The Case of the Daring Decoy

Chapter Seven

Mason’s steps echoed along the corridor of the silent building as he left the elevator and walked down to his office. He inserted his latchkey, snapped back the spring lock and opened the door.

Della Street, who was stretched out in the overstuffed chair, her feet propped on another chair, her legs covered with a topcoat, jumped up, blinking.

She saw Mason’s face, smiled, and said, “Gosh, Chief, I was asleep. I made myself comfortable and all of a sudden I went out like a light.

“There’s coffee over there in the electric percolator. I’m afraid it’s pretty strong and stale by now. I made it fresh about midnight.”

“Didn’t Drake tell you to go home?”

“He told me you said to go home,” Della Street smiled. “But I thought I’d wait it out, at least until you got in.”

“What have you got to go with the coffee?” Mason asked.

“Doughnuts. And they’re pretty good. I went down to this doughnut shop just before it closed at midnight and got a bag of fresh doughnuts... I’ll bet I’m a mess.”

She shook out her skirt, put her hand to her hair, fluffed it out, smiled at Perry Mason.

“What’s new?”

“Lots, of things, Della. Give Paul Drake a ring and ask him if he wants to come down and have coffee, doughnuts and chitchat.”

Della Street promptly put through the call, said, “He’s coming right down.”

Mason opened the closet which contained the wash-stand, washed his hands and face in hot water, rubbed briskly with a towel.

Della Street produced three big coffee mugs and opened the faucet on the electric percolator. The office filled with the aroma of hot coffee.

Drake’s code knock sounded on the door.

Della Street opened it.

“Hi, Paul,” Mason said, hanging up the towel with which he had been drying his face. “What’s new?”

“Not too much at this end,” Drake said. “What’s new with you?”

“They’re going to have the body identified in about thirty minutes,” Mason said.

“How do you know?”

Mason grinned. “I fixed a time bomb so it will go off just about on schedule.”

“How come?”

“The body,” Mason said, “is that of Rose Calvert. Rose’s middle name, believe it or not, was Mistletoe. Her dad thought she might turn out to be romantic. His hunch was right — poor kid.

“For your information, Rose’s husband, Norton B. Calvert, lives in Elsinore, is running a service station, and was waiting from day to day in hopes that his wife would come back.

“Probably at about this time he’s at the Elsinore police station, telling them that he has reason to believe his wife has been murdered, and asking the Elsinore police to find out about it. They’ll call the Los Angeles police, and since there is only one unidentified body, at least so far, the police will ask for a description, and very shortly will have an identification.”

“But won’t they find out that you were down there?” Della Street asked apprehensively.

“They’ll find out I was down there,” Mason said, “and they’ll be mad. They’ll feel that I held out on them in respect to an identification of the body.”

“Well?” Drake asked drily. “Wouldn’t that be a natural conclusion under the circumstances?”

“Sure, it will,” Mason said. “So the police will decide to give my client the works. They’ll check on Rose Calvert, and find out that during the last few weeks of her life she had been very, very much involved with Gifford Farrell. They will, therefore, jump at the conclusion that Farrell is my client. They’ll descend on him, and they’ll probably be rather inconsiderate and ungentle.

“Find out anything about that gun, Paul?”

“Not yet. That information is supposed to be available only during office hours, at least to the general public. However, I took it on myself to issue a gratuity of fifty dollars and I’m expecting—”

“Well, grab this coffee while it’s hot,” Della Street said, “and you can do your expecting right here.”

Drake said dubiously, “I’ve been swigging down coffee all night.”

Mason picked up one of the big mugs, put in sugar and cream, stood with his feet apart, leaning slightly forward. He reached for a doughnut, then raised the coffee mug to his lips.

“How is it?” Della Street asked apprehensively.

“Couldn’t be better,” Mason said.

“I’m afraid it’s stale and bitter.”

“It’s wonderful!”

Drake tasted his coffee, said, “Well, you have to admit one thing, it’s strong.”

“I need it that way,” Mason said. “At nine o’clock I’m going to have to face an irate district attorney, and by that time the police are going to feel I’ve pulled at least one fast one on them.”

The telephone rang, and Della Street said, “That’s probably your office calling you now, Paul.”

Drake put down his coffee mug and picked up the telephone.

“Hello,” he said. “Yes, yes, this is Drake talking... How’s that again...? Hold the phone a second.” Drake looked up at Della Street and said, “Make a note, will you, Della? Pitcairn Hardware & Sporting Goods. Okay, I’ve got it. What’s the date? September second, three years ago. Okay.” Drake hung up the telephone, said, “Well, we’ve got the gun located. I don’t know whether this is going to do you any good or not, Perry.”

“What do you mean?” Mason asked.

“The gun was sold to the Texas Global for the protection of a cashier. The signature was that of the cashier, but the charge was made to the company itself on an order made by Conway.

“You can see what that does. It brings that weapon right home to Jerry Conway.”

Mason thought for a moment, then a slow grin suffused his features. “That,” he said, “brings the gun right home to Gifford Farrell. Gifford Farrell was with the company at that time, and was taking a very active part in the office management.”

“What do you think happened?” Della Street asked.

Mason stood holding his doughnut in one hand, his coffee mug in the other.

“What I think happened is that Gifford Farrell had a fight with his sweetheart and probably caught her cheating. He lost his head, pulled a gun and fired. Or it may have been that Rose Calvert found Gifford was cheating and committed suicide. In any event, Farrell must have had Conway’s telephone tapped. He knew that Conway was going to a public telephone booth to get directions at six-fifteen. Farrell took a chance. He had a girl call in at six-twelve, and Conway was there a few minutes early waiting for the other call. So Conway took the wrong message and was gone by the time the real message came in. Conway was just like a guided missile that’s being directed by radio. When he got to a certain point, someone with another more powerful radio stepped in, took control and sent the missile off on an entirely new path.”

“Well,” Drake said, “it’s a two-edged sword. Remember that both Farrell and Conway could have had access to the fatal weapon.”

“It’s all right,” Mason said, “unless—”

“Unless what?” Della Street asked.

“Unless,” Mason said, “Conway got smart and decided to— No, he wouldn’t do anything like that... However, I didn’t take the number of the gun when he first showed it to us. It wasn’t until after he was down at the motel I wrote down the number... Anyway, it’s all right. We’ll go down to see the D.A. in the morning, and there’ll be nothing to it. He can’t make a case against Conway now, and he’s going to be afraid to try. What did you find out about check-outs, Paul?”

“There was only one check-out at the hotel between six and nine from the seventh floor.”

“What time was that check-out, Paul?”

“About six-fifty.”

“Who was it?”

“A young woman named Ruth Culver.”

“The room number?” Mason asked.

“728.”

“Where is that with reference to 729?”

“Directly across the hall.”

“Have you got that room sewed up?” Mason asked.

“I have an operative in it right now. He’ll stay until we give him the word.”

“What have you found out about the Culver girl?”

“I’ve got men working on her. She’s in her twenties with auburn hair, a fairly good-looking babe... Here’s the strange thing, Perry. She checked in about ten in the morning, then left just before seven that night.”

“Did she make any explanation as to how she happened to check out at that time?”

“She said she’d had a long-distance call. Her father who lives in San Diego is very ill.”

“Baggage?” Mason asked.

“Quite a bit of it.”

Mason said, “Check the San Diego planes, Paul. Find out if one of them had a passenger named Ruth Culver, and—”

“Now look,” Drake interrupted, “you don’t have to do all my thinking for me, Perry. That’s routine. However, the clerk thinks this girl said she was going to drive down.”

Mason finished his doughnut, held out his mug for a refill.

Della Street turned the spigot and let coffee trickle into the mug.

“What about your operative up in Room 728? Can I trust him?” Mason asked.

“You can trust him unless the police start putting pressure on him,” Drake said. “None of these operatives are going to stand up to the police, Perry. They need the good will of the police to keep working.”

“What’s the name of this operative in Room 728?”

“Fred Inskip.”

“Does he know me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Give him a ring,” Mason said. “Tell him that I’m going to come up sometime before noon. Tell him to leave the door unlocked. I want to take a look in there... How about the police? Have they cleared out?”

“They’ve cleared out,” Drake said. “They sealed up Room 729.”

Drake watched Mason as he picked up another doughnut, said, “How I envy you your stomach, Perry! I’ve ruined mine sitting up nights living on soggy hamburgers and lukewarm coffee. Somehow when coffee is lukewarm, you drink four or five cups of it. If you can get it piping hot, you don’t drink so much.”

“Why don’t you get one of these big electric percolators?” Mason asked.

“Let me have Della Street to run it and keep house, and I will.”

Mason grinned. “Don’t talk like that, Paul. You could get yourself shot. Ring up Inskip and tell him to expect me around — oh, say ten or eleven.”

Drake put his coffee mug down on a piece of blotting paper, dialed a number, said, “I want to talk with Mr. Inskip in 728, please. Yes, I know it’s a late hour, but he’s not in bed. He’s waiting for this call. Just give the phone the gentlest tinkle if you don’t believe me.”

A moment later, Drake said, “Fred, this is Paul. I won’t mention any names, because I have an idea someone is monitoring our conversation, but a friend of mine is coming up to see you around ten o’clock. Leave the door unlocked... Okay.”

Drake hung up the telephone, said to Mason, “Remember, Sgt. Holcomb is looking for you. Are you going to try to get in touch with him?”

“He’ll be in bed by this time,” Mason said. “I wouldn’t want to disturb his beauty sleep.”

“Now look,” Drake warned, “remember this about Inskip. He isn’t in a position to hold out on the police if they start asking specific questions. You’ve been around the hotel, and someone may recognize you.”

“It’s all right,” Mason said. “I don’t care if they know I’ve been there after I’ve left. The only thing I don’t want is to have some smart guy like that room clerk, Bob King, ring up the police and say that I’m there and am visiting someone in Room 728. That might be what you would call premature.”

“To say the least,” Drake said drily. “Della, please put those doughnuts out of sight. They tempt me, and I’d have my stomach tied up in knots if I tried to keep up with your ravenous employer.”

Mason said, “I guess this just about winds things up, Della. How about getting in your car and driving home?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to run out to my apartment, shave, take a shower, and maybe get a couple of hours’ sleep before I have to go pick up Conway.”

“All right,” she said, “I’ll go home.”

“Don’t bother with straightening things up here now. You can do it in the morning. Come on, I’ll go down with you and see that you get in the car. Pull that percolator plug out of the socket, and leave everything until morning.”

“The office looks a wreck.”

“What do we care?”

Mason held Della Street’s coat for her. They switched out lights, and Mason, Della Street, and Paul Drake walked down the corridor.

“You going to call it a day, Paul?” Mason asked.

“Gosh, no!” Drake said. “I’m sitting in the middle of everything up there. I have to be where I can handle the telephones.”

“Can you get any sleep?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll keep right on.”

“You’ll have some stuff to do tomorrow — that is, I mean later on in the day.”

Drake said, “It’s all right, Perry. I work right on through lots of times. That’s what’s wrong with my stomach.”

“Well,” Mason told him, “I think we’ve got this case pretty much under control. We’ll go up there and make an appearance at the D.A.’s office as a matter of form, but— Say, wait a minute, Paul. They should know who the corpse is by this time. Let’s check.”

“All right. Step in my office,” Drake said.

They followed Drake into his office. Drake asked the switchboard operator, “Anything new on that murder case at the Redfern Hotel?”

“Nothing except the calls I relayed down there.”

“They haven’t identified the body?” Drake asked.

“Not as far as we know.”

Drake looked at Mason.

Mason said, “That fellow was pretty well caved in. I sure gave him pretty much of a jolt, but I felt he’d have been in touch with the police long before this time.”

“It could have happened without our knowing it,” Drake said. “I’ve got one of the newspaper reporters on the job. He telephones anything in to his paper first and then he’ll give it to me second. If he got an exclusive scoop, he probably wouldn’t want to trust me with the information until after the paper was on the street. But on anything routine that the other reporters would pick up, he’d call me just as soon as he’d finished talking with the rewrite man at the desk.”

“Well, they probably know by this time, but aren’t announcing it to the press,” Mason said. “They’ve probably sent for the husband to come and make an identification. They’ll sure be looking up the boy friend. Well, I’ll put Della in her car and go on to my apartment. I’ll be seeing you, Paul.”

Mason took Della Street’s arm. They left the office, rode down silently in the elevator.

Mason escorted her over to the parking lot and put her in her automobile. “I don’t like to have you driving around the streets alone at this hour, Della.”

“Phooey! I’ll go home like a streak. No one’s going to bother me. I am out at all hours of the day and night on this job.”

“I know you are,” Mason said. “And I wish you weren’t. You take too many chances driving around a city at this hour of the morning.”

She patted his hand. “Thanks for the thought, Chief, but I’m fine. Don’t worry. I put the windows up, lock the doors, use the mechanical signal and don’t stop until I get to the apartment. I’ll be seeing you.”

“I’ll follow you in my car, Della, see you safely home and—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort! You need every minute of sleep you can get. Good night!”

Della Street stepped on the starter, switched on the lights and drove out of the parking lot.

Mason got in his own car, gunned the motor to life and raced after her. He caught up with her five blocks down the street.

The brake lights on Della’s car blazed red as she swung in to stop at the curb. Mason drew alongside, rolled down the window on his car.

“Chief, you go home! I’m just as safe as can be. You shouldn’t be—”

Mason rolled up his window, sat waiting with the motor running. At length Della gave up and pulled out from the curb.

Mason followed her to her apartment house. She parked the car, came over to where Mason was waiting.

Again the lawyer rolled down his window.

“Chief,” she said in a low voice.

“Yes?” He leaned out to hear her better.

She said, “Custom decrees that when a man has taken a girl home, he is entitled to a token of thanks.”

Before he caught the full import of her words, she had kissed him full on the lips, then turned and ran up the steps of her apartment house.

“Thank you,” she called to him as she opened the door.

“Thank you!” Mason said.