The Case of the Cautious Coquette

Chapter 10

Mason said, “Lucille, you’re going to have to notify the police.”

She stood looking at him with startled, suspicious eyes.

“Now, then,” Mason went on, “when you tell your story to the police, try and make a better job than you did when you told it to me.”

“What do you mean?”

Mason said, “Let’s look at it from the police viewpoint. The man who is lying dead on the floor of that garage stood between you and everything you wanted in life. You had a chance to marry Ross Hollister. You couldn’t do it as long as Pitkin was alive. It took his death to clear the way for you to proceed with that marriage. Why beat around the bush about it?”

“Are you trying to insinuate that I’m — that I’m responsible for — for this?”

“I’m not,” Mason said, “the police will.”

“Oh, Mr. Mason,” she said, clutching his arm, “why did this have to happen to me?”

“It hasn’t happened to you yet,” Mason told her. “It’s happened to Pitkin. Now leave the car here. Come on in and telephone the police. You’d better switch off the lights on your car. Aside from that, leave everything just the way we found it. Come on now, we’ll go in and telephone the police.”

He took her arm, gently pulled her away from the vicinity of the body, then escorted her down the alley and up the steps of the apartment house.

“You have your key?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She fitted the key into the outer door, opened it and entered the lobby.

“There’s the phone booth over there,” Mason said. “You have a dime?”

“No, I don’t think that...”

“Here’s one. Call police headquarters. Tell them you want to report finding a body in your garage.”

“You’re going to stay with me?”

“No, I can’t.”

“I’ll have to tell the police you were with me when we found him.”

“That’s right — when we found him. Now go telephone.”

She walked a half a dozen steps toward the booth, then hesitated, turned, saw Mason’s eyes were on her, and reluctantly walked the rest of the way to the booth.

Mason watched until she had dropped the coin and started dialing, then he hastily stepped back through the door, dashed down the short flight of steps to the street, and walked as rapidly as he could to where his own car was parked.

He drove to a drugstore, parked his car, called the unlisted telephone in his office.

“Hello,” Della Street said.

“Argyle still there?” Mason asked.

“He went out to telephone and hasn’t returned.”

“How long ago?”

“About five minutes.”

“When you got there you saw his Buick and the chauffeur waiting?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“It was just after five o’clock, about an hour ago.”

“How did you know it was Argyle’s car?”

She laughed. “I noticed the license number. This case has made me license-number-conscious. I find myself constantly peering at numbers.”

“Argyle’s been there up until five minutes ago?”

“Yes. He went down and dismissed the chauffeur right after I came in, then came right back.”

“How long was he gone?”

“Not over a couple of minutes. Why?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone, Della. When Argyle comes back get rid of him. Tell him I won’t be back any more tonight.”

“But I thought you wanted to see him.”

“I did, but I don’t. I can’t tell you details. Wait there for me.”

“Okay, anything else?”

“No. That’s all. Be seeing you. ’By now.”