The Case of the Baited Hook

Chapter 8

Mason, wearing a low, black felt hat, a topcoat, and gloves, stepped casually from the taxicab in front of the Giltmont Arms Apartment Hotel. A liveried doorman reached for the two travel-stained suitcases which the cab driver handed out, suitcases which bore the labels of half a dozen foreign countries.

Mason paid off the cab driver, gave him a generous tip, and followed the doorman into the apartment hotel.

A heavy-set man, wearing square-toed, rubber-heeled shoes with heavy soles, looked up from a newspaper as Mason entered. He gave the lawyer a quick, flashing scrutiny, and then returned to his paper.

Mason said to the clerk, “I may be here for as much as two months. My niece is driving up her automobile for me to use. I’ll want garage space for it. I don’t care to be too high above the street, nor too near it. Something on about the tenth floor would be satisfactory. I am willing to go as high as two hundred and fifty dollars a month.”

The clerk nodded. “I think I have just the thing,” he said. “Mr… er…”

“Perry,” the lawyer said.

“Yes, Mr. Perry. I’ll have a boy take you up for an inspection.” He nodded to a bellboy. “Show Mr. Perry to 1042,” he said.

Mason followed the bellboy to the elevator.

1042 was a well-furnished, three-room apartment with two exposures. Mason announced that it was quite satisfactory and had the bellboy bring up his suitcases. When he had been settled, he picked up the telephone and said to the clerk, “I told you my niece is bringing an automobile for my use. Kindly notify me when she arrives, and I’ll go down and make arrangements for proper storage.”

“That won’t be at all necessary, Mr. Perry,” the clerk said. “I’ll instruct the garage man and…”

“No, thank you,” Mason interposed firmly. “I want to make certain that the car is parked where it will be available at rather unusual hours. I’ll talk with the garage man myself. A bit of a tip sometimes is most efficacious I’ve found.”

“Yes, Mr. Perry,” the clerk said suavely. “I’ll let you know as soon as your niece arrives.”

Mason hung up the receiver, opened one of his suitcases, took out a bundle of keys, and compared them with his door key. He selected three passkeys of similar design and started experimenting on his own door.

The second key worked the lock easily and smoothly. Mason detached it from the bundle and slipped it into his pocket. He closed the door of his apartment quietly behind him, and walked down the corridor until he came to the door bearing the number 1029. This was Peltham’s apartment, and Mason, moving with calm assurance and a complete lack of nervousness, fitted his passkey to the door. The lock clicked back, and Mason entered the apartment.

He didn’t switch on the lights, but took from his pocket a miniature flashlight about half the size of his little finger. Using that to guide him, he moved directly toward the clothes closet.

He selected a dark topcoat and made certain that the name of the tailor and the initials “R.P.” appeared in the label on the inside of the inner pocket.

He folded the overcoat, put it over his arm, closed the closet door behind him, his gloved hands leaving no fingerprints, and quietly left the apartment.

Two minutes later, safely ensconced in his own apartment, Mason telephoned Della Street at the drugstore where she was waiting.

“Okay, Della,” he said.

“Everything under control?” she asked.

“Clicking like clockwork.”

“I’m on my way.”

Mason hung up the receiver and sat waiting. Within a few minutes the telephone rang, and the clerk said, “Your niece is here, Mr. Perry.”

The detective in the lobby was still reading his newspaper when Mason stepped from the elevator into the lobby. He gave the lawyer only a cursory glance.

The clerk said, “The garage is around the comer to the right and down the incline, Mr. Perry.”

“Thank you,” Mason said. “I’ll find it.”

Della Street tucked her arm through Mason’s. She was jaunty and chic in a sports outfit with her hat tilted at a saucy angle. “Hello, Uncle,” she said.

“Hello, darling.”

Della’s car was parked at the curb. “Take off that wire?” Mason asked.

“Uh huh.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Wait here.”

He walked rapidly to the corner, turned to the right, and walked down the incline which led down to the basement garage.

The garage attendant was seated in a sedan by the door, engrossed in a radio program. When he saw Mason, he hurriedly shut off the radio, and made a great show of being busy parking the car.

Mason waited until he had finished, then significantly took his wallet from his pocket.

“My name,” he said, “is Perry.”

The garage man nodded.

“I have just moved into 1042,” Mason said. “My niece has kindly placed her car at my disposal for the duration of my stay. For some reason, her car won’t start. She drove it up to the entrance all right and shut off the motor. Now, it won’t start. Do you suppose you can get it going and bring it down for her?”

“Sure,” the garage man said. “She’s flooded the carburetor, that’s all. Janes do that all the time. I’ll go out and bring it in.”

Mason had to move two cars before he could drive Peltham’s car out to the street.

The garage man was still struggling with Della Street’s refractory automobile as Mason glided smoothly by on the cross street. Looking back, he had a glimpse of Della Street’s arm and hand extended through the window of the car, waving him on his way.

Mason drove some ten blocks, stopped at a drugstore, and telephoned Dr. Willmont at his club.

“Okay, Doctor,” Mason said. “I’m ready for that experiment.”

“How soon do you want it?”

“As soon as I can get it.”

“Half an hour at the Hastings Memorial Hospital,” Dr. Willmont said.

“All right. Put it in a can and leave it at the desk for me.”

“I have a thermal unit which I use occasionally for transportation,” Dr. Willmont said. “It’ll be in that unit at the desk. See that I get the unit back when you’ve finished with the experiment.”

“Okay,” Mason told him. “That’ll be tomorrow. You’re sure it’ll be ready in half an hour?”

“Yes. Everything’s all ready. The donor’s waiting, and my assistant is on the job awaiting instructions.”

“Okay,” Mason said, and hung up.

Mason piloted Peltham’s automobile out to a place which was sufficiently isolated to serve his purpose. Stopping the car, he shut off the motor and spread Peltham’s overcoat over a clump of brush, took a thirty-eight caliber revolver from his pocket, held the weapon close enough to leave powder burns in the cloth of the coat, and fired a shot into the left breast.

Tossing the coat into the car, Mason thrust the revolver back into his pocket and drove to the hospital. He picked up the thermal container with its content of human blood, and then drove Peltham’s automobile to the exact place where Tidings’ car had been found by the police.

Mason poured blood onto the overcoat around the hole which had been made by the bullet, both on the inside and outside. He saw that there were stains smeared liberally over the seat of the car and on the floorboards. He left spots on the steering wheel and trickled a rivulet down the inside of the overcoat to form in a puddle on the seat and floor.

When he exhausted his supply of blood, he surveyed the effect with critical appraisal and nodded with satisfaction.

Carrying the thermal container, he swung out in a long, brisk stride, heading northward. Headlights loomed ahead before he had gone two blocks, and Della Street slid her car into the curb.

“Okay, Chief?” she asked.

“Not a hitch anywhere,” he said.

“Just what,” she asked, “will this do?”

“It’s going to smoke someone out into the open,” Mason said, lighting a cigarette and settling back against the cushions of the car.

Fifteen minutes later Mason sent a telegram addressed to Miss Adelle Hastings at 906 Cleveland Square, which read: