The Case of the Cautious Coquette

Chapter 6

The office of the Drake Detective Agency was on the same floor as Mason’s offices. Mason stopped in hurriedly for a few words with Paul Drake.

“By gosh, Perry, we hit the jack pot. I can’t figure out how it happened, but it’s the jack pot!”

“I want men on the job immediately, Paul. Men who can really do an intelligent job. I want Stephen Argyle checked for the afternoon of the third. He was probably at the Broadway Athletic Club. I want to know how much he drank. I want to know how long he was there. I want to know whether people who were there with him noticed any break in the continuity of his visit. I want to find out everything we can from the doorman. I think the doorman may have been bribed. I don’t think we have enough money to compete with Stephen Argyle, on bribery, so we’re going to have to throw a scare into the doorman. I want a man who can really scare the guy.

“I want to find out all about the records of Argyle’s car, which was supposed to have been stolen on the afternoon of the third, when it was reported stolen, when it was recovered, all about it. I particularly want to find out if Stephen Argyle didn’t drive up to the Broadway Athletic Club in a taxicab sometime between five and six. At that hour people were dropping in for cocktails and you should be able to find some club member who saw him arrive in a taxi. You’re going to have to work fast.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “I’m on the job. How many men shall I put out?”

“As many as it takes,” Mason said. “We’re going to get the dope and when we get it, we’re going to send the bill to Stephen Argyle and make him pay it and like it.”

“He’s the man all right?”

“It was his car,” Mason said, “and I think he’s the man. Incidentally, I want to find out everything I can about him. I have an idea his wife is dead or has recently left him.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“He has a butler and chauffeur,” Mason said, “who certainly wouldn’t get along for five minutes in a house where there was a woman. Yet the house on Casino Boulevard is a great big place and apparently Stephen Argyle does most of his living in one room, a room which fairly reeks of tobacco.”

Drake said, “Okay, Perry, I’ll put men on the job right away. By the way, Perry, you were right about that flirtatious young grass widow. She sent her little playmate in to collect the hundred bucks.”

“Well, she’s entitled to it. Hang it, I can’t figure that one out. She certainly had me fooled. When did this dame come in for the reward?”

“Not over five minutes ago,” Drake said. “I sent her down to your office and told her Della Street, your secretary, would take care of it.”

“Who is she?” Mason asked.

“A right cute little number, name of Carlotta Boone. She was very coy about it and, of course, wouldn’t let on that she knew anything at all about Lucille Barton. She simply said she’d come to collect the hundred dollars’ reward.”

“I’ll go see her,” Mason said. “You rush men out to get the dope on Argyle. I’m really going to shake him down for a settlement — we’ll give that Finchley kid a chance to finish his college education in return for the inconvenience of a broken hip.”

“Don’t let Argyle off the hook too easy,” Drake warned. “I detest these hit-and-run boys who try to get away with it, and who probably have enough political pull to help them out in case the going gets tough.”

“I’ll stick him,” Mason grinned. “And now I’ll go pay Lucille her hundred dollars. It’s going to be interesting to listen to the way Carlotta Boone tries to get the hundred without betraying Lucille’s frame-up. Okay, Paul, I’m on my way.”

Drake said, “I’ll have men on the job within five minutes.”

Mason walked down the corridor to his own office, whistling a little tune. He unlocked the door of his private office, entered, grinned at Della Street, sailed his hat over to the shelf in the coat closet and said, “Well, Della, I understand Lucille has sent a stooge for the hundred dollars.”

Della Street’s face was a mask of perplexity. “Wait until you hear her story.”

“I want to,” Mason grinned. “Is it good?”

“I haven’t had time to get all of it,” Della Street said, “but it’s one that’s going to knock you for a loop.”

“What’s the name again?” Mason asked.

“Carlotta Boone.”

“What sort, Della?”

“Brunette, slender, shrewdly calculating, probably a gold-digger, reticent about herself. She resents me, wants to talk with you, says she came to give information and get a hundred dollars, and doesn’t want a run-around.”

Mason grinned, said, “Well, let’s get her in, Della, listen to her story, give her the hundred bucks, and send Lucille’s keys back. Maybe this kid shares the apartment with Lucille. Anyway, bring her in.”

Della Street said, “Just don’t jump to conclusions, chief. The talk I’ve had with her indicates it may be something entirely different.”

“Oh well, get her in,” Mason said, “and we’ll find out what it’s all about.”

Della Street picked up the telephone, said, “Send Carlotta Boone in, Gertie.”

Then Della went to the door of the private office to open it and usher the visitor across the threshold.

She had black lacquered eyes which were for the most part utterly devoid of expression but glistened with vigilance. Her hair was a deep glossy black. She was about two inches taller than the average woman and about ten pounds lighter, and there was a peculiar, wary tension about her.

“Well, how do you do, Miss Boone?” Mason said. “I understand you came to collect a hundred dollars.”

“That’s right.”

“How did you happen to get the information?” Mason asked. “How did you know so much about where the number was written down?” He winked at Della Street.

“You mean the license number?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m the one who wrote it down.”

“Oh, I see,” Mason said. “And then you placed it in the desk?”

“I placed it in my purse,” she said. “How do we fix it up about paying the hundred dollars? Of course, I understand that you can’t afford simply to dish out a hundred bucks to every girl who comes in here with a plausible story and a license number.”

Mason, grinning amiably, said, “Certainly not. However, I think we’ve pretty well established our point in the present case.”

Della Street coughed warningly.

Mason glanced at her, frowned, then became cautiously on guard.

Carlotta Boone settled herself in the chair, took pains to cross her legs so that she showed a good expanse of stocking. Her legs, while thin, were well streamlined.

She said, “I suppose I can trust you.”

“I suppose you’ll have to,” Mason said.

She had started to reach into her purse. Now she stopped and regarded Mason with an appraisal that indicated her inherent suspicion. “How do I know you’re not going to double-cross me?”

Mason said, “After all, young lady, I’ve been in business some time. And before I pay you the money I want all the details of the story.”

“Oh, all right,” she said wearily, “here’s your number.”

She pulled a slip of paper from her purse and handed it to Mason.

Mason glanced at the number, then frowned, looked at it again and said, “I’m sorry, Miss Boone, but I think it’s only fair to tell you in advance that this is the wrong license number.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I already have the information I wanted. I have not only the license number of the automobile, but I have inspected the automobile, and have talked to the owner. Quite obviously this is the wrong number.”

“It’s not the wrong number,” she said with firm determination. “What are you trying to do? Talk me out of the hundred dollars? Don’t think I’m that easy.”

Mason frowned.

She said angrily and defiantly, “I was with my boy friend. We’d been out for a rendezvous at one of the cocktail bars. We’d done a little dancing. He was driving me home. We had a flat tire. I got out and was standing around looking ornamental and giving a little help here and there. He got the tire changed. We were just finishing with it, when there was a terrific crash at the intersection. I saw this big black sedan roaring and swerving down Vermesillo Drive. Behind it there was a Ford coupe that was skidding all over the road. It smashed into a telephone post just as I looked up. A woman and a man were in it. The man seemed to be pinned between the door and the post. The woman who was driving had bumped her head. I thought there might be an opportunity for — well, frankly, Mr. Mason, I thought I could make some money. I saw the big black car was going to make a run for it. I pulled out my notebook and jotted down the license number. All right, I didn’t give it to the police, I waited for a reward to be offered. I kept looking at the ads.”

Mason, frowning, regarded her.

“And why not?” she went on defiantly. “You’ll get plenty out of this case. You aren’t working for nothing. Why should I? I need money a lot more than you do, Mr. Perry Mason!”

Mason turned to Della Street. “Get Drake on the phone,” he said.

A moment later, when Paul Drake was on the phone, Mason said wearily, “Paul, here’s another license number for you — 49X176.”

“What about it?” Drake asked.

Mason said, “Find out who owns the car, the address and the type of car.”

Mason hung up the phone, said to Carlotta Boone, “This is a new development. It’s an unexpected development. I thought we had the license number we wanted.”

“I can readily understand,” she said, “that with an ad such as you have placed in the paper you must have been deluged with girls who were willing to tell a good story and give a license number in return for a hundred dollars. However, I’m giving you the straight goods. The question is, do you want it or don’t you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

She said, “You’re not kidding me. The man who was driving that sedan is in a jam. He’s mixed up in a hit-and-run case. If I wanted to, I could go to him and shake him down for ten times what I can get out of you.”

“Why don’t you do it, then?”

“Because it’s too risky. It’s blackmail. You could do it as a lawyer. I can’t.”

“So what do you want?”

She said, “I put myself in your hands. I want you to investigate that license number. When you’re convinced that that’s the car, you can give me the hundred dollars.”

“All right,” Mason said. “What’s your address? How do I get in touch with you?”

“You can’t, and you don’t,” she said. “I’ll get in touch with you, and of course I don’t want my name mentioned. The boy friend I was with is married. He’d have a fit if he knew I had come to you. But, after all, a girl has to live!”

“And when will you get in touch with me?” Mason asked.

“Sometime before noon tomorrow. You should know by then. Good night.”

With complete assurance, she arose from the chair, marched to the exit door, jerked it open and walked out.

Mason looked at Della Street, scratched his head, and said, “If you’d like to go in for a slight understatement, Della, this is what might be called a complicating factor.”

“You don’t suppose that that’s some ruse this man has worked out to throw you off the trail, do you?” she asked.

“Probably,” Mason said, “but it’s not going to throw me off the trail. Ill now go out and chase after the red herring, but Paul Drake is going to keep after the real quarry.”

The telephone rang. Drake said, “Your man is Daniel Caffee. The car’s a Packard sedan; the address is 1017 Beachnut Street. What about him?”

Mason said, “You getting your men on the Argyle job?”

“They’re on. Four men are out right now, and two more are on their way.”

Mason nodded to Della Street, said, “Get your hat and a notebook, Della. We’ll leave Paul here to handle this end of the business. You and I are going to chase a red herring.”

Into the phone he said, “That’s fine, Paul, you stay on the job. I’m going out to take a look at Mr. Daniel Caffee.”

“Okay, Perry, I’ll get all the dope on Argyle. However, he’ll know that we’re investigating him. I can’t have my men contact these club members without some of them getting in touch with Argyle and telling him what’s going on.”

“That’s all right,” Mason said. “That’s the way I want it. Let’s let him know we’re on the job.”

Mason hung up the phone, said, “Come on, Della, let’s go.”