The Case of the Baited Hook Read online

  ERLE STANLEY GARDNER (1889-1970) was the best-selling American author of the 20th century, mainly due to the enormous success of his Perry Mason series, which numbered more than 80 novels and inspired a half-dozen motion pictures, radio programs, and a long-running television series that starred Raymond Burr. Having begun his career as a pulp writer, Gardner brought a hard-boiled style and sensibility to the early Mason books, but gradually developed into a more classic detective story novelist, showing enough clues to allow the astute reader to solve the mystery. For more than a quarter of a century he wrote more than a million words a year under his own name and numerous pseudonyms, the most famous being A.A. Fair.

  OTTO PENZLER, the creator of American Mystery Classics, is also the founder of the Mysterious Press (1975), a literary crime imprint now associated with Grove/Atlantic; MysteriousPress.com (2011), an electronic-book publishing company; and New York City’s Mysterious Bookshop (1979). He has won a Raven, the Ellery Queen Award, two Edgars (for the Encyclopedia of Mystery and Detection, 1977, and The Lineup, 2010), and lifetime achievement awards from NoirCon and The Strand Magazine. He has edited more than 70 anthologies and written extensively about mystery fiction.

  THE CASE OF THE

  BAITED HOOK

  ERLE STANLEY

  GARDNER

  Introduction by

  OTTO

  PENZLER

  AMERICAN

  MYSTERY

  CLASSICS

  Penzler Publishers

  New York

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  THE CASE OF

  THE BAITED HOOK

  INTRODUCTION

  On several occasions, Erle Stanley Gardner said, “I’m no writer.”

  There were numerous voices who felt differently. In 1934, only a year after his first novel, The Case of the Velvet Claws, was published, G.K. Chesterton wrote admiringly of his work. Sinclair Lewis, in an article on writers in 1937, wrote, “. . . the magicians are the authors of literate detective stories: Agatha Christie, Francis Iles, Erle Stanley Gardner, H.C. Bailey.” The mystery aficionado W. Somerset Maugham in the early 1940s wrote that he read “Dashiell Hammett and Bret Halliday for rough stuff; Rex Stout, Ellery Queen, Gardner, Christie, and H.C. Bailey.” In the same decades, the Time magazine reviewer of The Case of the Cautious Coquette quoted Evelyn Waugh, a close friend of Graham Greene, as saying he wished he could “write whodunits like Erle Stanley Gardner and Margery Allingham.”

  To talk about Gardner, it is inevitable that large numbers come into play. Here are a few:

  •86—Number of Perry Mason books; eighty-two novels, four short story collections.

  •130—Number of mystery novels written by Gardner.

  •1,200,000—The number of words that Gardner wrote annually during most of the 1920s and 1930s. That is a novel a month, plus a stack of short stories, for a fifteen-year stretch.

  •2,400,000—The number of words Gardner wrote in his most productive year, 1932.

  •300,000,000—The number of books Gardner has sold in the United States alone, making him the best-selling writer in the history of American literature.

  What cannot be quantified is what magic resided in that indefatigable brain that made so many millions of readers come back, book after book, for more of the same. Not that it was the same.

  The Perry Mason series had a template, a model, a formula, if you like. But the series changed dramatically over the years. Gardner started his career as a writer for the pulp magazines that flourished in the 1920s and 1930s. Authors were famously paid a penny a word by most of the pulps, but the top writers in the top magazines managed to get all the way up to three cents a word. This munificent fee was reserved for the best of the best of their time, some of whom remain popular and successful to the present day (Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Cornell Woolrich), some of whom are remembered and read mostly by the modest coterie that avidly reads and collects pulp fiction (Carroll John Daly, Arthur Leo Zagat, Arthur J. Burks). One who earned the big bucks regularly, especially when he wrote for Black Mask, the greatest of the pulps, was Erle Stanley Gardner.

  Gardner had learned and honed his craft in the pulps, so it is not surprising that the earliest Perry Mason novels were hard-boiled, tough-guy books, with Mason as a fearless, two-fisted battler, rather than the calm, self-possessed figure that most readers remember today. Reading the first Mason novels, The Case of the Velvet Claws, published in 1933, and The Case of the Careless Kitten, published twenty years later, it is difficult to remember that they were written by the same author. Both styles, by the way, were first-rate, just different.

  Gardner was born in Malden, Massachusetts, in 1889. Because his father was a mining engineer, he traveled often as a child. As a teenager, he participated in professional boxing as well as promoting unlicensed matches, placing himself at risk of criminal prosecution, which gave him an interest in the law. He took a job as a typist at a California law firm and after reading law for fifty hours a week for three years, he was admitted to the California bar. He practiced in Oxnard from 1911 to 1918, gaining a reputation as a champion of the underdog through his defense of poor Mexican and Chinese clients.

  He left to become a tire salesman in order to earn more money but he missed the courtroom and joined another law firm in 1921. It is then that he started to write fiction, hoping that he could augment his modest income. He worked a full day at court, followed that with several hours of research in the law library, then went home to write fiction into the small hours, setting a goal of at least 4,000 words a day. He sold two stories in 1921, none in 1922, and only one in 1923, but it was to the prestigious Black Mask. The following year, thirteen of his stories saw print, five of them in Black Mask. Over the next decade he wrote nearly fifteen million words and sold hundreds of stories, many pseudonymously so that he could have multiple stories in a single magazine, each under a different name.

  In 1932, he finally took a vacation, an extended trip to China, since he had become so financially successful. That is also the year in which he began to submit his first novel, The Case of the Velvet Claws. It was rejected by several publishers before William Morrow took it, and Gardner published every mystery with that house for the rest of his life. Thayer Hobson, then the president of Morrow, suggested that the protagonist of that book, Perry Mason, should become a series character and Gardner agreed.

  The Mason novels became an immediate success so Gardner resigned from his law practice to devote full time to writing. He was eager to have privacy so acquired parcels of land in the Southwest and eventually settled into the “Gardner Fiction Factory” on a thousand-acre ranch in Temecula, California. The ranch had a dozen guest cottages and trailers to house his support staff of twenty employees, all of whom are reported to have called him “Uncle Erle.” Among them were six secretaries, all working full time, transcribing his dictated novels, non-fiction books and articles, and correspondence.

  He was intensely interested in prison conditions and was a strong advocate of reform. In 1948, he formed the Court of Last Resort, a private organization dedicated to helping those believed to have been unfairly incarcerated. The group succeeded in freeing many unjustly convicted men and Gardner wrote a book, The Court of Last Resort, describing the group’s work; it won an
Edgar for the best fact crime book of the year.

  In the 1960s, Gardner became alarmed at some changes in American literature. He told the New York Times, “I have always aimed my fiction at the masses who constitute the solid backbone of America, I have tried to keep faith with the American family. In a day when the prevailing mystery story trends are towards sex, sadism, and seduction, I try to base my stories on speed, situation, and suspense.”

  While Gardner wrote prolifically about a wide variety of characters under many pseudonyms, most notably thirty novels about Bertha Cook and Donald Lam under the nom de plume A.A. Fair, all his books give evidence of clearly identifiable characteristics. There is a minimum of description and a maximum of dialogue. This was carried to a logical conclusion in the lengthy courtroom interrogations of the Perry Mason series. Mason and Gardner’s other heroes are not averse to breaking the exact letter of the law in order to secure what they consider to be justice. They share contempt for pomposity. Villains or deserving victims are often self-important, wealthy individuals who can usually be identified because Gardner has given them two last names (such as Harrington Faulkner).

  Mason’s clients usually have something to hide and, although they are ultimately proven innocent, their secretiveness makes them appear suspect.

  Clues often take a back seat in the Perry Mason books, with crisp dialogue and hectic action taking the forefront—a structure clearly adopted from his days as a pulp writer. Crime and motivation are not paragons of originality as Gardner wanted readers to identify with his characters.

  Much like the Sherlock Holmes and Nero Wolfe stories, the Perry Mason novels also feature certain other characters on a regular basis. The most prominent is Della Street, Mason’s secretary and the love of his life. Knowing that Mason would not allow her to work, she has refused his marriage proposals on five separate occasions. She has, however, remained steadfastly loyal, risking her life and freedom on his behalf; she has been arrested five times while performing her job.

  Also present at all times is Paul Drake, the private detective who handles the lawyer’s investigative work. He is invariably at Mason’s side in times of stress, though he frequently complains that the work is bad for his digestion.

  Hamilton Burger is the district attorney whose office has never successfully prosecuted one of Mason’s clients. In a large percentage of those cases, the client was arrested through the efforts of the attorney’s implacable (albeit friendly) foe, Lieutenant Arthur Tragg.

  Although Mason is invariably well-prepared, he is so skilled at courtroom procedure that he can think on his feet and ask just the right question to befuddle a witness, embarrass a prosecutor, and exonerate a client.

  The staggering popularity of the Perry Mason novels inevitably led to him being portrayed in other media, including six motion pictures in the 1930s, a successful radio series in the 1940s, and a top-rated television series starring Raymond Burr that began in 1957 and ran for a decade. More than a half-century later, it is still a staple of late-night television re-runs.

  The only two people in the city who have Perry Mason’s private, unlisted telephone number are Della Street and Paul Drake, so when the phone rings in the middle of the night, he knows something serious is afoot. This is how The Case of the Baited Hook, first published in 1940, begins, and it becomes even more colorful when his potential client induces him to meet immediately by telling Mason he has two one-thousand-dollar bills tha the will give him as a retainer, with the promise of an additional ten-thousand dollars whenever he is called on to represent him.

  When Mason finally is asked to take a case, it is not for the caller but for a beautiful woman whose identity is hidden behind a mask. Mason is none too pleased to try to defend someone whose name he doesn’t know—just the opening stages of one of the most complex and challenging cases he’s ever had to handle.

  —OTTO PENZLER

  1.

  TWO PERSONS in the city had the number of Perry Mason’s private, unlisted telephone. One was Della Street, Mason’s secretary, and the other Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency.

  It was early in March, a blustery night with rain pelting at intervals against the windows. Wind howled around the cornices and fought its way through the narrow openings in the windows to billow the lace curtains of Mason’s apartment into weird shapes which alternately blossomed into white ghosts, collapsed, and dropped limply back against the casements.

  Mason fought off the heavy lethargy of that deep sleep which comes during the first part of the night, to grope for the ringing telephone.

  The instrument momentarily eluded his sleep-deadened fingers.

  Mason’s right hand found the chain which dangled from the light over his bed. At the same time, his left, reaching for the telephone, became entangled with the cord and knocked the instrument to the floor.

  Now thoroughly awake, he retrieved the telephone, placed the receiver to his ear, and said, “My gosh, Della, why don’t you go to bed at a decent hour?”

  A man’s voice said, “Mr. Mason?”

  Surprised, Mason said, “Yes. Who is it?”

  The voice said crisply, “You are talking with Cash.”

  Mason sat up in bed, bolstering himself against the pillow. “That’s nice,” he said. “How’s Carry?”

  For a moment the voice was puzzled. “Carrie?” it asked. “I don’t know to whom you refer.”

  “Come, come,” Mason said amiably. “If you’re Cash, you must know Carry.”

  “Oh, a pun,” the voice said with the offended dignity of a man who has no sense of humor. “I didn’t understand at first.”

  “What,” Mason asked, “do you want?”

  “I want to come to your office.”

  “And I,” Mason said, “want to stay in bed.”

  The man at the other end of the line said, carefully clipping his words, “I have two one-thousand-dollar bills in my wallet, Mr. Mason. If you will come to your office and accept the employment I have to offer, I will give you those two one-thousand-dollar bills as a retainer. I will also arrange for a further payment of ten thousand dollars whenever you are called upon to take any action in my behalf.”

  “Murder?” Mason asked.

  The voice hesitated for a moment, then said, “No.”

  “Let me have your full name.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s impossible.”

  Mason said irritably, “It only costs ten cents to put through a telephone call and talk big money. Before I go to the office I want to know with whom I’m dealing.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the voice said, “This is John L. Cragmore.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “5619 Union Drive.”

  Mason said, “Okay. It’ll take me twenty minutes to get there. Can you be there by that time?”

  “Yes,” the man said, and added courteously, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Mason,” and hung up the telephone.

  Mason scrambled out of bed, closed the windows, and picked up the telephone directory. There was no Cragmore listed at the address given on Union Drive.

  Mason dialed the number of the Drake Detective Agency. A night operative said in a bored monotone, “Drake Detective Agency.”

  “Mason talking,” the lawyer said crisply. “I have an appointment in twenty minutes at my office. The man will probably drive up in a car. Put an operative at each end of the block. Check the license numbers of any cars that park anywhere in the block. Get all the dope you can, and have it ready when I call. I’ll drop in at your place just before I go to my office.”

  Mason hung up the telephone, stripped off his pajamas, and hurriedly pulled on his clothes, noticing as he dressed that his wrist watch gave the hour as ten minutes past midnight. He ran a comb through the tangled mass of hair, struggled into a raincoat, gave a hasty look about the apartment, and paused to telephone the night clerk to have the hotel garage deliver his car. He switched off the lights, pulled the door shut, and rang for the ele
vator.

  The Negro elevator boy looked at him curiously. “Rainin’ pow’ful hard, Mista Mason.”

  “Cats and dogs?” Mason asked.

  The boy flashed white teeth. “No, suh. Ducks and drakes. You goin’ out some place, suh?”

  “There is,” Mason announced, “no rest for the wicked.”

  The boy rolled his eyes. “Meanin’ you’s wicked?” he asked.

  “No,” Mason said with a grin, as the elevator slid to a smooth stop at the lobby floor. “My clients are.”

  He greeted the night clerk on duty at the desk, said, “You got my message through to the garage man?”

  “Yes, Mr. Mason. Your car will be waiting. Pretty wild night.”

  Mason nodded absently, tossed his key to the desk, and strode across to the stairway which led to the garage, the skirts of his raincoat kicked about by the long strides of his legs. The clerk watched him curiously, the extent of his interest shown by the manner in which he weighed Mason’s key in his hand before placing it in the proper receptacle.

  The lawyer acknowledged the greeting of the garage man, slid in behind the wheel of his big coupe, and sent it roaring up the spiral ramp of the garage. As he left the shelter of the garage, the wind swooped down upon him. Sheeted rain beat solidly on the body of the car, streamed down the windshield. Mason turned on the windshield wiper, shifted cautiously into second, and eased the wheels through the curb-high flood at the gutter.

  The headlights reflected back from miniature geysers of water mushrooming up from the pavement ahead. Mason eased the car into high gear and settled down to the chore of driving through the rain-swept, all but deserted streets.

  He noticed that there were no cars parked in the block in front of his office building. Over in the parking station, where Mason rented a regular stall, were two of the nondescript cars of the Drake Detective Agency, and no others. He parked and locked his automobile, and stepped out into the storm. Rain beat against his face, cascaded in rivulets from his raincoat, spattered against his ankles. Mason, who detested umbrellas, shoved his hands down deep into the pockets of his raincoat, lowered his head against the force of the storm, and sloshed through the puddles which had collected in the parking place, to push against the swinging door in the lighted lobby of his office building.