The Case of the Daring Decoy

Chapter Two

The unlisted telephone in Perry Mason’s apartment jangled sharply.

Only two persons in the world had that number. One was Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary. The other was Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency.

Mason, who had been on the point of going out, picked up the receiver.

Paul Drake’s voice came over the wire. “Perry! I have a problem that you may want to work on.”

“What is it?”

“Have you followed the fight for proxies in the California & Texas Global Development & Exploration Company?”

“I know there is a fight on,” Mason said. “I’ve seen ads in the paper for the last week.”

“Jerry Conway, president of the company, is waiting on another telephone. He’s calling from a pay station. He’s pretty well worked up, thinks he’s been framed, and wants to see you at once.”

“What kind of frame?” Mason asked. “Some sort of badger game, attempted bribery, or—?”

“He doesn’t know,” Drake said, “but he has a revolver in his possession and the weapon has been freshly fired. Of course, I’ve just hit the high spots on the phone with him, but he’s got a story that’s sufficiently out of the ordinary so you should be interested, and he says he has money enough to pay any fee within reason. He wants action!”

“A revolver!” Mason said.

“That’s right.”

“How did he get it?”

“He says he took it away from a woman.”

“Where?”

“In a hotel room.”

“Did he take her there?”

“He says not. He says he had a key to the room, and she came in and pulled this gun on him, that she had a nervous trigger finger, and he took the gun away from her. It wasn’t until after he had left the place, that he noticed the gun had been freshly fired and now he’s afraid he’s being put on the spot.”

“That’s a hell of a story I” Mason said.

“That’s the way it impresses me,” Drake told him. “The point is that if the guy is going to be picked up and he’s relying on a story as phony as that, somebody should instruct him to at least tell a lie that will sound plausible.”

Mason said, “They have to think up their own lies, Paul.”

“I know,” Paul retorted, “but you could point out where this one is full of holes,”

“Can he hear your side of this conversation?”

“No.”

“Ask him if it’s worth a thousand dollars for a retainer,” Mason said. “If it is, I’ll come up.”

“Hold the phone,” Drake said. “He’s on the other line.”

A moment later Drake’s voice came back on the wire. “Hello, Perry?”

“Uh-huh,” Mason said.

“Conway says it’s worth two thousand. He’s scared stiff. He thinks he’s led with his chin.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Tell him to go on up to your office and make out his check for a thousand bucks. Get a couple of good men to stand by in case I need them. I’m on my way up.”

Mason switched out the lights in his apartment, and drove to Paul Drake’s office.

Jerry Conway jumped up as Mason entered the room.

“I have a feeling that I’ve walked into a trap, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I don’t know how bad it is. But... well, there’s a lot of money involved in this proxy fight, and the people on the other side are willing to do anything. They’ll stop at nothing!”

Drake slid a check across the desk to Perry Mason. “I had Conway make out his check for the retainer,” he said.

“Got a couple of men lined up?” Mason asked.

Drake nodded.

Mason picked a straight-backed chair, spun it around so that the back was facing the center of the room. He straddled the chair, propped his elbows on the back of the chair and said to Conway, “All right, start talking.”

“There isn’t much time,” Conway said nervously. “Whatever has happened is—”

“There’s no use running around blind,” Mason said. “You’re going to have to take time to tell me the story. Tell it to me fast. Begin at the beginning.”

Conway said, “It started with a telephone call.”

“Who from?” Mason asked.

“A young woman who gave the name of Rosalind.”

“Have you seen her?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“I saw a young woman tonight who said she was Rosalind’s roommate. I... I’m afraid—”

“Go on,” Mason interrupted. “Get it over with! Don’t try to make it easy on yourself. Give me the details.”

Conway told his story. Mason leaned forward, his arms folded across the back of the chair, his chin resting on his wrists, his eyes narrow with concentration. He asked no questions, took no notes, simply listened with expressionless concentration.

When Conway had finished, Mason said, “Where’s the gun?”

Conway took it from his pocket.

Mason didn’t touch the gun. “Open the cylinder,” he said.

Conway swung open the cylinder.

“Turn it so the light shines on it.”

Conway turned the weapon.

“Take out that empty shell,” Mason said.

Conway extracted the shell.

Mason leaned forward to smell the barrel and the shell. “All right,” he said, still keeping his hands off the gun. “Put it back. Put the gun in your pocket. Where’s the key to the room in the hotel?”

“I have it here.”

“Pass it over.”

Conway handed the key to Perry Mason who inspected it for a moment, then dropped it in his pocket.

Mason turned to Paul Drake. “I’ll want you with me, Paul.”

“What about me?” Conway asked.

“You stay here.”

“What do I do with the gun?”

“Nothing!”

“Shouldn’t I notify the police?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t know what we’re up against yet. What about that woman in the room?”

“What about her?”

“Was she really frightened or acting?”

“Her hand was shaking and the gun was wobbling.”

“When she came out, all she had on were a bra and panties?”

“Yes.”

“Good-looking?”

“Her figure was all there.”

“Yet she didn’t seem embarrassed?”

“She was frightened.”

“There’s a difference. Was she embarrassed?”

“I... I would say just frightened. She didn’t try to... to cover up.”

“How old?”

“Probably late twenties.”

“Blond, brunette or redheaded?”

“She had a towel wrapped around her head. All I could see was from the neck down — and I mean all.”

“Eyes?”

“I couldn’t see well enough to tell.”

“Rings?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Where did she get the gun?”

“Apparently out of the desk.”

“And after that?”

“She acted as though she thought I was going to assault her or something. She wanted to give me all of her money, and begged me not to hurt her.”

“Did her voice sound like Rosalind’s voice over the telephone?”

“No. This mud pack seemed to have hardened. Her lips couldn’t move well. You know how those mud packs act. Her talk was thick — like a person talking while asleep. Rosalind’s voice was different.

“I’ve heard Rosalind’s voice before. I have the feeling that I’ve heard it quite a few times. It wasn’t her voice so much as the spacing of the words, the tempo.”

“You don’t think this girl in the hotel was Rosalind?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re not sure?”

“I’m not sure of anything.”

“Wait here until you hear from me,” Mason said. He nodded to die detective. “Let’s go, Paul.”

Mason crossed the office, held the door open.

“My car or yours?” Drake asked, as they waited for the elevator.

“Mine,” Mason said. “It’s out here.”

“You scare me to death in traffic,” Drake told him.

Mason smiled. “No more. When John Talmage was. Traffic Editor of the Deseret News, he followed all my cases and took me to task for the way I drove. He cited a few statistics.”

“Cure you?” Drake asked.

“Made a Christian of me,” Mason admitted. “Watch and see.”

“I’m skeptical but willing to be convinced,” Paul told him.

Mason, carefully complying with all traffic regulations, drove to the Redfern Hotel and found a parking place.

“Going to identify yourself?” Drake asked.

Mason shook his head. “I’ll keep in the background. You’ll go to the desk, ask if there are any messages for Mr. Boswell.”

Drake raised his eyebrows.

“In that way,” Mason said, “we’ll find out if the clerk remembers Conway coming in and asking the same question. If he does, he’ll look at you suspiciously and start asking questions. Then you can identify yourself and we’ll start from there.”

“And if he doesn’t remember?” Drake asked.

“Then,” Mason said, “you talk with him long enough for him to remember your face. Then if anyone asks him to identify the person who came to the desk and inquired for messages for Boswell, he’ll be confused on the identification.”

“Suppose there’s a Boswell registered in the hotel. Then what do we do?”

“We first go to the room phones, say we want to speak with Gerald Boswell. Find out if he’s registered. If he isn’t, we go up to 729 and look around.”

“For what?”

“Perhaps we’ll find the girl under that mud pack.”

The two men entered the Redfern Hotel and went to the house phones. Mason first asked for Gerald Boswell and was told he was in Room 729. There was no answer.

“Go on, Paul,” Mason said, handing him the key.

Paul Drake walked to the desk, stood there quietly.

The clerk looked up from some bookkeeping he was doing, came over to the counter.

“Messages for Boswell?” Drake asked.

“What’s the first name?”

“Gerald.”

The clerk moved over to the pigeonholes, picked out a stack of envelopes from the one marked “B,” and started flipping them over.

Abruptly he stopped, looked up at Paul Drake, said, “You were in here earlier, weren’t you, Mr. Boswell? Didn’t I give you an envelope?”

Drake grinned. “Let’s put it this way: I’m looking for a recent message.”

“I’m quite certain there isn’t any,” the clerk said. “I gave you that— Or was it you?”

Drake said casually, “That envelope. What’s come in since?”

“Nothing!”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Look it over again and make certain.”

The clerk looked through the file, then regarded Drake dubiously. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Boswell, but do you have any means of identification?”

“Sure,” Drake said.

“May I see it?”

Drake took the key to 729 from his pocket and tossed it on the counter in front of the clerk.

“729,” the clerk said.

“Right,” Drake said.

The clerk moved over to the directory of guests, looked under 729, then became apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Boswell. I was just making certain, that’s all. If any recent messages came in, they would be in the key box. There’s nothing... You didn’t have anyone else come in this evening and ask for messages, did you?”

“Me?” Drake asked in surprise.

The clerk nodded.

“Don’t be silly,” Drake told him. “I’m able to get around. I take my own messages.”

“And I gave you a letter earlier?”

“There was a message in a brown manila envelope,” Drake said.

The clerk’s face showed relief. “I was afraid for a minute that I’d given it to the wrong party. Thank you very much.”

“Not at all,” Drake said and, picking up his key, moved over to the elevator.

Mason moved over to join him.

The girl in the elevator was reading her paperbacked novel. The picture on the cover depicted a good-looking woman in panties and bra, engaged in casual conversation with a man in evening clothes. The title was No Smog Tomorrow.

The elevator girl didn’t look up. As Mason and Drake entered, and as the cage moved under their added weight, the operator closed the book, holding her forefinger to mark the page.

“Floor?” she asked.

“Seven,” Drake said.

She started chewing gum as though the book had been sufficiently absorbing to make her forget about the gum.

“What’s your book?” Drake asked.

“A novel,” she said shortly, looking up for the first time.

“Looks spicy,” Drake said.

“Any law against my reading what I want?”

“None,” Drake said.

“You can buy it yourself at the newsstand for twenty-five cents, in case you’re interested.”

“I’m interested,” Drake told her.

She flashed him a quick glance.

“But not twenty-five cents’ worth,” the detective added.

She diverted her eyes, pouted, jerked the cage to a stop, said, “Seventh floor.”

Mason and Paul Drake walked out and down the corridor.

The girl held the cage at the seventh floor. The mirror on the side of the elevator shaft showed her eyes as she watched the two men walking down the corridor.

“Go right to 729?” Drake asked Mason in a low voice. “She’s watching.”

“Sure,” Mason said.

“She’s interested.”

“So much the better.”

Mason paused before the door of 729. He knocked twice. There was no answer.

Drake produced the key, glanced at Mason.

The lawyer nodded. Drake inserted the key, clicked back the latch.

The door swung back on well-oiled hinges.

There was no one in the room, although the lights were on.

Mason entered the room, closed the door behind him, called, “Anyone there?”

No one answered.

Mason walked to the partially opened door leading into the bedroom. He knocked gently.

“Everybody decent?” he called, waited for a moment for an answer, then pushed open the door.

Abruptly he recoiled.

“All right, Paul, we’ve found it!”

Drake came to stand at Mason’s side. The body of the girl was sprawled diagonally across one of the twin beds. Her left arm and the head were over the far edge of the bed, blond hair hung straight down alongside the dangling arm. The girl wore a tight-fitting, light-blue sweater, and blood from a bullet wound in the left side of the chest had turned the sweater to a purplish hue. The right arm was raised as though to ward off a blow at her face, and remained stiffly grotesque. The short, disarranged skirt disclosed neat nylon legs doubled up and crossed at the ankles.

Mason crossed to the body, felt the wrist, and put slight pressure on the upturned right arm.

Puzzled, he moved around to the side of the bed and touched the left arm.

The left arm swung limply from the shoulder.

Paul Drake said, “Good Lord, Perry, we’re in a jam. We’ve got to report this. I insist.”

Mason, regarding the body in frowning concentration, said, “Okay, Paul, we’ll report it.”

Drake lunged for the telephone in the room.

“Not here! Not now!” Mason said sharply.

“We have to,” Drake said. “Otherwise we’ll be concealing evidence and making ourselves accessories. We’ve got to turn Conway in and let him—”

“What do you mean, we have to turn Conway in?” Mason interrupted. “Conway is my client.”

“But he’s mixed up in this thing!”

“How do you know he is?”

“He admits it!”

“The hell he does. As far as we know, there was no body in the room when he left. This isn’t the girl he left here. If it is, she dressed after he left.”

“What do you intend to do?” Drake asked.

“Come on,” Mason told him.

“Look, Perry, I’ve got a license. They can take it away. They—”

“Forget it,” Mason said. “I’m running the show. You’re acting under my instructions. I’m taking the responsibility. Come on!”

“Where?”

“To the nearest phone booth where we can have privacy. First, however, we give it a quick once-over.”

“No, Perry, no. We can’t touch anything. You know that.”

“We can look around,” Mason said. “Bathroom door partially open. No sign of baggage, no clothes anywhere. Conway said the girl was in undies and was supposed to be Rosalind’s roommate. This place doesn’t look lived in.”

“Come on, Perry, for the love of Mike,” Drake protested. “It’s a trap. If they catch us prowling the place, we’ll be the ones in the trap. We can claim we were going to phone in a report and they’ll laugh at us, want to know what we were doing prowling the joint.”

Mason opened a closet door. “I shouldn’t have brought you along, Paul.”

“You can say that again,” Drake said.

Mason regarded the empty closet.

“Okay, Paul, let’s go to the lobby and phone. This is a trap, all right. Let’s go.”

Drake followed the lawyer to the elevator. The elevator girl had brought the cage back to the seventh floor. She was sitting on the stool, her knees crossed, good-looking legs where they could be seen.

She was looking at the book but seemed more interested in her pose than in the book.

She looked up as Mason and Paul Drake entered the elevator. She closed the book, marking the place with her right forefinger. Her eyes rested on Paul Drake.

“Down?” she asked.

“Down,” Mason said.

She looked Paul Drake over as she dropped the cage to the ground floor.

Drake, engrossed in his thoughts, didn’t give her so much as a glance.

Mason crossed the lobby to a telephone booth, dropped a dime, and dialed the unlisted number of Della Street, his confidential secretary.

Della Street’s voice said, “Hello.”

“You decent?” Mason asked.

“Reasonably.”

“Okay. Jump in your car. Go to Paul Drake’s office. You’ll find a man there. His name’s Conway. Identify yourself. Tell him I said he was to go with you. Get him out of circulation.”

“Where?”

Mason said, “Put him anyplace, just so it isn’t the Redfern Hotel.”

Della Street’s voice was sharp with concentration. “Anything else?”

“Be sure that he registers under his right name,” Mason said. “Got that?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“All right. Listen carefully. He heard a woman’s voice on the telephone. There was something in the spacing of that voice he thinks was familiar. The voice itself was disguised, but there was something in the tempo he’s heard before.

“Now, it’s important as hell that he identify that voice. Keep after him. Make him think. Hold his nose to the grindstone. Tell him I have to have the answer.”

“What shall I tell him about the reason for all this?” Della asked.

“Tell him you’re following my instructions. Make him remember what it is about that voice that’s familiar.”

“Okay. That all?”

“That’s all. Get started. You haven’t much time. Return to the office after you get him located. Be discreet. Act fast.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the Redfern Hotel.”

“Can I reach you there?”

“No. Don’t try to reach me anywhere. Get this man out of circulation, then go to the office and wait.”

“Okay, Chief, I’m on my way.”

Mason hung up, dropped another dime, dialed police headquarters and said, “Homicide, please.”

A moment later, when he had Homicide on the line, he said, “This is Perry Mason, the attorney.”

“Just a minute,” the man’s voice said. “Sgt. Holcomb’s here. I’ll put him on.”

“Oh-oh,” Mason said.

Sgt. Holcomb’s voice came over the line. “Yes. Mr. Mason,” he said with overdone politeness. “What can we do for you tonight?”

“For one thing,” Mason said, “you can go to the Redfern Hotel, Room 729, and look at the body of a young woman who’s sprawled across one of the twin beds in the bedroom. I’ve been careful not to touch anything, but it’s my opinion that she’s quite dead.”

“Where are you now?” Holcomb asked sharply.

“In the telephone booth in the lobby of the Redfern Hotel.”

“You’ve been up in the room?”

“Naturally,” Mason said. “I’m not psychic. When I tell you a body’s there, it means I’ve seen it.”

“Why didn’t you use the room phone?”

“Didn’t want to foul up any fingerprints,” Mason said. “We came down here and used the phone in the lobby.”

“Have you told anyone about this?”

“I’ve told you.”

Holcomb said, “I’ll have a radio car there in two minutes. I’ll be there myself in fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll wait for you,” Mason said. “The room’s locked.”

“How did you get in?”

“I had a key.”

“The hell you did!”

“That’s right.”

“Whose room is it?”

“The room is registered in the name of Gerald Boswell.”

“You know him?”

“As far as I know,” Mason said, “I’ve never seen him in my life.”

“Then how did you have the key?”

“It was given to me.”

“You wait right there,” Holcomb said.

Mason hung up the phone, said to Paul Drake, “Well, we may as well wait.”

The lawyer seated himself in one of the overstuffed, leather chairs.

Drake, after a moment, eased himself into an adjoining chair. He was obviously unhappy.

The clerk behind the desk eyed them thoughtfully.

Mason took a cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, tapped the end, held flame to the end of the cigarette and inhaled a deep drag.

“What the devil am I going to tell them?” Drake asked.

“I’ll do the talking,” Mason told him.

They had waited less than a minute when the door opened, and a uniformed police officer hurried in. He went to the desk, talked briefly to the clerk.

The startled clerk pointed to Mason and Paul Drake. The officer came over to them.

“Are you the men who reported a body?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Mason told him.

“Where is it?”

“Room 729,” Mason said. “Do you want a key?”

The lawyer took the room key from his pocket, and handed it to the officer.

“Homicide says for you to wait here. I’m to seal up the room until they can get here.”

“Okay,” Mason told him. “We’re waiting.”

“You’re Perry Mason?”

“That’s right.”

“Who’s this?”

“Paul Drake, private detective.”

“How’d you happen to discover the body?”

“We opened the door and walked in,” Mason said. And then added, “Are you supposed to get our story now, or get up and see no one is in the room tampering with evidence?”

The officer said curtly, “Don’t go away!” He grabbed the key and hurried to the elevator.

The excited clerk was conferring with the girl at the hotel switchboard. A moment later she started making frantic calls.

Mason pinched out his cigarette in an ash tray.

“They’ll make us tell the whole story,” Drake said.

“Everything we know,” Mason said. “We’re not supposed to do any guessing for the police, only give them the evidence we have.”

“And the name of our client?”

“Not our client,” Mason said sharply. “My client. He’s nothing to you. I’m your client.”

Mason walked over to the hotel desk, took an envelope from the rack, addressed it to himself at his office, put a stamp on the envelope, moved over to the mailbox.

Drake came to stand beside him.

Mason took Conway’s check for a thousand dollars from his pocket, pushed it in the envelope, sealed the envelope, and dropped it in the mailbox.

“What’s that for?” Drake asked.

“Someone might book me for something and search me,” Mason said. “Even Sgt. Holcomb would connect up a thousand-dollar retainer with our visit to the Redfern Hotel.”

“I don’t like this,” Drake said.

“Who does?” Mason asked.

“Are we in the clear withholding Conway’s name?”

“Why not? Conway didn’t commit any murder.”

“How do you know he didn’t?”

“He says he didn’t.”

“He has the gun.”

“What gun?”

“The one with which the murder was committed!”

“How do you know it’s the gun?” Mason asked.

“It has to be,” Drake said.

“I told you,” Mason told him, “we’re not supposed to engage in any surmises or jump to any conclusions as far as the police are concerned. We’re supposed to tell them what we know, provided it isn’t a privileged communication.”

Drake said, “They’ll sweat it out of us.”

“Not out of me, they won’t,” Mason told him.

“They’ll find Conway in my office.”

Mason shook his head.

“So that’s it!” Drake said. “That was the first telephone call you made!”

Mason yawned, reached for his cigarette case, said, “You’re not supposed to deal in surmises when you’re talking with the police, Paul, only facts. That’s all they’re interested in.”

Drake cracked his knuckles nervously.

The clerk left the desk and came over to join them. “Did you two report a body in 729?” he asked.

“Sure,” Mason said, as though surprised at the question.

“How did it happen you did that?”

“Because we found a body,” Mason told him. “You’re supposed to report to the police on things like that.”

“I mean, how did you happen to find the body?”

“Because she was there.”

“Dead or passed out?” the clerk asked.

“She looked dead, but I’m not a doctor.”

“Mr. Boswell was with you when you found the body?” the clerk asked.

“Boswell?” Mason asked in surprise.

The clerk nodded toward Paul Drake.

“That’s not Boswell,” Mason said.

“He claimed he was Boswell,” the clerk said accusingly.

“No, he didn’t,” Mason said. “He asked if there were any messages for Mr. Boswell.”

“And I asked him to identify himself,” the clerk said indignantly.

“And he put the key to 729 on the counter,” Mason said. “You went and looked up the registration and found it was in the name of Boswell. You felt that was all the identification you needed. You didn’t ask him for a driving license. You didn’t ask him if his name was Boswell. You asked him for identification, and he put the key on the counter.”

The clerk said indignantly, “I was led to believe I was dealing with Mr. Boswell. The police aren’t going to like this.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Mason said, and then added, “for you.”

“I asked him for identification as Boswell.”

“No you didn’t. You asked him for some identification.”

“That’s a technicality, and you know it.”

“What’s a technicality?”

“I meant that I wanted to know who he was. I wanted to see his identification.”

“Then you should have asked him for it and insisted on seeing it,” Mason said. “Don’t try to hold us responsible for your mistakes.”

“The room is registered in the name of Gerald Boswell.”

“Uh-huh,” Mason said.

“And this is the man who claimed to be Boswell earlier in the evening. He got an envelope from me.”

“You’re sure?” Mason asked.

“Of course I’m sure.”

“You weren’t so sure a moment ago.”

“I was sure.”

“Then why did you ask him for identification?”

“I wanted to be certain he was the same man.”

“Then you weren’t certain.”

“I’m not going to let you cross-examine me.”

“That’s what you think,” Mason told him, grinning. “Before you get done, you’ll be on the witness stand. Then I’ll give you a real cross-examination.”

“Who are you?”

“The name’s Perry Mason.”

The clerk was nonplused. “The lawyer?”

“That’s right.”

Abruptly the door of the lobby pushed open, and Sgt. Holcomb, followed by two officers in plain clothes, came striding across toward the elevators, saw Mason, Drake and the clerk, and detoured over to them.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” Mason said cordially.

Sgt. Holcomb ignored the greeting.

He glared at Perry Mason. “How does it happen you’re in on this?”

“In the interests of my client, I went to 729 to look for some evidence,” Mason said.

“In the interests of whom?”

“A client.”

“All right,” Holcomb said, “let’s quit playing ring-around-the-rosy. This is murder. Who was the client?”

Mason shook his head and said, “That information is confidential.”

“You can’t withhold that,” Holcomb told him. “You’ll become an accessory, if you try to protect a murderer.”

“This man wasn’t a murderer,” Mason said.

“How do you know?”

“I know. Furthermore, he’s my client. I don’t have to divulge the names of my clients to anyone.”

“You can’t withhold evidence.”

“I’m not withholding any evidence. As soon as I entered the room, I found a body. As soon as I found the body, I notified you.”

The clerk said, “Excuse me, Sergeant, but this man standing here is the client.”

Sgt. Holcomb said disdainfully, “Don’t be silly. That guy’s the private detective who does Mason’s investigative work. Mason called him in after he knew there’d been a murder.”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” the clerk protested, “but that isn’t true in this case.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s the man who got the key to the room in the first place. His secretary registered for him. He’s been in several times asking for messages.”

Sgt. Holcomb turned to Paul Drake. “Hey! Wait a minute! Wait a minute! What’s all this?”

Paul Drake said, “The guy’s nuts!”

“What’s your name?” Holcomb asked the clerk.

“Bob King.”

“All right. Now, what’s this about the room?”

“It was rented about two o’clock. A young woman came to the desk and said she was the secretary of Gerald Boswell, that Boswell wanted to have a suite in the hotel for one day, that he would appear later, and go to the suite, but that she wanted to inspect it and make sure it was okay, that since she had no baggage, she would pay the rent in advance and take the keys. She asked for two keys.”

“Say,” Holcomb said, “you’re giving out a hell of a lot of valuable information.”

“Well, you asked for it. What’s valuable about it?”

Holcomb jerked his head toward Mason. “He’s drinking it in.”

“Well, you asked me.”

“All right. Now shut up... Wait a minute. Tell me about Paul Drake here.”

“He showed up about six-thirty, asked for a message, gave the name of Boswell, and I went through the file and gave him an envelope.”

“An envelope containing a key?” Holcomb asked.

“Perhaps the key was in it, but as I remember it now, and it’s beginning to come back to me, it was a big, heavy manila envelope, thick, and jammed with papers.”

“And it was Paul Drake here who got the letter?”

“I think so... Yes, this was the man.”

“Then what did he do?”

“Went up to the suite. I didn’t pay much attention. He seemed quiet and respectable, and the suite was paid for in advance.”

Holcomb whirled to Paul Drake and said, “What about this?”

Drake hesitated.

“I can answer for Paul Drake,” Mason said. “I think there has been a case of mistaken identity.”

“The hell there has!” Sgt. Holcomb said. “Drake went up there on some kind of job for you! This girl got herself bumped off in his room, and he sent out an SOS for you. He didn’t stay in the suite, did he?” Holcomb asked the clerk.

“I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention. He came back this second time and asked for messages. That was when I had occasion to look at him particularly, because these two gentlemen were together and I asked this man, who you say is Mr. Drake but who gave me the name of Boswell, if I hadn’t already given him a message.”

Sgt. Holcomb said to Drake, “We may not be able to make Mason kick through with the name of a client, but we can sure as hell make a private detective tell what he knows about a murder or bust him wide open.”

Mason said, “I tell you, Sergeant, it’s a case of mistaken identification.”

“Phooey!” Holcomb said. “I’m going up and take a look at the place. We’ll have a fingerprint man up there. If we find your prints and—”

“We were up there,” Mason said. “No one questions that. That’s where we discovered the body.”

“Drake with you?”

“Yes.”

“You came in together?”

“That’s right.”

“What about the story King tells about Drake going to the desk and asking for messages?”

“That part of it is true,” Mason said. “We had reason to believe the suite was registered in the name of Boswell, and Drake, acting purely in an investigative capacity, asked if there were any messages for Boswell. He never said he was Boswell.”

Sgt. Holcomb said, “This thing sounds fishy as hell to me. You two stick around. I’m going up. Remember now, don’t leave. I want to question you further.”

Holcomb strode toward the elevator.

Mason turned to Paul Drake, said, “Get on the phone, Paul. Start locating more operatives. I want half a dozen men and a couple of good-looking women, if I can get them.”

“You can get them,” Drake said, “but, if you don’t mind my asking the question, just what the hell do you intend to do?”

“Protect my client, of course,” Mason told him.

“I mean about me,” Drake said.

“I’m going to get you off the hook,” Mason told him.

“How?”

“By letting you tell everything you know.”

“But I know the name of your client.”

“I can’t keep him out of it,” Mason said. “He’s walked into a trap. All I can hope to do now is to gain time.”

“How much time?”

“A few hours.”

“What can you do in that time?” Drake asked.

“I don’t know until I try,” Mason said. “Get on the phone and line up some good operatives. Have them at your office. Come on, Paul. Let’s go!”

Drake went to the telephone booth.

Mason lit a cigarette, paced the floor of the lobby thoughtfully.

A deputy coroner, carrying a black bag, two plain-clothes men, and a police photographer loaded with cameras and flashbulbs entered the hotel.

Sgt. Holcomb came back down as Drake finished with his telephoning.

“All right,” Holcomb said. “What do you know about this?”

“Only what we’ve told you,” Mason said. “We went to that room. We entered it. We found a corpse. We called you.”

“I know, I know,” Holcomb said. “But how did you happen to go to that room in the first place?”

“I was acting on behalf of a client.”

“All right. Who’s the client?”

“I can’t tell you the name of my client until I get his permission.”

“Then get his permission.”

“I will, but I can’t get it now. I’ll get it first thing in the morning.”

“Well, you can’t hold out on us in a case like this. It’s one thing being an attorney, and another thing to be an accessory.”

“I’m not trying to hold out,” Mason said. “I can’t betray the confidences of my client. My client will have to speak for himself. I need time to get in touch with him.”

“Tell me who he is and we’ll let him speak for himself.”

Mason shook his head. “I can’t give you his name without his permission. I’ll have my client at the district attorney’s office at nine o’clock in the morning. My client will submit to questioning. I’ll be there. I’ll advise him as to his rights. I can tell you this, Sergeant: To the best of my client’s knowledge, there was no corpse in the suite when my client left it. I expected to meet someone there.”

“Who?”

“A woman.”

“This one who was killed?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Look, we want to talk with this guy, whoever he is.”

“At nine in the morning,” Mason said firmly.

Holcomb regarded him with smoldering hostility. “I could take you in as a material witness.”

“To what?” Mason asked. “I’ve told you all I know about the murder. As far as the private affairs of my client are concerned, he’s going to speak for himself. Now, if you want to start getting tough, we’ll both get tough and I’ll withdraw my offer to have my client at the DA.’s office at nine in the morning.”

Holcomb said angrily, “All right, have it your way. But remember this. We’re not considering this as co-operation. You have your client there at nine o’clock, and he won’t be entitled to one damned bit of consideration.”

“He’ll be there,” Mason said, “and we’re not asking for consideration. We’re asking for our rights. And I think I know what they are... Come on, Paul.”

Mason turned and walked out.