The Case of the Cautious Coquette

Chapter 5

Mason stopped his car in front of the apartment house on South Gondola Avenue. A near-by cigar stand gave him access to a public phone.

Mason dropped a nickel and dialed the number of his office.

He heard Gertie’s voice saying, “Hello, Mr. Mason’s office,” and said, “This is Mr. Mason. Go into my private office, tell Della Street she’s wanted for a moment and then put her on a phone where no one can hear her talk. Get it?”

“Just a minute,” Gertie said. “I’ll have you connected.”

A moment later Mason heard Della Street’s voice. “Okay,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“How’s everything coming?” Mason asked.

“Okay.”

“Are they getting impatient?”

“Not particularly. How much more time do you need?”

“I’d say ten minutes,” Mason said.

“I think I can safely promise you fifteen from here.”

“Okay,” Mason told her. “I just wanted to know the coast was clear.”

“Be careful,” she warned.

“I can’t. I’m going to have to break an egg to make an omelet,” Mason told her, and hung up.

He crossed the street, entered the apartment house, using the key he had received earlier in the day. This time he didn’t bother with the elevator but climbed the stairs and walked rapidly to “208.”

Mason took the precaution of sounding the buzzer some two or three times to make certain there was no one in the apartment. Then he tried the key. The lock clicked back.

Mason entered the apartment and closed the door behind him.

The place had been made tidy. The ash trays had been cleaned and polished. The bed was made. Dishes had been cleaned up in the kitchen and the sink was spotlessly white.

Mason called out, “Hello. Anyone home?”

His voice echoed back from the empty apartment.

The lawyer took the desk key from his pocket, crossed to the desk and fitted the key to the lock. He twisted his wrist and the bolt clicked back.

Mason lowered the lid of the writing desk.

The interior was a miscellaneous assortment of confusion. There were letters lying about in the lower partitions. The upper pigeonholes were crammed with canceled checks, bank statements, more correspondence and memos.

The upper right-hand corner pigeonhole contained a small leather-covered notebook and a revolver.

Mason thumbed through the notebook. On the next to the last page on which there was writing, the lawyer found the figure of a license number, apparently hastily scrawled in pencil.

For the rest, the various notations were models of neatness — names, dates, telephone numbers, and mysterious figures evidently relating to some form of cash accounting in a code which Mason had neither the time nor the inclination to figure out.

Swiftly he copied the license number from the book, started to replace the book, then on impulse decided to take a look at the revolver.

Using a handkerchief over his fingertips so that he would leave no prints on the gun, Mason eased it out of the receptacle.

It was, he noted, a businesslike Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver. On the tang across the handle appeared the number “S65088.”

Mason made a note of the number on the revolver, then replaced it, gently closed the desk, twisted the key in the lock, put the key back in his pocket and, using his handkerchief so that he would leave no fingerprints on the knob of the door, opened the apartment door.

The lawyer took the stairs, two at a time, hurried across to his automobile, jumped in, and drove rapidly away.

He drove half a dozen blocks before he stopped in front of a drugstore, entered a telephone booth, dropped a coin and dialed his office.

“Hello. Gertie,” he said, when he heard her voice on the line. “Get Della Street to come to the phone. Don’t ring her telephone. Get her...”

“I understand,” Gertie interrupted. “Just a minute.”

A few moments later, Mason heard Della Street’s anxious voice. “Hello, chief.”

“Everything’s okay,” Mason said.

“Did you get it?”

“Yes. What’s happening?”

“We still have five minutes to go at this end.”

“It’s okay. Get rid of them at any time now.”

“Okay.”

“Be as casual as possible about it,” Mason said.

“No trouble?” she asked.

“I’m not certain, Della, and I may have to revise my appraisal. She may want the hundred bucks but wants to make the chap with her feel she’s oil the up-and-up.”

“You mean that he’s her boy friend who...”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “But whatever he is, I have a license number. It may be bait for a trap, in which event it’s a more complicated trap than I thought But if it should be the real thing, shell be back sometime within the next day or two and want her hundred bucks. Don’t worry, Della. Everything’s okay.”

Mason hung up and telephoned Paul Drake.

“Paul,” he said, “I have a license number. I want the record of ownership on the automobile. Rush it through for me.”

“What’s the license number?” Drake asked.

Mason read the license number over the telephone, “9Y6370.”

“Where are you now?”

“Hillcrest 67492,” Mason said. “It’s a pay station. Ill be sticking around. Make time on it, Paul, and call me back.”

Mason had a coke at the counter, smoked a cigarette, then as the phone rang, he entered the phone booth.

Drake said, “It’s a Stephen Argyle, living at 938 West Casino Boulevard — that’s a swank neighborhood, Perry.”

“Okay,” Mason told him. “I’m going to gamble an hour’s time.”

“The car’s a Buick sedan,” Drake said. “No data on color. How did you get the license number, Perry?”

“That lead you had this morning. I can’t talk about it now. Della can tell you all about it in ten or fifteen minutes. The parties are in my office now.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “I’ll be sticking around. If there’s anything you want, give me a ring. You have that address all right?”

“I have it,” Mason said.

The lawyer left die drugstore, climbed into his car and drove out to the address on Casino Boulevard.

The house was a huge white stucco affair with red tile roof, porches, awnings, a well-kept lawn, hedges closely and neatly trimmed on each side, a driveway leading to a triple garage in the rear. A black Buick sedan was parked in the driveway.

Mason parked his own car at the curb, walked calmly up the driveway and began examining the Buick.

A fender on the rear had been straightened. There were a few places on the rear of the body where it looked as though the paint had been skillfully matched and rubbed. The tire on the right rear wheel was brand-new.

Mason was looking at the rear bumper when the door opened. A man with broad shoulders, heavy square jaw and belligerent manner said, “What’s the idea?”

Mason looked up and said without smiling, “Mr. Argyle?”

“No.”

“Is he in?”

“What’s that got to do with the way you’re prowling around that car?”

“I’m not prowling. I’m examining it. Are you related to Mr. Argyle?”

“Not me. I work here.”

“Indeed? What capacity?”

“Chauffeur and butler.”

“In that event,” Mason said, taking a card case from his pocket, “you may assume a more respectful attitude, take my card to Mr. Argyle, and tell him that I want to see him about a matter of the gravest importance — to him.”

The chauffeur took the card, looked at it, said, “Very well,” and started up the steps to the house.

Mason followed.

“Just a minute,” the chauffeur said. “You wait here.”

He went inside, closing the door behind him, reappeared after a few moments and said, “Yes, sir. You may come in.”

The interior of the house was steeped in an atmosphere of quiet luxury. The aroma of an expensive cigar came from the room on the right. The chauffeur indicated this door, said, “In there. Mr. Argyle will see you.”

The room was a combined den and library, with guns, books, comfortable leather chairs, hunting prints, photographs and an air of having been lived in. The portable bar in one corner was open, disclosing rows of bottles. A glass of Scotch and soda reposed on a smoking stand near the leather chair in which a man in the early fifties was seated.

He arose as Mason entered the room, said, “Mr. Mason, the lawyer?”

“That’s right.”

The man extended his hand. “I’m Stephen Argyle. I’m very glad to meet you. I have heard about you. Won’t you sit down and join me in a drink?”

He was thin to the point of being bony, with long fingers, high cheekbones, bleached out eyes, thin hair which was well shot with gray. He wore glasses which clamped on the bridge of a high nose with a black ribbon hanging from the side, giving him an expression of austere power.

Mason said, “Thank you. I’ll have a Scotch and soda, please.”

Argyle nodded to the butler, who walked over to the portable bar, dropped ice cubes in a glass, mixed a Scotch and soda, wordlessly handed it to Mason.

“Nice room you have here,” Mason said. “It’s comfortable, has the feeling of being lived in.”

“I spend much of my time here. Would you care for a cigar?”

“I’ll have one of my cigarettes, if you don’t mind.” Mason opened his cigarette case.

As he tapped the cigarette on the side of the cigarette case, he saw that the butler and chauffeur had no intention of leaving.

“You’ll pardon me,” Mason said, striking a match, “if I’m rather abrupt. My time is somewhat limited.”

He lit the cigarette, blew out the match and dropped it in an ash tray.

“Go right ahead,” Argyle said.

Mason glanced at the chauffeur who was standing by the bar.

Argyle made no move to dismiss the man.

“On the afternoon of the third of this month,” Mason said, with complete assurance, “at about five o’clock, your Buick out there was involved in an accident at the intersection of Hickman Avenue and Vermesillo Drive. Who was driving it, you or your chauffeur?”

“That’s a question?” Argyle asked, raising his eyebrows.

“A question about who was driving it,” Mason said. “The part about the accident isn’t a question. It’s an assertion.”

“Really, Mr. Mason, I’m surprised! Surprised beyond words.”

“I take it, then, you weren’t driving it?”

Argyle hesitated for a minute, then said, “No.”

Mason glanced at the chauffeur, whose eyes had suddenly become as intent as those of a cat stalking a bird.

“As a matter of fact,” Argyle said, carefully weighing his words, “you are bringing information which confirms my worst fears. I trust the accident was not serious.”

“It was serious,” Mason said. “What about your fears?”

“My car was stolen on the afternoon of the third. The police recovered it later on that evening, parked in front of a fireplug in the downtown district. The gasoline tank was half empty and the car had been driven over a hundred miles.”

“Quick work,” Mason said.

“On the part of the police?” Argyle asked.

Mason smiled.

Argyle frowned.

Mason said, “I’m representing Bob Finchley. His mother was driving the car. She was badly shaken up. The car was pretty well wrecked. Bob Finchley sustained a broken hip. It’s too early yet to tell whether there will be complications.”

“Indeed. That’s too bad,” Argyle said. “I will have to consult my lawyers. As I understand it, Mr. Mason, in the event I let anyone use my car with my permission I am responsible for damages, but, of course, in the event of theft...”

Argyle shrugged his shoulders, tapped ash from the end of his cigar.

Mason said, “Let’s quit beating around the bush. That stall about the stolen car is two years older than Moses. In addition to which, it stinks.”

The chauffeur took a step forward.

Argyle waved him back.

“Now, Mr. Mason,” Argyle said, “I’m satisfied that as an attorney you wouldn’t want to make any insinuations.”

“All right,” Mason said, “I’ll go at it the long way round. When was the car stolen?”

“Sometime around three o’clock in the afternoon.”

Mason smiled. “When was the car reported stolen?”

“I didn’t miss it until around seven o’clock,” Argyle said. “I had left it parked at the curb in front of my club. I went out to get in the car and it was gone.”

“And you immediately reported it to the police?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Using the club telephone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how far away from the place where the car was stolen was it recovered?”

“I would say not over eight or ten blocks.”

Mason said, “The boy’s pretty badly injured. He’s going to be laid up for a while and the mother has of course suffered nervous shock. Then there’s the matter of the car.”

“Surely, Mr. Mason, you don’t think I’m liable.”

“Why not?”

“I tell you the car was stolen.”

Mason grinned. “As you so aptly stated, as a lawyer, I’m too smart to make any accusations — in front of witnesses. You’ll have a lo: of fun listening to what I tell a jury, however.”

“Surely, Mr. Mason, you don’t doubt my word. Good heavens, I’m a responsible citizen! My car is fully insured. If there were any question of liability on my part, I would be only too glad to make an adjustment. A? it is, my insurance company will handle things.”

“All right,” Mason said. “If that’s the way you want it, I’ll do business with your insurance company.”

“Provided, of course, there’s any liability.”

“Oh, certainly,” Mason said. “What’s the name of the club where you spent the afternoon?”

“The Broadway Athletic Club.”

Mason got to his feet. “Nice to have met you,” he said, and started for the door.

Argyle arose, hesitated, then sat down again.

The chauffeur saw Mason to the door.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said.

A moment later the door slammed.