Chapter Six
Perry was soon out of the Brent building and into the parking garage. Instead of having his car brought up he had decided to go in after it. He did not want Vivalene to know he was leaving.
He had found the same phone number that Paul had discovered earlier. Once he was safe in his car he would try calling it. If there was no answer he would do some further investigating on his own to determine the identity of the person behind it. One way or another he was going to find Della Street.
He frowned as he located his convertible. It almost looked like a shadow diving behind the nearest pillar and pressing himself against it. Why would someone be hiding?
"Who's here?" Perry called. His voice echoed eerily off the walls. No one answered.
At last Perry unlocked the car door and eased himself inside. It was strange, but surely not connected with him. He had other things to worry about.
He brought up the top on the car. He had come out here for privacy. If someone was lurking around, he did not particularly want them to hear the conversation.
When the canvas was in place he took out his phone and dialed the number of D. Street. One ring, two, three. . . . He sighed. She must not be home. And it might not even be her at all.
What kind of foolish wild goose chase was he going on, anyway? This was not like him. Of course he often played on hunches and feelings in court cases, but there was always some reason to think there was something to them. There was no reason to think such a thing now. He was letting himself be duped by the stories Mr. Burger and Paul had told him.
And yet it came back to the fact that they would not lie to him. He could not ignore that. Nor could he ignore the insistent stirring where Miss Della Street was concerned. He had already been through this argument with himself and had arrived at the same conclusion.
Click. "Hello?"
Perry froze. He had not expected anyone to answer. He had been about to hang up. Now he was hearing a woman's voice, deep and mature and currently out of breath. She must have run to the phone, perhaps just as she got back home.
The voice was unfamiliar to him. Or was it? Was some part of his soul awakening in recognition?
He cleared his throat. "Is this Della Street?"
A surprised pause. "Why, yes. Who's this?"
"Perry Mason," Perry answered.
She gasped. "The lawyer?"
"Indeed. I'm sorry if I've startled you. You must find it strange, for Perry Mason the lawyer to call you out of the blue."
"It is strange, yes. How can I help you, Mr. Mason?"
Perry considered the question. "Well, to be honest, I'm not quite sure," he admitted. "I know how this is going to sound, but I don't know how to ask except to be frank. Have we ever met before?"
Now there was a long, uncomfortable pause. "I . . . I can't imagine . . . no. No, Mr. Mason, we haven't met before. I would remember."
"Of course. So would I. You sound like the kind of girl no one would forget." Perry paused again. "This is highly unorthodox, but I would like to meet with you. In a public setting, naturally," he quickly added. He did not want her to feel like there was anything shady about the proposal. But then again, how could she not?
Della sounded awkward when she replied. "I don't understand," she said. A bit of anger slipped into her voice. "This isn't a joke, is it? I was just talking with Mr. Anderson about Mr. Mason in the news."
"No, no, it's not a joke," Perry said. "I don't even know your Mr. Anderson. I'm sorry, I know this sounds ludicrous." He shifted. He was digging himself deeper into a hole. "You could bring a chaperone if you like. And you may suggest the location."
Another hesitation. ". . . Alright," she said at last. "I'll bring Mr. Anderson. We can meet this evening at the Club Caribe. Do you know it?"
"Yes, quite well. Shall we say seven?"
"I'll be there," said Della. "Thank you, Mr. Mason. Although I still don't understand why you want to meet me."
"I'm afraid I don't, either," Perry said, apologetic. "And I'm afraid if I try to explain it over the phone you won't agree to meet with me at all."
"Now you're being more than cryptic, Mr. Mason. How can I say No? I'll see you at seven."
"Good. Goodbye, Miss Street. I look forward to our meeting."
"Goodbye, Mr. Mason. I'm looking forward to learning what this is all about."
Perry was unaware of the slight smile he bore as he drew the phone away from his ear. Tonight he would meet Della Street. That, and only that, was the thought occupying his mind. It was only when he started the car and began to pull out of the parking lot that the reason for meeting Della Street came back to him. Maybe he would be able to solve this bizarre mystery and put such inane thoughts out of his head. That was why he had decided to seek her out in the first place.
So why was it that after talking with her it seemed a secondary reason?
He sighed, shaking his head.
He glanced at the clock. There was enough time for him to go home and freshen up before their meeting. He would head in that direction.
His car had other ideas. As he started to ease it past the gate and down the sloping hill of the parking garage exit it gathered speed without his permission. Pressing on the brake pedal did not do the slightest bit of good.
His eyes widened in disbelieving shock. The shadow from the garage. . . . Could that person have been tampering with his car?
He had no chance to think further on it. He was going to strike one of several cars crossing his path. In desperation he swerved to the right. The tires squealed in protest. And the horrible sound of metal crunching into metal filled the evening.
xxxx
Della's hand was shaking as she replaced the receiver. This was too much all in one day. Why did Perry Mason continue to enter her life? She had kept thinking about him after seeing that paper. Then Mr. Anderson had brought him up. And then to top it off, he had called her as she walked through the door. Now she had somehow been talked into a dinner date.
But was the man really Perry Mason? Suppose a teacher had overheard her talking with Mr. Anderson and had decided to play a practical joke on her?
She frowned to herself. She did not know why such jokes had been branded practical. There was nothing practical about them, as far as she could tell. And if she was being played for a fool, she would be both furious and mortified.
And oh dear, what had she been thinking? She had volunteered Mr. Anderson to go with her. What if he had other plans?
Well, she could go by herself. The Club Caribe was always busy. There was not much danger of anything happening to her there. Maybe she had volunteered Mr. Anderson's chaperoning services because she had wanted Mr. Mason, or whoever that had been on the phone, to think she had someone already and would not be falling head-over-heels for him, the famous and dashing lawyer.
. . . Except why in the world would she think that was important?
Sighing, she sat down on the couch and grabbed the folder she had brought from the late faculty meeting. It had the names and numbers of all staff members on the top page. And she did not remember Mr. Anderson's number offhand. Soon locating it, she dialed.
"Hello?"
She stayed tense, gripping the folder on her lap as she closed it. "Mr. Anderson? This is Miss Street."
"Oh, Miss Street. What can I do for you?" He sounded genuinely interested. "I'm sorry about that last-minute meeting. It was a surprise on me, too. I hope it didn't inconvenience you too badly."
"Oh no," Della assured him. "This doesn't have anything to do with that." She paused. "Mr. Anderson, I've just done a terrible thing."
A gentle chuckle. "I doubt you're capable of doing something too terrible, Miss Street. But what is it?"
Della bit her lip. "Well . . . I can't imagine what you'll think of how this sounds, Sir, but just as I was coming in the door my telephone was ringing. I rushed over to answer it. The man on the phone identified himself as Perry Mason."
Mr. Anderson's mood changed altogether. "What?"
Della cringed. "I couldn't believe it myself," she said. "And he was very strange on the phone. He said he wanted to meet me in a public location. He also said I could bring a chaperone. He acted very anxious to meet me. So I . . . I told him I'd meet him at the Club Caribe at seven and . . . bring you as a chaperone."
There was a long silence. "You're actually going to meet him?" Mr. Anderson cried then. "It can't possibly be for real. You've never met Perry Mason. He's never met you. He doesn't even know you exist!"
"I know," Della said. "But . . . I can't explain it, Mr. Anderson. I feel like I need to meet with him and find out what he wants. I've felt like I needed to find him since this morning when I picked up that newspaper."
"Miss Street." The worry in the principal's voice was obvious now. "Right after you drove away tonight, a man I've never seen before tried to catch up with you. He said his name was Paul Drake, a detective, and insisted he knew you. This man could have called you posing as Perry Mason."
Della's breath caught in her throat. ". . . Did he say why he thought he knew me?" she asked. Another silence met her ears. "Mr. Anderson, I have a right to know, whatever he said!"
Mr. Anderson let out a shaking breath. "He said you were Perry Mason's confidential secretary and that both of you helped on his cases."
The phone slipped from Della's fingers. She had told no one of her silly feelings from earlier, that she belonged in court taking notes at the defense's table. Her supposed silly feelings. This was far too much coincidence for her liking. Now there was no doubt about it at all—she had to meet Mr. Mason, with or without a chaperone.
"Miss Street? Miss Street, are you still there?"
Della shook herself back to the present and snatched up the phone. "Yes, Mr. Anderson," she said, somehow miraculously keeping her voice steady. "I . . . I'm sorry about volunteering you to come with me. I know it was a terrible thing to do without consulting you first. If you can't make it I understand. But I have to meet that man, whether he's Perry Mason or Paul Drake or someone else."
"No," Mr. Anderson returned. "You did the right thing, Miss Street. Of course I'll come with you, if you feel you have to do this."
"I do," Della said.
"Then I'll pick you in thirty minutes. Will that be enough time?"
"Yes, thank you." Della said goodbye and hung up.
Slowly she rose from the couch. What was she to make of this? If there was anything to it, what was it? She had never had an accident or an illness that had resulted in amnesia. There was not some part of her life that she had forgotten. And yet the life whispered in her feelings and said outright by that detective was something that she had either forgotten or had never had.
The knock on the door made her leap a mile. With a sharp turn she crossed the room to the door. "Who's there?" she demanded. Looking through the peephole did not help; she did not recognize the man standing there.
"It's Paul Drake," came the swift response.
Della stared. "Paul Drake," she whispered to herself. Well, now she knew one thing for sure. It had not been Paul's voice on the telephone.
Quickly she unlocked the door and hauled it open. "Are you a detective?" she greeted before he could say another word.
"Yeah, I am!" Paul stepped closer to the storm door, something akin to hope flickering in his eyes. "Do you remember anything?"
Della kept a firm grip on the wooden door and made no move to unlatch the storm door. "Anything about what?" she queried.
"Anything about anything!" Paul exclaimed with a wild, desperate gesture. "Your life, me, Perry Mason! Heck, even the police or Burger!"
Della hesitated for only another moment. "Tell me about this life and these people," she said, unlocking the storm door and pushing it open. "Please come in."
A grin spread over Paul's features. Taking the door from her he pulled it open the rest of the way and stepped inside. "You don't know how great it is to hear you say that," he said.
xxxx
Tragg stirred, pushing himself up from his chair. He blinked, trying repeatedly to get the sleep out of his eyes. It refused.
Drat it all, he had been asleep again!
He was alone now; Maureen was probably out shopping or maybe at one of her organization's meetings. The dishwasher was going in the kitchen—the only real sign of life in the house that he could hear.
He frowned. Why was he so tired lately? He should not have fallen asleep so early. And he felt lethargic now. He ran a hand over his eyes.
Suddenly he perked up, looking to the phone. Maybe now he should try calling Hamilton to apologize. He probably would not be in the office this late. At least, Tragg hoped not. The last thing he needed was to keep working overtime, after the bizarre things he had been saying. Tragg would try his cellphone first.
Hamilton answered after the first ring. "Hello?" He sounded anxious.
"Mr. Burger, I wanted to let you know I'm sorry for how I acted this afternoon," Tragg said. "I know you're under a terrible strain. I had no right to yell at you and make it worse."
"Tragg, it's alright," Hamilton said, the relief obvious in his voice. "Where are you?"
"I'm at home," Tragg said. The phone beeped. "Oh. Excuse me, Mr. Burger. Someone's trying to call here."
"Of course," Hamilton said. "I can hold on."
"If I don't get back to you in five minutes, you should go ahead and hang up," Tragg said.
He pressed the button for the other line. "Hello?"
"Lieutenant, this is Officer Anderson," came Jimmy Anderson's voice. "I'm out near the Brent building. There's been a serious pileup in front of the parking garage."
Tragg came to attention. "Are there any casualties?"
"Two people are dead, Sir. Several more have been injured." He hesitated. "And I think you'll want to come down here."
"Why?" Tragg demanded. "What else has happened?"
What Jimmy told him next froze his blood. He stiffened, sitting up straight in the chair. "I'll be right out," he promised.
Quickly he pressed the button for Line 1 again. "Mr. Burger? I'm sorry; there's an urgent mess I have to tend to." He paused. "And I think you'll be interested in this one yourself."
"What is it?" Hamilton asked, his tone tense and concerned.
"It seems someone tried to kill Perry Mason," Tragg said. "The brakes were out on his car. He swerved to avoid traffic, the other cars swerved to avoid him, and they all crashed into each other. Well, Mason crashed into a bush near the curb."
Something heavy thumped to the floor on Hamilton's end of the phone. "Where is he?" he cried. "Is he badly hurt?"
"I'm afraid I don't know," Tragg said. "He's been taken to the hospital, though. Central Receiving, I believe."
"Thank you. I'm going there."
Hamilton barely remembered to say goodbye as he fumbled to close his phone and slip it back in his pocket. He had quite accidentally dropped the latest of Mignon's volumes of the occult on the floor when Tragg had given him the news. She had given him a disapproving look before hearing his alarmed query. Now she was standing, coming over to pick up the book herself.
"What's happened?" she asked. "Who's been hurt?"
"Perry," Hamilton told her. "Mignon, I'm sorry, I have to go."
Mignon straightened, the tome in her hands. "You should," she nodded. "Especially if he is, as you say, your friend in the reality we've forgotten."
Hamilton nodded too. "Someone tried to kill him," he said. "Mignon, please be careful. I don't think anyone's safe in this place."
"Then you must take care as well," Mignon said. "If the villains know you remember, they can't be anxious to see you continue to survive."
"Unless they think it's hilarious that I remember," Hamilton muttered. He hastened into the hall and to the front door. "I'll call as soon as I find out what's going on."
Mignon followed him to the doorway, watching in silence as he hurried outside. While he drove off, she turned back to her research. The scant information she had gleaned so far was largely not encouraging. But she would keep looking. There had to be something positive, somewhere along the way.
xxxx
Perry was sitting up in an examination room, disgruntled and in a sore mood, when two sets of footsteps approached.
"He's in here," the doctor's voice said. "Don't worry about him, Mr. Burger; he's already champing at the bit to get out of here. He's fine."
"Thank you, Doctor." The other voice was indeed Hamilton Burger's. Perry watched the door with a confused frown as Hamilton made his way inside.
"Perry, for the love of . . . what's going on?" Hamilton exclaimed in greeting. "Tragg told me someone tried to kill you!"
"Well, they didn't do a very good job," Perry retorted. He slid down from the table, grabbing for his coat and hat. "They got two other people killed instead. I scarcely have a scratch."
Hamilton gawked at him. "Are they letting you go?"
"They haven't told me I have to stay," Perry said. He glanced at the clock. "And I'm late for a very important meeting."
"Now?" Hamilton supposed he should not be surprised. He wasn't, exactly—mostly exasperated. "Perry, you could have been badly hurt. Can't you slow down for just a few hours? You should go home, get some rest!"
"I don't have time!" Perry shot back. "You're the one who started all of this."
Hamilton rocked back. "Me? How am I responsible for what happened to you?"
"You told me about Della Street," Perry said. "Then Paul told me. I finally got hold of her, hoping to get her side of this outrageous story, and she agreed to meet me at the Club Caribe. And I'm almost an hour late!"
Hamilton took a moment to try to process all that he was being told. If Perry was actually going to meet with Della, Hamilton certainly did not want to stand in the way. It could be vitally important. But he also did not want to see Perry run off half-cocked and get himself hurt.
"I can drive you there," he said at last.
Perry peered at him. "Why would you do that?" The suspicion was written on his face and dripping from his voice.
Hamilton shifted, uncomfortable at being put on the spot. "Because . . . oh, nevermind. Come with me and we can talk on the way, if you're interested."
Perry considered it for all of a few seconds. "I'm interested," he said. "Let's go."
xxxx
Della stood from where she had been sitting on the couch, beginning to pace the floor. "I don't know what to say, Mr. Drake," she said. "What you're telling me sounds so incredible. And I don't understand why, if it's true, we just don't remember."
"That makes two of us," Paul sighed. "Della, doesn't anything ring a bell? Anything at all?" He leaned forward, desperately hoping for a positive answer. For the last twenty-five minutes he had been telling Della everything he could think of about the world as it was supposed to be. She had listened with interest but had shown no signs that any of it meant anything to her.
Della hesitated. At last she turned to face Paul again. "I'm sorry," she said. "Nothing sounds familiar in the least, except for the part about me being Mr. Mason's secretary. And even that is nothing more than a vague feeling that may mean nothing."
"It means everything!" Paul cried, throwing his hands in the air. "Della, you and Perry are . . . well, you'd do anything for each other. And I guess whatever went wrong here can't stop either of you from remembering that, somewhere deep down. I just wish it could help you remember the rest, too."
"Well . . ." Della glanced to the door. "Maybe, once I meet Mr. Mason, it will."
The knock on the door made her jump a mile. "Oh dear, that must be Mr. Anderson," she said. "I never did have the chance to really get ready."
"You look fine," Paul said. "Anyway, I thought you didn't want to make the impression that you were interested in more than just talking to Perry."
Della gave him a Look. "That doesn't mean I want to show up looking a complete mess." She debated with herself for only a moment. "I'm going to freshen up. Would you answer the door, please?"
"Me?" Paul exclaimed. But Della was already hurrying down the hall. Heaving a big sigh, and bracing himself for the fireworks, Paul unlocked and opened the door.
Andy immediately stiffened, staring at him. "You!" he burst out. "What are you doing here?"
"Take it easy," Paul said. "I came to talk to Miss Street. Now she's running around getting ready for this meeting with Mr. Mason. I'd tell you how long she'll be, but . . ." He gave a helpless shrug. "I really have no idea."
Andy looked past him and down the hall. "Miss Street?" he called. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Mr. Anderson!" Della called back.
Paul folded his arms. "Satisfied?"
"I suppose I'll have to be," Andy said. "You understand I'm not in favor of this meeting. I feel that someone is playing a cruel joke on Miss Street. Either that or worse."
"A stalker?" Paul supplied. "Look, if anyone's stalking her, I'll be the first to jump in to protect her."
"You'll forgive me if I don't know whether to believe you or not," Andy said. "I don't think too highly of strange people who chase after my teachers feeding them ridiculous stories."
"Why does it have to be ridiculous?" Paul returned.
Andy was taken aback. "Well . . . because things like this just don't happen!" He spread his hands. "An entire group of people can't be made to forget everything, just like that!"
"Hoo boy, I would love to go back to the days when I believed that too," Paul remarked. "Oh, and you might as well come in. Della could be a while, and you're letting in the night air."
Andy stepped inside and shut the door after him. "Thank you."
"So, why did Della pick you to be her chaperone?" Paul inquired. "Is she more than just one of your teachers? If you know what I mean." He hoped not. That would be a disastrous hurdle to get across. Plus, he hated to think how uncomfortable and mortified both Della and Andy would be once they remembered the truth.
"Miss Street and I are friends," Andy said firmly. "That makes her 'more than just one of my teachers', but also isn't what you mean." He narrowed his eyes. "And what about you?"
"We're friends too," Paul said. "The problem is that she doesn't remember it."
"How unfortunate." Andy glanced to the hall. "Miss Street, are you almost ready?" he called. "We just barely have time to make it."
There was no reply. The men exchanged a confused look. "I didn't hear her turn on the shower," Paul said, stepping closer to the hall entrance. "She should've heard you."
Andy went past him. "Miss Street?"
As he neared the back rooms an unfamiliar odor filled the air. He coughed, covering his nose and mouth. "What is this?" He swayed, lightheaded in spite of his efforts.
Paul came up behind him. "Some kind of knockout gas!" he announced, grim. "It might've already got Della."
At that moment the lights went out, plunging them into darkness with the gas—and whoever had implemented it.
xxxx
Perry was frowning as the car pulled up at the Club Caribe. As promised, Hamilton had been trying to explain this supposedly missing life on the way there. By now Perry was not only gravely confused but also less sure than ever of what was going on. Outwardly, however, he tried to mask any doubts.
"Mr. Burger," he spoke. "I can't make sense of what you've been telling me. None of it sounds right."
"Not even about Della?" Hamilton frowned. He turned off the engine.
"She is the one factor I'm unsure of," Perry said. "That is why I arranged this meeting." He glanced at the clock. She had probably already come and gone by this time, assuming that it had all been a prank. It would be much more difficult to get her to come another time. He reached to unlock his door and step out.
"I see," Hamilton said. "Then you don't think anything else could be true."
Perry paused. "Frankly, no," he said. He looked back at the prosecuting attorney. "Particularly that we could ever be on friendly terms. In the world I remember, neither of us would ever dream of such a thing."
Hamilton's eyes flickered with something that looked akin to hurt. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he said.
Perry pushed the door open and climbed out. "I thank you for your assistance, Mr. Burger," he said. "But as far as I'm concerned you helped me solely in order to further this plan of yours, whatever it is." He started walking towards the nightclub.
"Now just a minute!" Hamilton leaped out of the car as well and gave chase. "Alright, there's some truth in that. But you're twisting it all around! It's for your sake as much as anyone else's. You don't remember it now, but you'd never want to stay in this world. You don't belong here; none of us do! What I want is to find the way to get all of us back to our normal lives. Don't tell me you haven't realized that something isn't right here. Perry, someone tried to kill you tonight!"
"And it could have easily been some disgruntled person I met on one of my cases," Perry said. "There's no evidence that it has anything to do with these fables you're telling me. Goodnight." Arriving at the front door, he hauled it open and walked inside.
Hamilton stopped short, his arms dropping to his sides. There was no point in him staying here. Perry was still all but hostile. But, he supposed, he should at least stay to see if Della had waited. Not that Perry would want anything more from him if she hadn't.
Actually, it was strange that Paul had not called him. The last thing Hamilton knew, Paul had located Della's house via the address and was going to talk to her. Hamilton had tried calling him once, but there had been no answer. And there had been no chance to try again.
He blinked in surprise when the door opened again moments later and Perry came out, both dejected and troubled. "What happened?" Hamilton asked. "She didn't wait?"
"No." Perry looked to him. "She never arrived."