The Case of the Horrified Heirs

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Paul Drake was seated in his cubbyhole of an office, at the end of a long, narrow rabbit-warren runway. Fourtelephones were on his desk. A paper plate with part of a hamburger sandwich and a soiled, greasy paper napkin had been pushed to one side.

Drake had a paper container filled with coffee in front of him. He was holding a telephone to his ear and, intermittently, sipping coffee as Mason and Della Street entered.

«All right,» Drake said into the telephone, «stay with it as best you can. Keep in touch with me.»

Drake hung up the telephone, regarded the lawyer and his secretary in dour appraisal, said, «Okay, here you come fairly reeking of filet mignon, baked potatoes, French fried onions, garlic bread and vintage wine. I've gagged down another greasy hamburger sandwich, and already my stomach is beginning to-«

«Forget it,» Mason interrupted. «What did you find out about the motel, Paul?»

«Nothing that'll help,» Drake said. «A man checked in all right, and his bed wasn't slept in. He's probably our man, but the name and address he gave were phony; the license of the car he wrote down was incorrect-«

«But it was an Oldsmobile, wasn't it?» Mason asked.

Drake cocked an eyebrow. «That's right,» he said. «The car was listed as an Olds… They don't usually dare put a wrong make on the register when they're putting down the make of the car; but they do juggle the license numbers around, sometimes transposing the figures and-«

«The description?» Mason asked.

«Nothing worthwhile,» Drake said. «A rather heavyset man with-«

«Dark eyes and a mustache,» Mason said.

Drake raised his eyebrows. «How did you get all of this?»

«It checks,» Mason said.

«Go on,» Drake told him.

Mason said, «Paul, how many contacts do you have? That is, intimate contacts in police circles?»

«Quite a few,» Drake said. «I give them tips; they give me tips. Of course, they wouldn't let me get away with anything. They'd bust me and take my license in a minute if I did anything unethical. If that's what you're leading up to, I-«

«No, no,» Mason said. «What I want is the name of an informer police rely on in dope cases who answers the description of the man who checked in at the Saint's Rest Motel.»

«That might be hard to get,» Drake said.

«And again, it might not,» Mason said. «Whenever they issue a search warrant on the strength of an informer's testimony, or even on the strength of a tip, they have to disclose the source of their information if they want to use the evidence they've picked up. For that reason, there's quite a turnover in informers.

«After an informer becomes too well known, he can't do any more work because the underworld has him spotted as a stool pigeon.

«Now, my best guess is that the man we want has been an informer, has had his identity disclosed to some defense lawyer who, in turn, has tipped off the dope peddlers, and the stool pigeon finds himself temporarily out of a meal ticket.»

«If that's the case,» Drake said, «I can probably find out who he is with the description we have.»

Mason gestured toward the telephones. «Get busy, Paul. We're going down to my office.»

«How strong can I go?» Drake asked.

«Go just as strong as you have to to get results,» Mason told him. «This is a matter of life and death. I want the information and I want it just as fast as I can get it. Put out a dozen men if you have to; get calls through to everybody you know; tell them it's a matter of law enforcement and offer a reward if you have to.»

«Okay,» Drake said, wearily, pushing the paper coffee container to one side, picking up the telephone with his left hand, opening a drawer in the desk with his right, and taking out a bottle of digestive tablets.

«I'll call you as soon as I get anything or, better yet, come down to the office and report.»

Mason nodded. «Come on, Della,» he said, «we'll wait it out.»