The Case of the Crooked Candle

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Perry Mason pushed open the door of his private office, smiled at Della Street who was dusting the corners of his desk with secretarial solicitude.

“Good morning Chief,” she said.

Mason gravely deposited hat in the hat closet, walked over to the desk and looked down at the mail, neatly arranged in three piles, on the first of which was a placard, “Should be read-needs no answer.” The second pile was labeled, “Must be read, but can be answered without necessity of your dictation.” The third pile consisted of some half dozen letters which had been marked, “Must be read and answered by you personally.”

Della Street entered her secretarial office which adjoined that of Perry Mason’s. She dropped the dust cloth in a drawer in her desk, returned to Mason’s office, and dropping her shorthand notebook over her crossed knee, held a pencil poised, waiting for Mason to begin dictating.

Mason started with the pile of letters demanding his personal attention, read through the first one, paused to look out of the window, and then, with his eyes fastened upon the Southern California cloudless sky, said abruptly. “It’s Friday, Della.”

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