The Case of the Cautious Coquette

Chapter 7

Driving along Beachnut Street, Della Street said, “Why do you suppose a girl would pull a trick like that?”

“Probably to get a hundred bucks,” Mason said. “But, hang it, Della, there’s something about that girl which impresses me.”

“She’s a golddigger.”

“I know she’s a gold-digger. She took down the license number, intending to use it for blackmail. Then for some reason she didn’t. She saw die ad in the paper offering a hundred dollars. She couldn’t resist the temptation of cleaning up a hundred dollars where her action would be entirely within the law. Somehow or other the girl gives me the impression of telling the truth, and yet — well, hang it, Della, I’ve already seen Argyle’s automobile. It has dents on the back end; it’s been in a collision, the right rear wheel is brand-new, and...”

“And, of course,” Della Street said, “his story about the car having been stolen could have been true.”

“Just about one chance in a hundred, Della. Well, we’ll soon find out. Here’s 1017.”

Mason brought his car to a stop in front of a good-looking apartment house, quite obviously of the better class.

“What do we do?” Della Street asked. “Barge on in?”

“No,” Mason told her. “We look around a bit first. There’s a private garage down here in the basement. There’ll be someone in charge. Let’s park the car and take a look.”

Mason found a parking place for his car, then he and Della Street walked down the sharply inclined ramp to the garage.

The man in charge was parking cars.

Mason looked around the place, said to his secretary, “Keep looking for a big black Packard, Della. You take the left side, I’ll take the right. Let’s go.”

The man finished parking the car, called out, “Hey, you!”

Mason turned and waved his hand reassuringly.

Della said, “Here’s a Packard over here on the left.”

Mason took a quick look at the license number, said, “That’s the one, Della. Okay, let’s give it a once-over.”

The man who ran the garage was walking toward them now. “What do you folks want?” he called.

Mason, moving toward the rear of the Packard, said, “You talk with him, Della. Tell him we understand the car is for sale.”

The light was dim there in the back of the garage, but Mason could see that a new fender assembly had been put on the back of the car, that there was still a dent in the trunk and that the left rear tire bore marks of a deep gouge.

Mason heard Della Street explain that they understood the car was for sale and then heard the garage man insisting that they’d have to talk with Mr. Caffee about it.

Mason completed his hurried inspection, handed the garage man ten dollars and said, “Mr. Caffee is the one who offered the car to a friend of mine. I wanted to get the low-down on it.”

“Yes, sir,” the garage attendant said, instantly mollified.

“Now, as I understand it,” Mason said, “the car was in some sort of a wreck.”

“Oh no, sir, not a wreck. The car’s in wonderful shape. Just a minor traffic collision that made it necessary to put on a new fender. That is, the old fender could have been fixed up but Mr. Caffee’s very particular about the car, keeps it running like a watch.”

“I see,” Mason said. “When was this accident?”

“Oh, not very long ago — a couple of days. Mr. Caffee just got the car back. He has some sort of a pull with the car agency here. I don’t think the agency did the installation for him, though. I know he got the fender through them. Anyhow, the car wasn’t hurt a bit. It was just a little sideswipe. The rear bumper got most of the damage. It was torn loose from its supports, but that’s all been fixed up now.”

“I see,” Mason said. “Well, thanks a lot. I suppose Caffee is in now?”

“Oh yes, sir. Sure. When his car’s here, he’s here. He always drives when he goes out.”

“Married?”

“Yes. His wife has her own little coupe. She doesn’t like the big car. Mr. Caffee says he likes weight and power and speed — he’s that sort.”

“I see,” Mason said. “What’s the number of his apartment, by the way?”

“22-B.”

“Could you describe him to me?” Mason asked. “I always like to know the sort of chap I’m doing business with.”

“Why yes, sir. He’s — oh, I should say he was around fifty-five, rather slender, a quiet sort of man who always dresses in good taste, smokes cigars, wears double-breasted gray suits, nearly always gray. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in any other color.”

“Okay, thanks,” Mason said. “We’ll go see him. The car looks to me like a pretty good buy.”

“I didn’t have any idea he intended to sell it. He’s only had it a few months, and I know he likes it very much.”

“Can we take an elevator here?”

“Yes, sir. You can ring and the elevator comes right down here. As visitors, you’re supposed, of course, to stop by the desk and be announced.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but that’s a useless formality, under the circumstances. What floor is Apartment 22-B on?”

“The fifth floor.”

Mason said to Della Street, “Come on, Della. We’ll at least make Mr. Caffee an offer.”

The garage attendant pushed the buzzer which brought the elevator down to the basement.

Mason closed the door, punched the button for the fifth floor.

“Well?” Della Street asked.

Mason shook his head. “I’m going around in circles. This whole business is completely cockeyed.”

The elevator lurched to a stop at the fifth floor.

Mason pushed a mother-of-pearl button by the side of the door numbered 22-B, and within a few seconds the door was opened by a man with thin gray hair who was in the late fifties. He was attired in a double-breasted gray suit and was smoking a cigar.

“Mr. Caffee?” Mason asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Mason shoved a card at Caffee, said, “I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer. I want to talk with you about your automobile.”

“What about it?”

Mason pushed forward.

Caffee instinctively fell back. Mason and Della Street walked into the apartment.

“What about my automobile?” Caffee asked.

“I want to know about the accident you had on the third.”

Caffee stood rigid for a moment, then his lip began to quiver, the cigar almost fell from his mouth. Caffee clutched at it hurriedly, cleared his throat, said, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Mason charged, his manner radiating positive assurance. “Your automobile smashed into a Ford coupe at the intersection of Hickman Avenue and Vermesillo Drive. I suppose you’d had a few drinks, were afraid to stay and take the rap, and decided you could escape undetected. A look in the rearview mirror showed you that all eyes were focused on the car that was crashing into the lamppost You were going fast and you kept on going fast.”

“Oh, my God!” Caffee exclaimed, and collapsed into a chair. His face seemed suddenly to be made of bread dough. His lips trembled.

“Well?” Mason demanded.

“You’ve got me,” Caffee said pathetically. “Why in the world did I ever do it?”

Della Street dropped into a chair, opened a shorthand book, balanced it on her knee, and started taking notes.

“You admit it?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” Caffee said, “I admit it. You’ve caught me. You’ve caught me dead to rights. I supposed at the time there was just property damage... Tell me... was anyone hint, Mr. Mason?”

“Two people were hurt,” Mason said. “The woman who was driving the car was shaken up. The son sustained a broken hip. He was slammed against the lamppost when the door of the car jerked itself open and spilled him out. It’s a wonder he didn’t crack his head and die.”

Daniel Caffee put long, bony hands to his head, moaned.

“Well,” Mason said, “what about it?”

“You’ve caught me,” Caffee repeated in abject contrition. “I suppose I’ll have to take my medicine. Mr. Mason, I give you my word, I didn’t know anyone had been hint. I kept hoping it was just a question of property damage and I was trying to find some way of paying off... I was a coward. I’d had a few drinks too many. You see, I’d met an old friend and we’d stopped in a cocktail lounge. Ordinarily I never drink if I’m going to drive. My wife was expecting me and I — well, I was late and I was trying to make time. I was going fast. I hit that intersection and honestly I didn’t see that other car until it was right on top of me. I thought I could give my car the gun and get by. I pushed the throttle down to the floor boards. My car has a marvelous pickup. It shot ahead and all but missed that other car, but that other car couldn’t seem to stop. It seemed to me to keep right on coming. It hit the rear end of my car and I guess my rear bumper snagged the front wheel and jerked the other car around and into the ornamental lighting pole.

“At first I thought I’d stop. Then I looked in the rearview mirror and, just as you say, I saw that everyone was running toward the other car. The street was clear ahead, and I knew that there were no traffic signals for half a dozen blocks, so I just kept the car rolling. I felt sure that no one had seen me well enough to recognize the car, and my car had suffered relatively little damage. If it hadn’t been for those drinks I’d never have even considered any such crazy idea.”

“What time was this?” Mason asked.

“I guess it must have been shortly after five o’clock, Mr. Mason.”

“Where?”

“Right there at the intersection of Hickman Avenue and Vermesillo Drive. I was traveling east on Vermesillo Drive and, as I say, I was hurrying right along.”

Mason glanced at Della Street’s busy pen.

“And the date?”

“The third of the month. Mr. Mason, I know that I’m in bad, but let’s do what we can to square it. I’m covered by insurance. I’ll get in touch with the insurance company and I know that they’ll make a generous settlement. In addition to that, I’ll make your clients a check for ten thousand dollars on my personal account. I suppose technically I’m guilty of hit-and-run and I’ll have to take my medicine there. And I do hope we can handle this without my wife finding out about it.”

“Your wife’s home now?”

“No, I’m expecting her in about thirty minutes.”

Mason narrowed his eyes, thinking the situation over.

He said, “Write out a brief statement of what you’ve just told me. Sign it and make a check for ten thousand dollars, payable to Robert L. Finchley.

“The hit-and-run angle you’ll have to handle with the police. I suppose under the circumstances, and in view of the payment, you may get probation. Now, while you’re writing out that statement and the check, do you have a telephone I can use?”

“Yes, sir, right over there on the table.”

Mason walked over to the telephone, asked for an outside line, gave the number of Drake’s office.

When he had Drake on the phone he said, “Paul, that Argyle thing was a false alarm. Call off your men.”

“The hell it’s a false alarm,” Drake said indignantly. “One of my men has a signed statement from the doorman at the Broadway Athletic Club. He says Argyle showed up in a taxicab about seven o’clock. He seemed all upset and nervous. He told the doorman he was going to report his car as having been stolen, and gave the guy a hundred bucks to swear Argyle had been there ever since noon. The doorman would have stayed put if my man hadn’t pulled everything in the quiver and told the guy he was going to the pen for compounding a felony.”

Mason remained silent.

“You there?” Drake asked.

“I’m here.”

“Argyle’s wife left him about six months ago. He’s a speculator in oil leases. He has two associates, Dudley Gates and Ross P. Hollister. Hollister lives in Santa del Barra and has the dough. Since Argyle’s wife left him Argyle has been living alone in his big house, only the chauffeur with him and a maid who comes in by die day. Argyle is well thought of at the club. He’s considered to have made a nice nest egg in that new oil field up north. He’d been drinking and was still a little woozy when he slipped the doorman at the club the hundred bucks. Now what more do you want than that, Perry? He’s your man.”

“He can’t be!”

“I take it you’re where you can’t talk without someone hearing you?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, don’t let him flimflam you, whoever he may be,” Drake said. “He’s giving you a run-around. Argyle’s the man you want.”

“He’s giving me a written confession and his personal check for ten thousand bucks,” Mason said in a low voice, and hung up the telephone just as he heard Paul Drake’s gasp of astonishment.