Case of the Silent Partner

Chapter 3

At eleven-thirty, Perry Mason unlocked the door of his private office, held it open for Della Street. “No need for you to wait, Della,” he said. “That brief took less time than I thought it would. I’ll sit around and read the advance decisions until one.”

“I want to wait.”

Mason hung up his hat and coat. “There’s nothing you can do. I’ll talk with her and...”

“No,” she interrupted. “I have to stay now. I just had a cup of coffee. That means I can’t sleep for an hour and a half.”

Mason stretched himself in his swivel chair. His motions held none of the awkwardness characteristic of many tall men who have long bones and rangy figures. And many a witness, misled by Mason’s casual manner, fabricating a story on the witness stand with every assurance that his prevarications were completely concealed, suddenly found himself facing a pair of granite-hard eyes, and realized only too late the savage belligerency with which Mason could bear down on a perjurer, the rapier-like thrusts of his agile mind.

But, for the most part, it pleased Mason to assume a good-natured, easy-going attitude of careless informality. He disliked the conventional ways of doing things, and this dislike showed in his manner and his handling of lawsuits.

Della Street, his secretary, had learned to know his various moods. Between them existed that rare companionship which is the outgrowth of two congenial people devoting themselves to a common cause. When the going got rough, they were able to function with the perfect co-ordination of a well-trained football team.

Mason tilted his swivel chair back, and crossed his ankles on the corner of the desk.

“You should have let her call during office hours,” Della said. “You’ve had a hard day, and then with all that dictation on top of it...”

Mason disposed of her comment with a gesture. “Not this case. She sounds as though she’s in real trouble.”

“Why, how do you know? You didn’t even listen over the telephone.”

“I saw your face,” he said.

“Well, she did impress me, but even so, I don’t see why it wouldn’t keep until tomorrow.”

“A lawyer is very much like a doctor,” Mason pointed out. “A doctor devotes his life to easing a person’s body. A lawyer devotes his to easing their minds. The machinery of justice is very apt to get out of gear if it isn’t kept well oiled and running smoothly. Lawyers are the engineers.”

Mason took a cigarette, offered Della Street one, and they lit them from the same match. Mason, tired from the hard day, settled back in his chair and relaxed in the luxury of complete silence.

After some five minutes, he said musingly, “One of the first things a professional man has to learn is that the person who makes the most urgent demands on his time is usually the one who doesn’t intend to pay. But I don’t think this will be one of those cases.”

“You mean that’s a general rule?” Della Street asked.

“Absolutely. The man who expects to pay a lawyer for his time wants to get off as cheaply as possible. Therefore, he never calls on the lawyer for extraordinary services unless it’s absolutely necessary. The man who doesn’t intend to pay doesn’t give a hoot about the size of the bill. Therefore, he’s perfectly willing to call the lawyer at all hours of the night, ask him to give up a golf game on Saturday afternoons, or come to the office on Sundays. It’s always the same.”

“Well, if she’s like that,” Della Street said, “we’ll just send her a bill for five hundred dollars.”

Mason said, “Let’s try to get her on the phone, tell her I finished with my brief earlier than I expected, and that if she wants to advance the appointment by an hour, it’ll be all right with us.”

The telephone rang, just as Mason finished talking.

Della picked up the receiver, said, “Hello... Yes, this is Mr. Mason’s office... Can’t you speak more clearly?... Who is it?... What’s that name?”

She turned to Perry Mason and cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “She’s drunk,” she said.

“The Faulkner woman?” Mason asked.

“No. Esther Dilmeyer.”

“Oh, yes,” Mason said. “The witness. Let me talk with her.”

Della handed him the phone.

Mason said, “Hello. What is it, Miss Dilmeyer?”

The voice that came to him over the telephone was so thick that it was with difficulty he could understand what she was saying.

“Promised come your office... Can’t... Poisoned.”

“What’s that?” Mason asked sharply.

“Poisoned,” the voice said wearily. “They got me.”

Mason’s eyes glinted. “What’s that? You’re poisoned?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re not drunk?”

“Not tonight... thought I was smart... They got me first.”

“Where are you?”

The words came with an effort, interspersed with intervals of heavy breathing. “Apartment... Box of candy... ate... sick... Can’t... Can’t... Please send help... Get police... Get... Get...” The conversation terminated in a crash as though the telephone had been dropped to the floor. Mason said, “Hello. Hello,” and heard nothing. Then, after a moment, the receiver clicked into place at the other end of the line.

Della had dashed from the office the minute Mason said, “Poisoned,” to plug in on the switchboard and ask the exchange operator to trace the call, but she was too late. The receiver had been hung up at the other end before Della had finished explaining what was wanted. She waited at the switchboard long enough to learn that there was no possibility of tracing the call, then came back to Mason’s private office.

“What was it?” she asked.

“She says someone sent her a box of candy, that she ate the candy, and was poisoned. She certainly sounds sick or drunk. Now the question is, what’s her address, where is she? See if there’s a Dilmeyer listed in the telephone book.”

Della thumbed through the pages of the telephone book.

“No, there isn’t.”

Mason looked at his watch. “That Faulkner woman should know where she is. See if you can get her on the phone.”

Mildreth Faulkner was listed at her residence address, and the Faulkner Flower Shops were listed. Della finally got a response on the residence phone. A somewhat sleepy high-pitched voice said, “Hello. What is it?”

“Is this Miss Mildreth Faulkner’s residence?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“I want to speak with Miss Faulkner. It’s very important.”

“She ain’t here.”

“Do you know where I can reach her?”

“No.”

“When do you expect her in?”

“I don’t know. She don’t tell me when she’s coming in, and I don’t ask her.”

“Wait a minute,” Della said. “Don’t hang up. Do you know a Miss Dilmeyer — Esther Dilmeyer?”

“No.”

“It’s very important we find out her address.”

“Well, I don’t know. And don’t ring me up at this hour of the night to ask foolish questions.”

The receiver banged indignantly.

Della shook her head at Mason.

Mason said, “Miss Faulkner isn’t due until one?”

“No.”

“We’ve got to locate that Dilmeyer woman. That call sounded genuine to me.” He pushed the papers he had been using in dictating his brief to one side and said, “Police headquarters, Della.”

A moment later, when she had headquarters on the line, Mason said, “This is Perry Mason. I had a call a few minutes ago from an Esther Dilmeyer. She said that she was at an apartment. I presume it’s an apartment where she lives, but she didn’t say so. I don’t know the address. I don’t know anything about her, except that I had an appointment with her for one o’clock this morning. She was to be at my office. She’s a witness in connection with some matter. I don’t know just what it is.

“Now get this straight. She said over the telephone that someone had sent her a box of poisoned candy. She sounded very ill. Her speech was thick, and apparently she either fell over or the telephone slipped from her hand as she was talking. Then the receiver was dropped back into place. She seemed to think she’d been poisoned to keep her from talking.”

“You can’t give us an address?”

“No.”

“Well, we’ll try and look her up. We’ll see if she’s registered as a voter. That’s about all we can do.”

Mason said, “Call back and let me know if you find anything, will you?”

“Okay, but if we haven’t got an address, there’s nothing we can do... Where are you?”

“I’m at my office.”

“You’ll be there until we call?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, we’ll call back.”

Mason hung up the telephone, pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and stood with his hands pushed down deep into his trousers pockets. “This thing’s goofy, Della,” he said. “I don’t think the police are going to do anything. Of course, they may find her in the voters’ register... Miss Faulkner didn’t say what she was a witness to?”

“No.”

“Think back on that conversation. See if you can...”

“Wait a minute,” Della said. “She was calling from a nightclub somewhere. I could hear the sound of an orchestra. It... Wait a minute now. I remember hearing the background of music. It was... Chief, I’ll bet it was Haualeoma’s Hawaiians. I could get the background of Hawaiian music, and they were playing an Island song that I heard a couple of weeks ago when they were on the radio.”

“Well, it’s a lead,” Mason said. “How could we go about finding out where they’re playing?”

She said, “I think I can find out. I’ll go out and play tunes on the switchboard. See if you can think of any other way of getting the address.”

Della went out to the switchboard. Mason hooked his thumbs through the armholes of his vest, and paced the floor, his head dropped forward in thought.

Della came running into the office within little more than a minute. “Got it, Chief,” she said.

“Her address?”

“I think we can get it.”

“What is it?”

“The Hawaiians are at the Golden Horn. That’s a nightclub. I rang up the club and asked if they knew an Esther Dilmeyer. The hat-check girl said she did. She said that Esther Dilmeyer had been there this evening, but had left early, saying she had a headache. I asked her if she knew a Miss Faulkner, and she said she didn’t. I asked how we could find Miss Dilmeyer’s address, and she said she didn’t know, that she thought Mr. Lynk, one of the proprietors, knew where she lived, but Mr. Lynk is out tonight, and couldn’t be reached.”

“You told her it was important?”

“Yes, I told her it was a matter of life and death.”

Mason said. “Okay, Della. Get me police headquarters. See if you can get... Let’s see...”

“Lieutenant Tragg?” she asked.

“Yes, they’ve just put him on Homicide, and he’s a live wire.”

“Weren’t you responsible for Holcomb’s transfer?” she asked as she put in the call.

A smile twisted the corners of his mouth. “Holcomb was responsible for that himself,” he said. “A damned, opinionated, obstinate...”

“Here’s Lieutenant Tragg on the line.”

Mason said, “Hello, Lieutenant. This is Perry Mason.”

“Well, well, this is a surprise! Don’t tell me you’ve discovered another corpse.”

“I may have at that.”

Lieutenant Tragg’s voice became crisply businesslike. “What is it?”

Mason said, “I had an appointment for one o’clock with an Esther Dilmeyer. She’s a witness in a case. I don’t know exactly what it is. I’ve never met her. She rang up about ten minutes ago, and could barely talk over the telephone. She said she’d been poisoned. Someone had sent her poisoned candy. She certainly sounded about ready to pass out. Evidently the telephone either slipped from her hands and fell, or she keeled over while she was talking to me. Then the receiver was hung up before I could trace the call.”

“You don’t know where she is?”

Mason said, “I’m coming to that. Della Street, my secretary, did some fast thinking and some good detective work. I won’t take time to tell you about it, but the result is that she got a lead into the Golden Horn. That’s a nightclub. Esther Dilmeyer is known there, and was there this evening, but apparently the under-lings don’t know her address. Lynk, who runs the place, does, but he’s out. That’s the story in a nutshell. What do you say?”

“Sounds like quite a bit of smoke,” Lieutenant Tragg said. “There may be some fire. But we haven’t a heck of a lot to go on.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t tell you,” Mason said. “If someone finds her body tomorrow morning, and...”

“Wait a minute,” Tragg interrupted. “Hold your horses. Where are you now?”

“At the office.”

“Want to take a run around to the Golden Horn?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be by for you in about five minutes,” Tragg said. “If you can be waiting down on the sidewalk, it’ll save that much time.”

“Think we can do anything by telephone?”

“I doubt it,” Tragg said. “It won’t take over a few minutes to get there. Be all ready to jump in when you hear the siren, because I’ll cut her loose.”

Mason said, “I’ll be down there,” hung up the telephone, ran to the coat closet, and grabbed his hat and coat. “Okay, Della,” he said, “you hold down the office. I may call in a little later.”

It took a minute or two for the elevator to get up to Mason’s floor. The night watchman dropped him to the street level, and Mason had less than a minute to wait at the curb before he heard the scream of a siren, saw the blood-red glare of a spotlight, and then Lieutenant Tragg was skidding a police sedan in close to the curb.

Mason jerked the door open and jumped in. Tragg accelerated the car into such swift speed that Mason’s head was jerked back as the machine lurched forward.

Lieutenant Tragg said nothing, but concentrated on driving traffic. He was about Mason’s age. His features stood out in sharply etched lines. His forehead was high, his eyes keen and thoughtful, an entirely different type from Sergeant Holcomb. Mason, studying the profile as the car screamed through the streets, realized that this man could be a very dangerous antagonist indeed.

“Hang on,” Tragg warned as the car screamed in a turn.

He was, Mason saw, enjoying the excitement of tearing through traffic with siren screaming and motor roaring, but, with it all, the man was as cool and detached as a surgeon performing a delicate operation. His face showed complete concentration and an entire lack of nervousness.

Tragg slid to a stop in front of the Golden Horn. The two men debouched from the car and ran across the sidewalk. A big doorman, resplendent with uniform, barred their way. “What’s it all about?” he asked, his drawl a contemptuous challenge to their haste.

Tragg promptly shouldered him to one side. The doorman hesitated a moment as though debating whether to try to detain the officer, then dashed for a speaking tube built into the wall. He whistled three times sharply.

Tragg led the way into the nightclub.

“The hat-check girl knows something,” Mason said.

Tragg moved over to the counter, showed her his star. “Esther Dilmeyer,” he said. “Where can we find her?”

“Gosh, Mister, I don’t know. Someone was asking over the telephone awhile back.”

“You know her?”

“Yes.”

“Does she work here?”

“Well, in a way. She hangs out here.”

“Gets a commission on business she develops?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Who would?”

“Mr. Magard or Mr. Lynk.”

“Where are they?”

“Mr. Lynk is out tonight, and I don’t know where Magard is. I tried to locate him after the young woman telephoned, but I couldn’t find him.”

“This place supposed to run without anyone in charge?”

“Ordinarily, one or the other of them is here. Tonight it just happens they’re both out.”

“Who else would know? The cashier? Some of the waiters?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve made inquiries. I tell you who I think would.”

“Who?”

“Sindler Coll.”

“Who’s he?”

“Her boy friend.”

“Living with her?” The hat-check girl shifted her eyes. “Come on, sister. Don’t be coy. You heard what I said.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Where do we find Coll?”

“I think the cashier has his address. He cashes a check here once in a while.” Lieutenant Tragg said, “Thanks. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, sister, as well as a pretty one. Come on, Mason.”

They skirted the dance floor, and pushed past the crowded couples moving slowly to the rhythm of the music. Tragg asked directions from a waiter, and walked on to find the cashier in a cage between the dining room and the nightclub.

Tragg showed her his star. “You know a Sindler Coll?”

She stared at him, hesitating, apparently debating on a course of action.

“Come on,” Tragg said. “Look alive. Do you know him?”

“Y-y-y-yes.”

“Where can we find him?”

“I don’t know. What’s he done?”

“Nothing, so far as I know.”

“What do you want him for?”

“Listen, sister, I haven’t got time to give you a bunch of history. I want Coll, and I want him fast. What’s his address?”

“He’s at the Everglade Apartments.”

“What apartment?”

“Just a minute.”

She opened a drawer and took out an address book. Her fingers trembled nervously as she turned the pages.

“Don’t happen to have the address of Esther Dilmeyer in there, do you?”

“No. The hat-check girl was asking a few minutes ago. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Tragg said, “just give us Coll’s address, and make it snappy.”

“It’s on the second floor, Everglade Apartments, 209.”

“Got a telephone?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t his number here.”

“You know him when you see him, do you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“He hasn’t been in here tonight?”

“No.”

“Would you have seen him if he had been?”

“Yes.”

“Do you usually see the customers that come in here?”

“Well... Not all of them, but...”

“I see. Coll’s someone in particular, eh?”

“Well, he drops in once in a while,” she said, her cheeks showing color beneath the patches of rouge.

Tragg said to Mason, “Well, we’ll try Coll at the Everglade Apartments... Listen, sister, who’s running this place?”

“Two men, partners, Clint Magard and Harvey J. Lynk.”

“Know where either of them are?”

“No. Lynk has a little cabin somewhere. He goes there for relaxation.”

“Relaxation, eh?” Lieutenant Tragg said, glancing at Mason. “Where is it?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s up in Lilac Canyon somewhere... And Mr. Magard isn’t in right at present.”

“You don’t know where Magard is?”

“No. He should be in any minute.”

“When he comes in, have him call police headquarters and ask for Sergeant Mahoney. Have him tell the sergeant all he knows about Esther Dilmeyer — don’t forget. I’ll call back in a little while. What number do I call?”

“It’s Exchange 3-40...”

“Write it down,” Tragg said.

She scribbled the number on a piece of paper.

“Okay, I’ll call you back. Have Magard call headquarters.”

Tragg nodded to Mason.

As they walked out, Mason said, “I’ve never before fully appreciated the handicap of being merely a private citizen.”

“Getting sarcastic?” Tragg asked.

“No, merely making an observation.”

“You have to handle ’em like that or they’ll start swapping gossip with you and you’ll never get anywhere. People seem to forget we have emergency calls pouring in in a steady stream. We haven’t time to dillydally, or let other people take the lead. You have to keep ’em on the defensive to ever get anywhere.”

They squeezed past the dance floor, and on the stairs leading to the sidewalk Tragg asked, “Know anything about this joint, Mason?”

“No. Why?”

“I have an idea it’s a phony. Some day I’ll knock it over.”

“Why?”

“That doorman. In the first place, he’s a professional pug.”

“How do you know?”

“The way he handled himself. Notice the way he swings his left shoulder forward when he thinks there’s going to be trouble. He made a dive for a telephone when we started in. Gave a signal which had been agreed on in advance to warn of a police raid. Notice the cauliflower ear — his left.”

The big doorman regarded them with cold hostility as they came out. Tragg, walking past him toward the car, suddenly whirled and jabbed an extended forefinger into the man’s chest. “You’re big,” he said. “You’re tough. And you’re fat! You’re not as fast as you used to be. What’s more, you’re dumb. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with the joint until you tipped me off to the lay. You might tell your boss that. When I knock the place over, he’ll have you to thank... If you don’t tell him, I will. Next time you see me, salute. Good night!”

He strode on past to the car, leaving the big man in his resplendent uniform staring with bewildered eyes and a mouth that sagged slowly open.

Tragg laughed as he snapped on the ignition. “Just giving him something to think about,” he said, and spun the car in the middle of the block, roaring into speed as he kicked on the switch which sent noise pouring from the siren on the front of the car.

The Everglade Apartments had originally been designed for a clerk, a switchboard operator, and elevator boys. The pinch of the economic shoe had converted it into automatic elevators, and a lobby used purely for purposes of ornament.

Lieutenant Tragg pressed his thumb against the button opposite Sindler Coll’s name on the outside of the big glass door through which could be seen a part of the lobby.

“No luck?” Mason asked after several moments.

“No dice,” Tragg said, and pushed the button marked MANAGER.

At the third ring, an indignant woman in nightgown, slippers, and kimono pushed open the door of one of the lower apartments, and came shuffling across the lobby to the door. For a long moment, she stood staring at them through the plate glass, then, opening the door a crack, she asked, “What is it?”

Tragg said, “We want Sindler Coll.”

Her face darkened with indignation. “Well, of all the nerve!.. There’s his bell. Go on and ring it!..”

“He doesn’t answer.”

“Well, I’m not his keeper!”

She started to slam the door. Tragg pulled back his coat and gave her a glimpse of his badge. “Take it easy, Ma’am. We have to find him. This is important.”

“Well, I haven’t the faintest idea where he is. I’m running a respectable place here, and...”

“Sure, you are, Ma’am,” Tragg said soothingly, “and you wouldn’t want to get in bad by refusing to co-operate with the police when they wanted a little something. The way things are now, the place has a nice reputation, and we have you marked as a law-abiding citizen who’s on the side of law and order.”

Her expression softened. “Well, I am.”

“Sure, you are. Oh, we keep the places pretty well pegged, and know what goes on. We know whom we can depend on, and whom we can’t. And lots of times banks and mortgage companies that are looking for apartment-house managers give us a ring and ask us what sort of a record the party had in the last job. You’d be surprised how careful the bigger people are to get managers who are friendly with the police.”

“Well, I can understand that,” she said. The hostility had left her voice. She seemed so eager to impress them that she was all but simpering. “The way things are now, people can’t be too careful. Now, if there’s anything I can do for you — anything.”

“We’d like to find out something about Coll — not about his habits, but where we could locate him. Do you know anything about him, who his friends are, or anything of that sort?”

“No, I don’t. I can’t give you a bit of help on that. He’s a quiet chap, but I know he’s very popular. There are quite a few people come to call on him.”

“Men or women?”

“Mostly ... well, some women. We don’t bother our tenants as long as they’re quiet.”

“Do you know an Esther Dilmeyer?”

“No, I don’t.”

Tragg said, “We have to get Coll as soon as he comes in. Would you mind dressing and waiting here in the lobby until you see him come in? Then call police headquarters, ask for Lieutenant Tragg. That’s me. If I’m not in, get Sergeant Mahoney on the line, and he’ll tell you what to do.”

“I’ll be glad to,” she said. “It’ll only take me a minute.” Gathering her robe about her, she shuffled rapidly across the lobby to vanish through the door of her apartment.

Tragg turned to Mason and grinned. “Doesn’t it feel pretty strange to you to be co-operating with the police?”

Mason’s answer was prompt. “No. The strange thing is to feel that the police are co-operating with me.”

Tragg threw back his head and laughed, then, after a moment, said, “Well, tell me about the case, Mason.”

“What case?”

“Didn’t you say Esther Dilmeyer was a witness?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a civil case, and I can’t give you details without my client’s consent. I’ll say this much. A Mildreth Faulkner, who owns the Faulkner Flower Shops, rang up and made an appointment for one o’clock.”

“Afternoon?” Tragg asked.

“No, morning. First, she called for an appointment at ten-thirty in the morning. Then she rang up again, very much excited, and said she simply had to see me sometime tonight. I was working on a brief. My secretary told her I wouldn’t be finished before sometime after midnight, and we offered her a one o’clock appointment, thinking that would make her back out. She grabbed at it and told me to be on the watch for an Esther Dilmeyer who was an important witness. I gathered that she wouldn’t have much of a case without Dilmeyer’s testimony.”

“Then it’s a fair inference that someone knew about it, and poisoned Dilmeyer to keep her from talking.”

Mason nodded.

Tragg said, “Let’s start working from the other end,then. Find out from Mildreth Faulkner who the adverse parties are. We’ll start putting screws on them.”

“We can’t get Miss Faulkner. Della Street, my secretary, has been trying to get her. She’s up in the office still trying.”

Tragg jerked his head toward a telephone booth. “Give her a ring.”

Mason entered the telephone booth and called his office. Tragg stood with his arm extended, the hand resting on the edge of the folding door of the telephone booth, his weight propped against the arm.

“Hello, Della,” Mason said. “Anything new?”

“Haven’t been able to get a thing,” she said. “I find there are three branches of the Faulkner Flower Shops, each with a separate phone. I’ve been calling them in turn.”

“No answer?”

“No answer.”

“Well, we’ve got a lead on a man by the name of Coll, but we can’t locate him. I left word that Magard, Lynk’s partner, was to call as soon as he came in.”

“I’ll keep one of the trunk lines free for incoming calls, and use the other one for my own calls.”

Mason said, “If you get an address, call police headquarters direct.”

“Tell her to ask for Sergeant Mahoney,” Tragg said.

“Ask for Sergeant Mahoney,” Mason went on. “Tell him to rush some radio officers out to her apartment, and break in the door if they have to.”

Mason hung up. “Suppose there’s any use calling the Golden Horn?” he asked. “After all, Magard might not have telephoned.”

“Better let me do it,” Tragg said.

He waited for Mason to emerge from the booth, then Tragg entered and dialed the Golden Horn. Mason, standing outside the telephone booth, looked down and saw something white under the bench on which the telephone rested. He stooped down and picked it up.

“What you got there?” Tragg asked.

“Handkerchief,” Mason said. “Woman’s handkerchief. I’ll give it to the manager. There’s an initial on it... The letter ‘D’...”

Lieutenant Tragg’s arm emerged from the telephone booth, beckoning Mason frantically. The lawyer hurried over. Tragg, with his hand over the mouthpiece, said, “Magard came in just now — according to what the girl says. He may have been there some time, and decided not to bother with a call. I’m having her put him on... Hello, Magard. This is Lieutenant Tragg of headquarters. I left word for you to call headquarters. Why didn’t you do it?... Well, it’s funny you got in just as I was telephoning.”

There was an interval during which the receiver made noises while Lieutenant Tragg winked at Mason.

“Well,” the officer interrupted abruptly, “never mind all the explanations, I want to know where Esther Dilmeyer lives. She has an apartment somewhere, and I want to get there right away.... What’s that?... Well, get the safe open and look it up.”

Tragg again pushed his hand over the mouthpiece. “I know he’s covering up something now,” he said. “He was pouring explanations and apologies into the telephone. That’s a sure sign. I think we’re on the right track...” He jerked his hand away, said, “Yes. Hello. Isn’t she working for you?... Well, where can you find out?... You’re sure about that?... Now, listen, this is important, and I don’t want any run-around... All right, all right, you haven’t any idea... Now, wait a minute. Does she have a social security number?... I see... Now listen, I may want to get you again. Don’t leave the place without leaving a telephone number where you can be called.”

He hung up the telephone, turned to Mason, and said, “That’s damned strange.”

“He doesn’t know where she lives?”

“No. He says she claims a girl can be a hostess in a nightclub, and keep her self-respect only as long as no one knows her home address. Sounds goofy to me.”

“Me too,” Mason said.

“Anyway, that’s his story. He says she’d never give it to them, that she works on a commission basis, so he doesn’t consider her an employee.”

The door from the manager’s apartment opened. The manager, wearing a house dress, came toward them. Her face, which had been given a generous application of rouge somewhat unevenly applied, was decorated in the unchanging smile of one who has made a practice of ingratiating herself with strangers. She said, “I...” and turned toward the door. The men followed her gaze. Through the plate glass they saw a slim-waisted young man run up the porch stairs, and jab a key into the lock of the door.

The manager had time to say, “This is Coll now,” before the door opened. Tragg waited until the man was well on his way toward the elevator, noticing the half-running pace, the excited tension which seemed to grip him.

“Puttin’ out a fire?” Tragg asked.

The man apparently saw them for the first time, jerked to a standing stop, and stared.

The manager said, ingratiatingly, “Mr. Coll, this is...”

“Let me handle it,” Tragg interrupted, stepping forward and jerking back the lapel of his coat so that Coll could see his star.

Coll’s reaction was instantaneous. He half turned back toward the big plate-glass door, as though about to run. By an effort, he caught himself and turned a white face to Tragg.

Tragg was ominously silent, watching Coll’s countenance begin to twitch.

Coll took a deep breath. Mason could see the hands clenched into fists. “Well, what is it?” he asked.

Tragg took his time about answering. Both men studied Coll: A small-footed, slim-hipped individual whose coat was heavily padded at the shoulders. The even tan of his face indicated that he habitually went without a hat and was much in the open. His hair, black and glossy, waved back from his forehead with a rippling regularity that suggested the touch of a professional hairdresser. Despite his five feet ten inches, the man weighed not much more than a hundred and thirty pounds.

Tragg’s voice had the rasping belligerence of a police officer dealing with a law violator. “What’s the hurry?” he asked.

“I wanted to get to bed.”

“You certainly were steamed up about it.”

“I...” The lips clamped into a thin line of silence.

Tragg said, “We want some information.”

“What do you want?”

“You know an Esther Dilmeyer?”

“What about her?”

“We’re trying to locate her. We got a lead to you.”

“That’s... that’s all you want?”

“Right now,” Tragg said.

The look of relief on Coll’s face was almost comic. He said, “Dilmeyer... Esther Dilmeyer... Hostess at a nightclub, isn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

Coll took a notebook from his pocket, started to thumb the pages, but, seemingly realizing Tragg’s interest in the shaking hand which held the notebook, he abruptly closed it, put it back in his pocket, and said, “I remember now. The Molay Arms Apartments.”

“What’s the apartment number?”

Coll frowned as though concentrating. “Three-twenty-eight.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Why... why, I don’t know offhand.”

“A week ago, an hour ago?”

“Oh, probably yesterday sometime. She’s at the Golden Horn. I drop in there once in a while.”

“Okay,” Tragg said, “go on to bed,” and to the manager, “We shan’t need you any more. Thanks for your co-operation... The Molay Arms is on Jefferson Street, isn’t it, Coll?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Tragg nodded to Mason. “Come on, let’s go.”

The Molay Arms Apartments was a little walk-up. Here again they encountered a locked door, a series of mailboxes and call bells. When there was no answer at Esther Dilmeyer’s bell, Tragg again summoned the manager, ordered her to follow them up to the apartment with a passkey. They climbed two flights of stairs and walked down a narrow, thinly carpeted corridor, redolent with stale smells, and the dank emanations which fill a poorly ventilated place where people are sleeping.

Three-twenty-eight was on the southeast corner. A light showed over the transom. Tragg knocked, received no answer, and said to the manager, “Okay, open it up.”

She hesitated a moment, then inserted a passkey. The door clicked back.

The figure of a blond woman, dressed in a tweed skirt and jacket, light woolen stockings and rubber-soled golf shoes, lay sprawled near the door. The telephone had been knocked from a small spindly-legged stand to the floor. A box of chocolate creams was open on the table, and some wrapping paper in which the box had evidently been tied folded itself loosely around the edges of the box. The cover lay slightly to one side. On the cover was a chocolate-smudged card, saying, “These will make you feel better,” and signed with the initials, “M.F.” The chocolates were cradled in little paper cups. A blank space in the upper tray furnished the sole clue as to the number which had been eaten. Mason, making a swift survey, estimated that eight or ten were missing from the top layer of the box. The lower layer seemed untouched.

Tragg bent over the woman, felt of her pulse, said to the manager of the apartment, “Go downstairs. Call Sergeant Mahoney at headquarters. Tell him Lieutenant Tragg has found the Dilmeyer girl and the candy, that she’s evidently been poisoned. Tell him to rush out fingerprint men and an ambulance.”

Mason dropped to one knee to look down on the unconscious figure. “Should we straighten her out?” he asked.

Tragg felt her pulse again.

The face was slightly congested. Her breathing was slow and seemed labored. The skin was warm to the touch.

Mason said, “Looks more like a drug than an active poison. Perhaps we can bring her out of it.”

“We can try,” Tragg said. “Get her over on her back. Okay. See if you can find some towels, hot and cold. We’ll start with the cold.”

Mason turned cold water into the washbowl, sopped a bath towel, wrung it out, and tossed it to Tragg. Tragg sponged off the woman’s face and neck, and started gently slapping her in the face with the cold towel. After a moment, he raised her blouse, pulled down the top of her skirt, and applied the cold towels directly to the bare skin over the pit of her stomach.

There was no slightest sign of returning consciousness.

“Want a hot one now?” Mason asked.

“Yes, let’s try that.”

Mason turned on the hot water, found a clean bath towel in the lower drawer of a cabinet, and got it steaming hot. He tossed it to Tragg, received in return the cold towel, and held that under the cold tap in the bathtub.

For five minutes Tragg worked alternately with hot and cold towels.

“No use,” he said. “That ambulance should be here.” He looked at the telephone and said, “I don’t want to touch that. Be careful about touching things, Mason, particularly that candy or the wrapping paper.”

Mason nodded, shut off the water in the bathroom. Tragg got to his feet. Mason walked over to peer in the waste-basket. Then he opened the door of the clothes closet, and looked inside.

There were half a dozen expensive-looking evening gowns with shoes to match. By comparison, the clothes for daytime wear seemed somewhat shabby and few in number.

Tragg said impatiently, “I don’t know whether she got the call through to Mahoney or not. I guess we’d better go down and...” He broke off as a siren sounded.

“This,” he said, “will be it. We’ll let them take the responsibility.”

Mason said, “One thing I want, Tragg. I want to get my own doctor working on this.”

“Why?”

“Your emergency surgeons are all right, but she won’t get the complete care, particularly on follow-up treatment in an emergency hospital, that she will under my doctor. I want this woman taken to the Hastings Memorial Hospital, put in a private room, and I want Dr. Willmont to co-operate with whatever doctor is called in.”

“Willmont, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s paying for it?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m interested.”

Lieutenant Tragg indicated the note on the card. “I noticed the initials ‘M.F.’ on that card,” he said.

“Well?”

“Mildreth Faulkner.”

Mason said, “Nuts. A person wouldn’t send another a box of poisoned candy, and then put a card in with the candy for the police to find.”

“You can’t always tell,” Tragg said. “Rules don’t mean anything except on a general basis. And even then, they don’t mean anything when you’re dealing with crimes of women.”

Mason said, “And, therefore, you think I don’t want her to die simply because I’m protecting the poisoner. A person who isn’t even a client, whom I don’t know and haven’t seen; but with whom I have an appointment in...” he glanced at his wrist watch, “exactly fifteen minutes.”

Tragg laughed and said, “Well, when you put it that way, it does sound goofy. I guess there’s no objection to taking her to the Hastings Memorial Hospital — if you can get Dr. Willmont on the job.”

“I can try,” Mason said. “I think there’s a telephone in the manager’s apartment.”

He walked rapidly toward the stairs, met two white-garbed men carrying a stretcher in the corridor.

“Down at the end of the corridor, boys,” Mason said. “Wait for me at the door of the apartment house. I’ll tell you where to take her.”