The Case of the Deadly Toy

Chapter Seven

Mason followed Della Street into the elevator, said, “Well, I guess the day is all shot to pieces now.”

Della laughed. “And how you enjoy it! You hate routine work and whenever any excuse comes up that enables you to break away from office work and dictation you’re as pleased as a seven-year-old kid who has just learned that the schoolhouse has burned down.”

Mason grinned at Della Street’s comment. The assistant janitor who operated one of the elevators on Saturday afternoons said, “I think you’ve got someone waiting to see you, Mr. Mason.” He brought the cage to a stop, still holding the door closed.

Mason frowned.

“He came up about half an hour ago. I told him you weren’t in and he’d have to sign the register to get in on Saturday afternoon, unless he was going to one of the offices that were regularly open on a twenty-four-hour basis, such as the Drake Detective Agency.”

“What did he say?” Mason asked.

“He looked me right in the eye and said he was really intending to go to the Drake Detective Agency; that he’d simply asked about you on the off-chance you might be in your office. I think he was lying.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “We can turn him down fast.”

“And hard,” Della Street amended.

The janitor slid the doors open. Mason and Della Street stepped out into the corridor.

A man who had been standing just beside the door of the Drake Detective Agency said, “Are you Mr. Mason?”

Mason regarded him without cordiality. “I’m Mr. Mason,” he said. “It’s Saturday. My secretary has sacrificed her week end in order to help me get out some emergency work and I’m not seeing clients.”

The man, who seemed to be having some difficulty with his speech, said, “This is an emergency, Mr. Mason. It has to do with Miss Norda Allison. It’s very important.”

Mason regarded the man sharply. “All right,” he said, “I’ll let you come in. You’ll have to be brief.”

The three of them walked in silence down the echoing corridor of the building, turned at the door of Mason’s private office. Mason unlatched the door, held it open for Della Street and his visitor, then followed them in, seated himself behind the desk, said, “All right, let’s have it.”

“I’m Nathan Benedict,” the man said. “I have known Miss Allison for some time. I knew about her... her attachment for Mervin Selkirk — Selkirk broke my jaw.”

“Oh, yes,” Mason said. “And what are you doing down here, Mr. Benedict?”

Benedict started to say something, then seemed momentarily unable to speak. When he had recovered himself, he said, “You’re going to have to make allowances, Mr. Mason. My jaw gives me a little trouble yet — not so much the bones as the muscles.”

Mason nodded.

“I came down here to protect Norda Allison,” Benedict said. “I think a great deal of her. This Selkirk is a dangerous man, Mr. Mason; an absolutely dangerous man. I know from experience.”

Mason sat silently contemplating his visitor while Della Street took rapid notes in her shorthand book.

“Selkirk deliberately attacked me,” Benedict went on. “He thrust his foot out as I walked across the floor, then jumped up, yelled, ‘Who are you pushing?’ and pulled his fist, with the brass knuckles already in place, out of his pocket. He hit me a terrific blow, then stepped back and slipped the brass knuckles to one of his acquaintances.”

“Any idea who those friends of his were?” Mason asked.

“One of them remained and gave his name to the police. The other seemed to fade out of the picture. I think it was the other one who took the brass knuckles away with him.”

“You don’t know his name?”

Benedict shook his head.

“All right,” Mason said, “in view of developments I think we can find who that man was, and it’s vitally important to find out something about him.

“Della.”

Della Street looked up from her notebook.

“As soon as Mr. Benedict leaves,” Mason said, “contact Paul Drake. Tell him we want the complete low-down on that altercation in the bar in which Mr. Benedict was injured; we want the names of the people who were with Selkirk, and we want to interview them before the police do. I want to find out something about those brass knuckles.

“All right, Benedict, go ahead. What’s the rest of it?”

“Well, that’s all there is,” Benedict said. “I knew Norda Allison was coming down here to see Lorraine Jennings, who was Selkirk’s first wife. I have an idea they’re trying to get Norda mixed up in a fight over the custody of the child. If she gets mixed up in that, I know she’ll be in danger.”

“How did you happen to come to me?” Mason asked.

“I rang up the Jennings’ residence a while ago. Jennings answered the phone. I told him it was important that I speak with Norda. I was told she wasn’t there. Jennings seemed rather frigidly formal about it, too. I suppose he doesn’t understand my motives.

“He told me that if I wanted to know anything about Norda Allison I would have to get in touch with you; that you were the only one who could give me any information.”

“And what made you think I would be at my office this afternoon?”

“Jennings said he thought you were here, or would be here later.”

“I see,” Mason said thoughtfully. “And Jennings didn’t seem to be cordial?”

“He was very cool over the telephone. Of course, I can’t blame him. I suppose Norda will be angry, too.”

“When did you arrive here in this city?” Mason asked.

“Last night, about ten-thirty.”

“How did you know Miss Allison was here?”

“I drove her to the airport.”

“And then?”

“I saw her on the plane, then went and purchased a ticket and took the next plane.”

“And then?”

“I rented a car at the airport.”

“And then?”

Benedict cleared his throat. “I drove out to the Jennings’ place to keep watch.”

Mason glanced over at Della Street’s busy pen. “What happened — if anything?”

“I was watching the house. Foolishly, I was smoking. A prowl car drove past. The officers saw the glowing tip of the cigarette. They went on by. An hour later they came cruising by again and asked me what I was waiting for. They made me show them my driving license and told me to get out of the neighborhood and go to bed.

“I felt terribly humiliated, but I went to a motel. About eight-thirty I rang the Jennings residence and asked for Norda. I was told she was still asleep. I left word for her to call and left my number.”

“Then what?” Mason asked.

“Then I waited and waited. When she hadn’t called by midafternoon I was afraid she was angry. I felt I’d messed things up some way. I called again an hour or so ago and that was when Jennings said I’d have to see you.”

“I see,” Mason said thoughtfully. “Just how did you propose to protect Miss Allison, Mr. Benedict?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to protect her.”

Mason said, “You’re not particularly robust physically and in dealing with Mervin Selkirk you would have been dealing with a cold-blooded, ruthless individual who would stop at nothing. You have already had one contact from which you emerged second best.”

Benedict nodded, tight-lipped.

“Yet you say you intend to protect Norda Allison?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Well, if you must know,” Benedict said, “in my position I sometimes have occasion to carry large sums of money. I have a permit to carry a weapon, and—”

“Let’s see it,” Mason said.

Benedict frowned and hesitated.

“Come on,” Mason said, “let’s see it.”

Benedict reached inside of his coat and pulled a revolver from a shoulder holster. He placed it on the table.

“A .38-caliber, lightweight Colt revolver,” Mason said. He picked it up, swung open the cylinder, inspected the shells and then added, “It is now fully loaded.”

Mason smelled the barrel. “Either it has not been fired recently or it has been cleaned after it was fired.”

“May I ask what causes your detailed scrutiny?” Benedict inquired. “You’re acting rather strangely, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “For your information, Mervin Selkirk was shot and fatally wounded. He died in his automobile out at the San Sebastian Country Club. As yet, I don’t know the exact time of death. You say you have a permit to carry this gun?”

Benedict said with widened eyes, “You mean Mervin Selkirk is dead?”

“He’s dead,” Mason said. “Murdered. You say you have a permit to carry this gun. Let’s see it.”

As one in a daze, Benedict extracted a wallet from his pocket, took out a sheet of paper which had been folded and bore evidences of having been carried for some period of time.

Mason studied the permit, then looked at the number on the gun.

“Well,” he said, “they check. I would suggest that you board the first plane, go back to San Francisco, go about your regular routine business and forget you were ever down here.”

“But Norda. Where’s Norda?” Benedict asked.

“As nearly as I can find out,” Mason said, “she is either at police headquarters or at the district attorney’s office. She’s probably being questioned, but she may have been booked on suspicion of murder.”

“Norda!” Benedict exclaimed. “Murder!”

“That’s right.”

“But I can’t understand! I can’t... it simply isn’t possible.”

“What isn’t possible?”

“That Norda killed him.”

“I didn’t say she killed him,” Mason said. “I said she might have been booked on suspicion of murder. Now, I’m not in a position to advise you. I’m representing her. Speaking not as an attorney but just as a person who would like to be your friend, I suggest that having learned there’s nothing you can do to protect Norda from Mervin Selkirk, you return to San Francisco.”

Benedict shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, but I can’t do that. I’m going to have to stay here now to see if there is anything I can do.

“Mr. Mason, I... I’m employed on a salary, but I have made some rather fortunate investments. I am a bachelor, I have saved my money, and if... well, I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Mason. In all, I have nearly forty thousand dollars in the bank. I would be prepared to assist Norda financially if that is necessary.”

“We’ll find out about that after a while,” Mason said, “but you can assist her financially from San Francisco as well as from down here.”

“No,” Benedict said. “I intend to remain here.”

“You remain here,” Mason said angrily, “and not only will the police pick you up and shake you down but if they crowd my client, I’ll lower the boom on you myself. It’s not my duty to help the police solve murders. It’s my duty to protect my clients. But right now you’re about the best murder suspect I could dig up, if I had to provide a good red herring.”

Benedict thought that over for a moment, then his face lit up. “Mr. Mason, that’s exactly the thing to do! If anyone intimates Norda killed him, you can use me as a red herring. In that way I can help... will Norda be able to have visitors? I mean can I talk with her?”

“Not for a while,” Mason said, “not if they charge her with murder.”

“But you can see her as her attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her I’m here,” Benedict said. “Tell her what I told you about having funds available to help her financially.”

“You stick around here,” Mason said, “and keep packing that gun, and I won’t need to tell her anything about you. She’ll pick up the newspaper and read all about you. You’ll have your photograph published with headlines to the effect that police questioned Mervin Selkirk’s broken-jawed rival and found him carrying what may have been the murder weapon.”

“That certainly makes it sound sensational,” Benedict said.

“Well, what did you expect?”

“If,” Benedict said with dignity, “the police are no more efficient in locating me than they were in locating the brass knuckles which Mervin Selkirk used in breaking my jaw, they’ll never know I’m here.”

Mason said, “In the one instance you were dealing with a barroom altercation over a woman. Now you’re dealing with murder. You’ll find there’s a difference. Now let me ask you one other thing. Do you by any chance own any other weapon, say, for instance, a .22 automatic?”

“Why yes, I do, but I only carry that on fishing trips, as a protection against snakes and to kill grouse for camp meat.”

“Where is that gun now?”

“At my apartment in San Francisco.”

“You’re certain?”

Benedict hesitated.

“Well?” Mason prompted.

“No,” Benedict said. “I can’t swear to it. I looked for it yesterday afternoon; I wanted to bring it with me. I couldn’t find it. I suppose I put it... well, I didn’t make any search. I just looked in the drawer where I usually keep both guns. The .38 was there, the .22 wasn’t.”

Benedict’s eyes searched Mason’s face. “I’m afraid you’re attaching too much emphasis to a fact which has no real significance, Mr. Mason. The gun’s around my apartment somewhere. I’m a bachelor and not much of a housekeeper. Things get scattered around some. I... come to think of it, I may have left it rolled up in the sleeping bag I used on a fishing trip two months ago. I love to fish.”

Mason studied the man.

“I want to know more about this charge against Norda,” Benedict said. “I don’t see how anyone on earth could possibly suspect that...”

He broke off as knuckles pounded authoritatively on the exit door leading from Mason’s private office to the corridor.

After a moment the knock was repeated.

Mason pushed back his chair, walked over to the door, called out, “Who is it?”

“Lieutenant Tragg,” came the voice from the other side. “Open up. We’re looking for Nathan Benedict. He’s supposed to be in your office.”

Mason opened the door.

“Hello, Tragg. Meet Nathan Benedict,” he said.

Lt. Tragg said, “How are you, Benedict? When did you get in?”

“You mean here in the office?”

“Here in the city.”

“By plane last night.”

“What time?”

“I arrived about ten-thirty.”

“Where?”

“At the International Airport.”

“Where did you go from there?”

“I rented a car and drove out to Barton Jennings’ house. I wanted to see Norda Allison. She’d evidently retired. I sat there for a while, then went to a motel.”

“What motel?” Tragg asked.

“The Restwell.”

“Then what?”

“This morning I tried to call Norda Allison. I left my number.”

Tragg eyed him narrowly.

Mason said, “For your information, Lieutenant, since I am not representing Mr. Benedict and the information which he gave me was volunteered and not on a confidential basis, he came down here to protect Norda Allison from Mervin Selkirk. He knew that he was unable to resist Selkirk on a physical basis, so he carried along a .38-caliber Colt lightweight revolver for which he seems to have a permit which is perfectly in order.”

“Well, what do you know about that!” Tragg said. “Where’s the gun?”

Benedict reached inside of his coat.

“Bring it out slow,” Lt. Tragg warned, stepping forward. “Put it down on the desk with the butt toward me and the end of the barrel pointed toward you.”

Benedict placed the gun on the desk.

Lt. Tragg picked it up, snapped open the cylinder, looked at the shells, smelled the barrel, snapped the cylinder shut, put the gun in his pocket.

“All right, Benedict,” he said, “you and I are going to have a nice little talk, and since Mr. Mason isn’t your attorney and since he has a lot of work to do, we’ll just move on and let Mr. Mason get back to his work.”

“But I don’t have to go with you,” Benedict said, drawing himself up.

Lt. Tragg’s mouth clamped into a thin, firm line. “That’s what you think,” he said. “Come on.”

At the door Tragg turned and said over his shoulder to Mason, “I was prepared for Benedict here to offer himself as a sheep for the slaughter, but hardly prepared to have you drive him into the killing pen for us quite so soon.”

Mason sighed wearily. “I try to co-operate and that’s all the thanks I get.”

Tragg said thoughtfully, “When you co-operate you do it so willingly, so damned eagerly. And this guy might even go so far as to put on an act just to take the heat off his girl friend — with a little coaching from you, of course.”

Mason said angrily, “You might also ask him if he happens to own a .22 Colt automatic.”

“If you think we won’t, you’re crazy,” Tragg said, “but we might not believe all his answers. The D.A. gets suspicious of the Greeks when they bring gifts — of red herring!

“Come on, Benedict, you’re worth looking into, even if we are going to listen to any admissions you may make with skeptical ears.”

Tragg took Benedict firmly by the elbow and escorted him out into the corridor.

The automatic door check slowly closed the door and clicked it shut.

Mason and Della Street exchanged glances.

“Well,” Della Street said, “shall we go on with our dictation?”

Mason made an expression of distaste, looked at his wrist watch and said, “For your information, Miss Street, we are not going on with any dictation. This man, Benedict, has turned out to be a confusing element which raises the devil with my desire to concentrate on dictation. In order to show you my sincerity in determining not to work on any more details, I hereby invite you out for a cocktail and a nice steak dinner.”

“And afterward?” she asked.

“Afterward,” Mason said, “we might look around some of the nightspots and do a little dancing, if that appeals to you.”

“And the brief?” she asked.

“Under the circumstances,” Mason said, “I’ll go into court Monday morning, explain the emergency which arose over the week end and get a week’s extension.”

“Under those circumstances,” Della Street said, “my duty is perfectly obvious. Shall we stop by Paul Drake’s office and tell him to look up the San Francisco brass knuckles affair?”

Mason shook his head. “No,” he said, “there’s no use now. Tragg will shake Benedict down at police headquarters. Newspaper reporters will eagerly pounce on him as a sensational development in the Selkirk murder. Tragg will let them take pictures. They’ll call the San Francisco newspapers. The San Francisco papers will start ace reporters trying to cover the local angle of the case, and tomorrow morning’s paper will have the names of the men who were with Selkirk in the cocktail lounge. By that time, police will have interviewed both of the men and probably exerted considerable pressure to find out about the brass knuckles.

“There’s no use paying out our client’s money to get information we can read in the newspaper.”

“But is there any chance Paul Drake’s men could get to these men first, and—”

Mason smiled and shook his head. “Don’t underestimate the San Francisco newspaper reporters, Della — and while you’re about it, don’t underestimate the San Francisco police.

“Come on, let’s go get those cocktails.”

“Plural?” Della Street asked.

“Two,” Mason said, “and then dinner.”