Chapter Text
The long oak library table was covered with fat law books, open notebooks, and paper and pencils. Della Street slid her chair out from under it, stood up and stretched her legs.
“Oh boy, Chief. This has been a week. I’m going home, I’m going to bed, and tomorrow I’m going to spend all day on the beach. And I might do it again on Sunday.”
“It’s early for the beach, isn’t it? March?” said Perry, closing the book he was reading and looking up at Della.
“I take a wool blanket,” she said. “Scratching keeps me warm.” Della slid a No. 2 yellow pencil behind her right ear and began to gather up the mess on the table. “I love having the beach to myself, before the tourists come. It’s like… it's like the ocean’s waiting for the summer rush. It’s deserted and lonely and chilly and mysterious.”
“Was it the west coast that called to you in St. Louis?” said Perry, standing up and stacking the volumes.
Della picked up a heavy book from the table. She turned and looked into Perry’s eyes a long moment. “It might have been,” she said. “I thought it was a better job, but it might have been the ocean.”
Della stepped up on a footstool. Perry brought her an armload of books. One by one, she took them from the top of the stack he held in his arms and slid them into place on the shelf.
“Do you want to get a steak before you go?” asked Perry. “It’s almost six.”
“A slow dinner on a Friday evening,” she sighed. “What a nice way to end a wee…”
Before Della could finish her thought, there was a sharp slam and a jolt, as if a train had run into the side of the building. Della nearly fell off the stool. She put a hand on Perry’s shoulder for balance. The room shook; they heard the big lamp in Perry’s office fall off the side table and crash to bits. They heard Gertie yell “Hey!” from her reception desk. Books fell off shelves to the floor. Perry dropped the ones he was holding, lifted Della off the stool, set her down, and then pulled her with him underneath the heavy table. They crouched there while the building trembled for a few more seconds, until the shaking stopped.
“Wha…?” Della said.
“An earthquake,” said Perry. “Welcome to California.”
After waiting a minute, they got out from under the table, stood up, and looked around the room, dazed, expecting it to start shaking again. When it didn’t, they brushed themselves off and straightened their clothes.
“Wow,” said Della, surveying the scattered law books, not knowing what to do next.
“That was a pretty big one.” Perry stepped over the books on the floor and went into the front room. Gertie stood in the center of it, looking around.
“You ok?” said Perry.
Gertie nodded. “Pretty good shake,” she said.
Perry went into the kitchen and turned on the radio.
“We felt it too, folks,” said the announcer. “Dave, gimme that record; no, the other one. Thanks. Ah—forgive us if we’re a little flummoxed. I expect you know how we feel. We’re all in the same boat here in Southern California. Is there anything coming over the ticker, Dave? Dave says no, not yet. No news on where it was or how big it was. But as soon as we know, you’ll know. Until then, this is Bud Hartman at KLRA bringing you Ethel Waters singing Stormy Weather to soothe your nerves.”
Della came into the kitchen carrying a big broken shard of ceramic lamp.
“Good,” said Perry, glancing at the broken pottery while he tuned the radio. “I didn’t like that lamp. The switch sticks.”
“Not any more,” said Della, tossing the piece in the trash.
“Let’s go outside and see how things look,” said Perry. “Gertie,” he called to her in the next room, “wrap it up for the week.”
“Yes sir,” said Gertie.
Perry turned off the radio and came into reception. “You steady enough to get home, Gertie?”
“Don’t be silly. I grew up here,” she said, covering her typewriter.
Perry and Della put on their coats and started for the elevator, then Perry thought better of it and led Della to the stairs.
“Does this happen often?” She asked as they walked down five flights with some of the building’s other tenants.
“Not quite this big,” said Perry.
“In the midwest it’s tornadoes,” said Della. “I’m not sure yet which I prefer.”
Perry and Della came out of the stairwell onto the ground floor. The few people still in the building at six o’clock on a Friday evening were buzzing around the lobby like ants after their nest is kicked over. A group of people clustered by a window with a view of the street, afraid to venture outside. Perry walked up behind them and looked over their heads. There were broken bricks scattered on the sidewalk.
“You feel brave?” Perry asked Della. “It looks a little dangerous out there.”
”Well, uh…” Della began, but Perry took her arm and led her through the crowd and out the cracked glass door. They carefully picked their way over some of the fallen face of the building. Perry looked up and down the walkway.
“What incredible luck nobody was here when these fell,” he said.
Sirens tuned up a few blocks to the west at the fire station. Police horns answered them a few blocks to the east. An ambulance zoomed by.
“Sounds like people weren’t so lucky elsewhere,” said Della.
“I bet the streetcars aren’t running. I’ll drive you home. Will Joan feed us?”
“Are there earthquakes in Los Angeles?” said Della.
It took longer than usual to get from downtown to Santa Monica. There were detours around police cars and debris. A broken water main created a geyser in Culver City. The traffic jammed where a power line fell in the road. On the way they listened to the radio. Bud Hartman was taking calls; most of them were coming in from Long Beach.
“Thanks for listening, folks. We’re hearing from a lot of you. People want to tell us what happened where they are. Next up is a Mrs. Kingman. She’s on the line in Long Beach. That seems to be where it hit big, folks. What are you seeing, Mrs. Kingman?”
“Mr. Hartman… Mr. Hartman, can you hear me?”
“We hear you, Mrs. Kingman. Go ahead.”
“Well, I’m in Long Beach, and I live down the block from Franklin Junior High, and it’s just a pile of bricks now! If the earthquake had happened earlier in the day when that place was full of kids… I don’t even wanna think about it.”
Reports began to trickle in of people killed.
Della and Perry pulled into the parking lot of The Breakers in Santa Monica at about seven, an hour after sunset. They sat and listened to KLRA for ten more minutes before Perry turned off the radio and they went to the cafe. They could still hear Bud Hartman broadcasting. The cooks were listening to him in the kitchen. Joan Adler, the hotel’s owner, was seating diners, and the room was full.
“Did you feel the earthquake today?” Joan said as she led them across the floor to a bistro table.
“We felt it downtown,” said Della. “There was a lot of damage there.”
“We really got it here,” said Joan. “I think we were closer to it than you were. The radio is saying it was centered in Long Beach. I considered closing the restaurant tonight, but I have a big party coming in for the weekend.”
“Is the kitchen damaged?” asked Della.
“Not much. We’re working around it,” said Joan. “Your plates might not match.” Joan handed them menus.
Della and Perry settled in at a small table with a single yellow daisy in a bud vase in the center. A large woman at the next table leaned over to Della.
“Have you been here before?” she asked. “The food is marvellous!”
“Yes. I live here,” said Della.
“Oh you lucky thing!” said the woman. She cut her eyes at Perry. “Is that… ?”
“In the flesh,” said Della. The woman winked at her and turned back around. Della smiled at Perry and Perry actually blushed.
They opened their menus and just as they began to focus on the print, the lights flickered and went out.
“Oh!” said everyone at once as the cafe went dark. After a bit, their eyes adjusted to the moonlight pouring in through the picture windows and bouncing off the white walls and the table cloths.
Joan stood in the center of the room. “Listen folks,” she announced, “let's wait ten minutes. If the lights don’t come back up, dinner’s on the house,” the diners applauded. “But I’m not sure what it will be.”
Everybody laughed.
“The chef and I will figure it out. In the meantime, we’re handing out candles.”
The staff quickly got candles on all the tables. Everything looked beautiful in the soft light. Della caught Joan’s arm as she went by. “Do you need help?” she said.
“No. Enjoy your dinner” said Joan. “For once I’m staffed up. How would you feel about eating fish sandwiches? I’m loaded with fish and suddenly I have no icebox.”
“Fine with me,” said Perry.
“You think everybody will go for it? It’s free.”
“Who would come to a seaside restaurant who doesn’t want fish?” said Della.
Despite the earthquake and the power outage, or because of them, it was a lovely evening in the candlelight, with Joan’s attentive staff, and the sound of the ocean crashing on the beach. The fish sandwiches arrived with pickles and tapioca pudding for dessert.
“Thank God we baked all that fish this afternoon,” said Joan, as she put a water pitcher full of wine on the table for Perry and Della.
After dinner Della walked Perry to his car. Perry put the rag top up and fastened it to the windshield, then they stood together at the driver’s side door. Perry took Della’s hand.
“You want to walk on the beach before I go?” he said. “With that big moon, and all the lights out?” He put his arms around her waist.
“We can talk about tomorrow,” said Della, laying her hands on his chest. “What are you doing? You want to come to the beach with me?”
Just then Joan came out of the side door of the hotel and called into the moonlit parking lot, “Perry Mason! Are you still here?”
“Yes, Mrs. Adler,” Perry called back.
“Telephone for you!” said Joan.
“I have a feeling the beach is off for tomorrow,” said Perry. He held Della’s hand as they walked back into the hotel.
A candle burned in a niche in the hallway, illuminating the hotel’s lobby phone, an old cast-iron candlestick model. Perry picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Perry, is that you? It’s Paul.”
“Hi Paul. What’s up?”
“Did you feel the earthquake?”
“Sure.”
“So did I. So did Alton Carter, though he felt it a little more keenly than we did.”
“What do you mean, Paul? Who’s Alton Carter?”
“He’s a client of mine. He works for the county on the oil and gas commission. I mean he worked for the county. He’s dead.”
“How?”
“Long Beach City Hall fell on him,” said Paul.
“In the earthquake?”
“Well, that’s what somebody would like us to believe.”
“You think somebody killed him?”
“I do, but the police don’t, because they don’t know what Alton Carter was working on.”
“What was he working on, Paul?”
“I’d rather not say over the phone. I know tomorrow’s Saturday, Perry, but can I see you?”
“You want to meet at the office?”
“It would be simpler. If I come to your apartment and tell you what the deal is, you’re just going to want to go to the office.”
“You sure you don’t want me to come downtown tonight?”
“No, it’ll keep overnight. It won’t keep until Monday, but it’ll keep for a few hours.”
“All right, Paul. See you in my office at nine.”
“Thanks, Perry. And Perry…”
“Yes, Paul?”
“Brace yourself.”