The Case of the Cautious Coquette

Chapter 11

Della Street said, “Good heavens, what’s the hurry, chief. What...”

“Where’s Argyle? Did you get rid of him?”

“I didn’t have to. He went out to telephone and didn’t come back. What’s all the excitement about, chief?”

Mason said, “The chauffeur’s name is Hartwell Pitkin. It now turns out that he was Lucille Barton’s first husband. They were married some seven or eight years ago. She ran off with a man and later divorced Pitkin. Now then, apparently as soon as Argyle dismissed Pitkin and while I was out at Argyle’s house, Pitkin went to the address of Lucille Barton. His body is now in her garage. He was shot in the front of the forehead. Judging from the evidence, the shooting took place right where he fell in Lucille’s garage.”

“And you’re going to... represent this Lucille Barton?”

Mason grinned, “Not on your life, Della.”

“That’s fine,” she said, relief in her voice.

“For once in my life, Della, when I talk with the police, I’m going to put the cards absolutely and squarely on the table. Lucille Barton isn’t my client in any sense of the word. I advised her to tell the police the truth. I’m going to tell the police the truth.”

“About the keys? About your search and...?”

“About everything,” Mason said. “Get those letters out that we received in answer to the ad in the paper. Here are the keys, Della. You can put the keys right with the letters. We’ll tell the police about the call this afternoon, about die license number in the notebook, about everything. You know, Della, I could be in a spot on this thing and I want to get out of it.”

“How soon will the police be here?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how many questions they ask Lucille Barton. Let’s get this stuff out and then go have some dinner. After that, we’ll come back here and wait for the cops. In the meantime, I want to start Paul Drake doing some work.”

“What?”

“I’ll show you,” he said.

Mason picked up the telephone, dialed the number of Drake’s office and when he had Drake on the line, said, “All right, Paul, here’s a rush job for you. I want you to find out about a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver number S65088. Find out when it was sold, who bought it, and everything you can about it. I also want you to find out something about Argyle’s chauffeur. A man by the name of Hartwell Pitkin.”

“Why the gun?” Drake asked.

Mason grinned into the telephone and said, “Because sweetheart, it looks as if someone had tried to get Perry Mason all tangled up in something.”

“And you don’t want to get tangled?”

“I not only don’t want to get tangled,” Mason said, “but I don’t intend to get tangled. I like to pick my cases rather than have them thrust upon me. Get the information and relay it to me just as soon as you can. Della and I are going out to dinner. When we return we’ll probably have a date with the police.”

“Want to tell me about it?” Drake asked.

“No. It’s better for you to remain entirely innocent.”

He hung up the telephone, said to Della Street, “Come on, Della, we’re going out to eat. At least we won’t be facing the police on an empty stomach.”

“And for once,” Della Street said, relief in her voice, “we can face them with a clear conscience.”

“Oh, that’s a cinch,” Mason said. “Our conscience is always clear. Sometimes our motives are a little obscure and at times I have to hold out something.”

“Yes. Quite a lot,” Della Street observed. “Where do we eat?”

“Some place not too near here,” Mason said. “Some place where the police won’t find us in the middle of the meal and make us leave a half-finished filet mignon.”

They walked down the corridor, passed Paul Drake’s lighted office, took the elevator to the street and Mason hailed a taxi.

“Well leave my car in the parking lot,” he explained, “then the police will know we intend to be back. That will save them wasting a lot of time and energy.”

They went to a quiet restaurant more than a dozen blocks from the office, a place where there were curtained booths, an atmosphere of quiet seclusion, and good food.

More than an hour later, Mason finished his last cup of coffee, said to Della Street, “Well, how about it? Do you feel up to facing the police?”

“I feel up to facing anything.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

They found a taxi, returned to the office building, and Mason said casually to the night operator of the elevator as they were whisked up to his floor, “Anybody looking for me, Sam?”

“No, sir, not a soul,” Sam said.

Mason exchanged swift glances with Della Street, said, “I guess we’ll take a look in Paul Drake’s office, Della.”

They found Paul Drake sitting in the little cubbyhole which was his private office, a desk littered with telephones in front of him.

“How are you coming, Paul?” Mason asked.

“Okay,” Drake said. “I found out the dope on that gun for you. It was sold to a jobber here in the city and by the jobber sold to a dealer out in the mountains about a hundred and thirty miles. The Rushing Creek Mercantile Company.”

“To whom did the Mercantile Company sell it?” Mason asked.

“Don’t know. It’s a little place up there, and they fold up the sidewalks. I can’t get any action on the phone.”

Mason said, “Hang it, I need that information. Rushing Creek? That’s a little resort and lumbering village, isn’t it?”

“That’s right Quite a few trout fishermen go up there. It’s also the gateway to some nice picnic and camping grounds back in the mountains.”

“Well,” Mason said, “keep after them. See if you can find out anything. You haven’t heard anything more about Argyle — or that chauffeur of his?”

“Argyle’s house is dark,” Drake said. “I have a couple of men on the job. I’m working on the chauffeur’s background.”

Mason said, “Okay, stay with it, Paul. Let me know as soon as you find out anything.”

He walked down to his office with Della Street, said, “Gosh, Della, the police must be really giving her a third-degree.”

“Would she tell them about you?”

“I told her to.”

“Do you think she did?”

“She had to. I was with her when she discovered the body.”

Mason unlocked the door of his office, switched on the lights, sat down at his desk, started drumming with his fingertips... “I’ll tell you what, Della. You wait here. Hold the fort. I’ll take a quick run out to the hospital and tell Bob Finchley that we’re coming along all right. You stay right here and if the police come, tell them you’re waiting for me, that I’m out working on a personal injury case. And you can pave the way for a series of very pleasant relations with the police by showing them the ad we put in the Blade, telling them about the accident case, and showing them the letters we’ve received, and then giving them the keys.”

“And tell them about Argyle?”

“Sure, the whole thing.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll wait here and do my stuff with the police. Will it be the men from Homicide?”

“That’s right, Homicide — probably Lieutenant Tragg.”

“I like him.”

“Don’t make any mistake about him,” Mason said. “He’s smart.”

“What difference does it make, if we’re going to tell him everything we know?”

“I guess it won’t make any,” Mason said, grinning. “It’s simply that I’m not accustomed to all of this law-abiding frankness. They’ll be as puzzled as I am. They’ll feel we’re holding out something and have a nervous breakdown trying to find out what it is... Okay, Della, I’m on my way.”