in front of was even worse. One shutter was hanging on the building by a thread. The porch's steps had caved in, while the remaining wood looked ready to rot away. At the side, a dirty window had been broken.

Della recoiled. "Is that where this assassin was supposed to be hiding out?" she exclaimed.

"Unfortunately," Mr. Burger said. "But it doesn't look occupied." He started to get out. "I'm going to look through that window. You'd better stay here."

"Ohh no," Della said, pushing open her door. "I'm coming with you."

Hamilton glanced back, a bit in exasperation. But then, resigned, he walked around to the other side of the car and waited for Della to exit before advancing towards the house. Della was stubborn. If he refused to let her come, she would probably just get out and walk over anyway. It would be safer for her to simply come with him in the first place.

Striving to be as quiet as possible, they made their way over the brown grass and to the broken window. Hamilton peered inside, relying on the moonlight to shine on any clues that someone had been inside recently or was inside right then. Instead something swooped in front of the hole, nearly hitting him in the face. He rocked back.

"What is it?" Della demanded.

Mr. Burger regarded the object in disgust. "A cobweb," he told her.

He looked through the opening again. The window afforded a nice view of the living room, as well as part of the dining room visible through the doorway. But everything looked abandoned. If Perry had been brought here, there were certainly no indications of it from this side.

"What are you doing? I could call the police, you know! And I will, if you don't give me a satisfactory explanation for playing Peeping Tom!"

Both Mr. Burger and Della jumped a mile. As they whirled to look, a middle-aged woman glowered at them from her back porch. For a weapon she was brandishing a broom.

Della started towards the rusted chain-link fence. "I'm sorry," she said. "We're looking for someone who was kidnapped a few hours ago. We thought he might have been brought here."

The older woman's expression did not lighten. "You'll have to do better than that," she snapped. "No one in their right mind would go to that dump, kidnappers or not!"

"Then why is it such a concern if we look through the window?" Della said.

"Because you might come here next," was the frowning reply.

"I'm sorry we startled you, ma'am," Hamilton said, coming up beside Della. "This is Miss Street. I'm Hamilton Burger."

"The district attorney?" The woman peered at him more closely. "Now I know you must be fibbin'. What would the D.A. be doin' way out in a place like this at three in the morning?"

"Conducting a criminal investigation," Hamilton said. "The police are going to be here soon with a search warrant for that house. You say you haven't seen anyone there recently?"

"I certainly have not," the broom-wielder answered, lifting her chin in a haughty manner. "And I ain't heard anything, either."

"Alright. Thank you." Mr. Burger moved to lead Della away. She went agreeably, looking up at the house as they walked back.

"I suppose if anyone is in there, that woman's tirade will scare them," she sighed.

"They wouldn't be happy," Hamilton said. "But I don't think they'd risk coming out right now, especially if Perry is hurt."

"I wish the police would get here," Della fretted.

She studied the yard as they walked to the back of the house. It was more of the same, with crinkly grass and an old and bent apple tree. In the darkness, its branches almost looked like gnarled arms reaching out for them.

"The lights are out here, too," Hamilton observed. "I don't see so much as a flashlight." He crossed to the nearest window, looking inside for a brief moment before stepping away. He hesitated to use a flashlight of his own. Under the cover of night they had a certain advantage. If he beamed a flashlight on the window to see better, someone inside could decide to take a potshot at them. The police would be here within a few minutes, he hoped. Then a more extensive investigation could be performed.

"What's the other hideout like?" Della asked when he stepped back.

"It's an old apartment complex, if I remember right," Hamilton said. "It was condemned a few years ago; no one else lived there."

"This house looks like it should be condemned," Della said, uneasy as she looked up at it.

"I thought it had been," Mr. Burger frowned. "But I don't recall seeing the sign out front."

"Wouldn't they want to leave it on if they were here?" Della said. "It would help keep people away."

"I know," Mr. Burger said. "It would be to their advantage to leave it up."

A window at the other side of the house provided no further clues than those previous. As they circled around to the front, Della dubiously regarded the broken porch.

"I don't see how they could've got Perry up those stairs," she said.

"I don't either," Hamilton said. "And I didn't see a back door."

The sound of a car pulling up brought them both to attention. As it stopped, Lieutenant Tragg got out and headed towards them.

"Well, Mr. Burger," he greeted. "What on earth were you thinking, coming out here alone?" As he drew closer his eyes widened. "You brought Della with you?"

"I wanted to come," Della said. "Mr. Burger was against it."

"With good reason," Tragg said, heading up to the porch. "This is no place for you, Della."

"It's no place for Perry, either," Della answered.

Other police officers followed Tragg onto the porch, picking their way over the gaping openings in the steps. The rest spread out across the property. Della and Hamilton made their way onto the porch.

Tragg tapped the front door with a finger. "Odd; this house was supposed to have been condemned," he mused. He turned the knob. With a low creak the door swung open, revealing a bare and damaged living room. The floor, made of hardwood, was rotted through in places from rainwater due to the leaking roof.

Sergeant Nichols observed it in trepidation. "Everyone, watch your step," he said.

xxxx

The sound of a foghorn cut through the thin mists drifting over the Los Angeles harbor. Despite the late hour, and despite the eerie emptiness of some parts of the waterfront, activity could still be found.

Paul stood on a dock overlooking a large freighter. Dockhands worked ceaselessly, loading the cargo onto the ship in preparation for its departure come morning. They ignored him, not caring if he watched as long as he did not get in their way.

A sound behind him sent him spinning around, his muscles tense. But at the familiar sight of Pete Kelton he sighed in relief. "What's up?" he asked.

"Well, I've been asking around all night about guys named Biff," Pete told him. "I haven't had much more luck than you. I'm guessing you still haven't been able to talk with the Biff working on this load?"

Paul nodded. "The guy I talked to said he'd send Biff over on their next break," he said. "But from the looks of things, who knows when that'll be."

Pete pushed his hat back. "I did manage to track down one of the regular barflies in that dive," he said. "He said that Biff mentioned something about being busy the next few days at the docks."

"So this could be the one we want," Paul surmised.

"Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing if he's Bartlett's accomplice in this kidnapping," Pete said. "I'm sure he won't come out and confess, like it sounds like Bartlett's done."

"We can only hope," Paul said.

A whistle sounded and the men set down their crates and equipment, beginning to spread out over the wharf. One average-sized man caught sight of Paul and Pete and headed their way.

"Well, he doesn't look like the big muscleman you were expecting," Pete mused.

"But he could still be plenty dangerous," Paul said.

"I'm Biff," the man said as he came closer. "I heard you were looking for me?"

"That's right," Paul said. Flashing his identification he added, "My name is Paul Drake. I'm a private detective, looking into an abduction."

Biff crossed his arms, unimpressed. "And what has that got to do with me?" he retorted. "I've been working here for the last five hours. You can ask anyone in the crew."

"We know someone named Biff met with Trevor Bartlett in The Mermaid bar several days ago," Pete spoke up. "We have reason to believe that might have been you."

"Sure, I met the guy," Biff shrugged. "He used to do some dock work with me a few years back. But he wasn't cut out for it and he quit. We see each other sometimes to have some drinks now and then. Is that a crime?"

"No, but withholding information of a crime is," Paul said. "Did Bartlett ever mention that he wanted to abduct someone?"

"He said sometimes he wanted to kill people, but you can't take him seriously," Biff said. "It was just talk."

Paul's patience was wearing thin. "Look, Perry Mason is missing and we know Bartlett was involved," he said. "He's got a grudge against Mr. Mason and is probably capable of doing just about anything to him. We have to find where he is while there's still a chance of getting Perry back alive. Now, do you know anything about it or don't you?"

"If anything does happen, you could be charged as an accessory," Pete added.

Biff frowned. "Look, I don't want to get mixed up in this," he said. "All I know is that Trevor said he hated the guy and blamed him for Gladys Thorn being executed. He told me he was going to do something to 'fix' him. That's it!"

Paul was not ready to back down. "Do you know of anyone who could have gone in with Bartlett?" he asked. "There was an accomplice; we just don't know who."

"I don't know," Biff said. "It could have been Barlow Travis. They've worked together on stuff before."

Paul stared in shock. "Travis?" he repeated. "He's not related to that Travis kid who was killed five years ago?"

"His brother or something, I think," Biff said. A whistle pierced the air again and he glanced back, uneasy. "I've gotta get back now. Break's over."

"Okay," Paul said. "Thanks for your help. We might need to come talk to you some more later."

"Sure, whatever," Biff said. "Hey, I hope you find that Mason guy. I don't want anyone to really get hurt." He started to hurry back to the freighter.

Suddenly Paul remembered something. "Hey!" he called. "Do you own a locket with a blurry picture of a brunette dish in it?"

Biff stopped short and looked back. "No," he said. "But if you've got it, I'd like to see the girl."

"I don't have it. Sorry," Paul said.

Biff shrugged. "Oh well. Now I really have to go." He jogged the rest of the way to the remaining cargo.

Pete looked to Paul. "Well, that was a doozy," he said. "I never would have pegged that one."

"Me either," Paul said. "Come on, we'd better get this information to Lieutenant Tragg. Then we're going to do a little searching for Barlow Travis."

xxxx

Perry was ready and waiting by the time the door began to open once more. His eyes snapped open, focusing on the entering Trevor Bartlett. He was alone.

"Well, Mr. Mason, you have quite a bunch of devoted friends," Bartlett commented. Remaining in the doorway, he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "They're tearing Los Angeles apart to find you. The district attorney even got his staff into the office in the middle of the night."

"And how do you know exactly what they're doing?" Perry retorted. "Do you have more people in this with you to do your dirty work?"

"I felt your friends should be watched," Bartlett said. "At my command, anything could go wrong for any of them. Someone's car could blow up or their house catch fire. Your private detective might be attacked." He paused. "Or maybe I should start with your secretary."

"Leave all of them out of this!" Perry ordered. Forgetting his side, he rose into a sitting position. His blue eyes flashed with anger.

"Why should I?" Bartlett shot back. "I had to stand by and watch Gladys die. Maybe you should helplessly watch as one by one your friends are killed."

Perry's temper bent and broke. In growing rage he leaped up, lunging and grabbing Bartlett before the younger man knew what to make of it. With one strong swing he threw Bartlett into the room and then ran into the hall, slamming the door after him. He turned the key in the lock, his hand trembling as he breathed hard in his fury.

There was no time to waste. He believed that Bartlett had full power to do whatever he threatened. Della was in danger right now. So were Paul, Hamilton, and Lieutenant Tragg. And he had to get out of here and find them.

He barely missed a bullet soaring past his head. He whirled to look but it was no use—the shooter had already ducked around the corner.

Quickly he took in the hallway, up and down. If he went back the way he had come, at the other end of the corridor it branched both left and right. Ahead of him, where the shooter had vanished, it did the same thing.

If he left the gunman alone he would likely be cornered and shot at again. He did not know the layout of this building, whereas his captors did. But it would be foolish to approach the shooter from the same direction in which he had disappeared. At the same time, turning to head towards the other end of the hall would give the shooter ample time to run out and start firing anew.

Every choice was a gamble. He would just have to pick one.

He turned, hastening towards the corridor that was back the way he had come. His side was probably bleeding again, but he would have to ignore it for now. The most important thing was to escape.

Footsteps pounded after him; he was already being pursued. Another shot fired, near his legs. He stumbled in his attempt to miss it.

Bartlett banged on and slammed into the locked door of what was now his prison. But if he wanted his partner to free him he was out of luck. The other person's sole thought was to catch up with Perry. He ran past, getting off a third round of gunfire at the same moment he sprang.

Suddenly Perry was being dragged to the floor amidst his cry of either protest or pain—or both. He struggled, fighting to get back up. His unknown assailant pushed his face into the hard tiles, his hand clawing and digging into Perry's scalp.

"Sorry, Mr. Mason," he hissed. "You're here for keeps."

Perry lay there a moment, trying to both conserve his strength and plan his next move. Then he reached out and up, grabbing the gunman's wrist. With one determined motion he pulled his captor away enough that he was able to push himself to his knees and knock the younger man to the floor. Though he was stunned, it was only for the briefest spell. As Perry went for the gun his attacker became a wild cat, clawing, snarling, and kicking. Perry delivered a harsh punch, then another, and started to pry the weapon out of his hand. Before his opponent could get up Perry was painfully drawing himself upright, the gun clutched tightly in his own hand.

"Mr. Mason."

Perry looked down at the man. He was not much older than Bartlett, placing him in his twenties. Now, as he lay gasping on the floor, his shaggy dark hair falling into his bearded face, he sneered.

"Trevor really can give the order any time for someone to go after your secretary," he said. "She isn't alone right now; she's with the district attorney. Trevor could arrange for them to both be killed. Of course, I'm sure his friends wouldn't want to do away with her just like that, if you get my drift. They'd want to have some fun first."

Perry gripped the gun, his knuckles going white. "He can't do a thing from in that room," he said. "My cellphone isn't receiving service. Neither will his."

"He and I can use a device with stronger reception than a cellphone," was the reply. "It's powered by satellite. And I could send the signal right now, while you're holding that gun on me."

"You can't," Perry retorted. "I won't let you."

"Will you kill me to stop me, Mr. Mason?" the gunman said with a smooth smirk. "Your side's oozing blood. I don't think you could move fast enough to stop me if you don't pull the trigger." He started to reach into his pocket.

Perry fired, shaving skin off the back of the bearded man's hand. He hissed in pained surprise. Before he could recover Perry had managed to bend down, taking hold of his wrists.

"I don't have to kill you," Perry said through clenched teeth. "I don't want to kill you. I want you to stand trial for the wrong you've done."

His prisoner stumbled to his feet, trying in vain to pry Perry's strong hand away. "Come on, man," he said. "You'll never get away. The house is wired up with electricity. Every outside door and window is blocked by a force field. Trevor and I are trapped in here too, unless that's turned off."

"How is it turned off?" Perry queried.

"Near the front," was the answer. "There's a security room. But you still can't save your friends, Mason. Trevor probably long ago sent the signal out to attack."

A cold chill went down Perry's spine. "How do I warn them?" he demanded. "Tell me!"

"There isn't any way!" the younger man gasped. "And if he's given the signal, it's probably already in progress!"

Perry stared at him for a short moment. "Come on," he snapped then. "You're going to show me how to turn off the electric force field. And you're going to call off this signal." Still holding the gun in one hand, he started to drag his prisoner away.

All the while he silently, desperately prayed that the others would be safe.