The Case of the Haunted Husband

Chapter 12

Lieutenant Tragg looked up, saw who was calling, nodded a greeting, and dismissed the detective who was making a report.

“Hello, Mason. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

The two men shook hands. Tragg was about Mason’s age, an inch or two shorter, a pound or two lighter, but there was a certain similarity about the men which would impress a close observer. Tragg’s high forehead, wavy black hair, clean-cut features, and thoughtful eyes were at sharp variance with the bull-necked beef of Sergeant Holcomb whose place on the Homicide Squad he had taken.

“Found any more bodies?” Tragg asked.

Mason grinned. “You are always claiming I play a lone hand and don’t take the police into my confidence. This time I am going to let you in on the ground floor.”

“Okay, sit down and confide.”

Mason dropped into a seat beside Tragg’s desk, lit up a cigarette.

“This Stephane Claire manslaughter case.”

“Oh, yes. I don’t know too much about it. One of the other boys has been handling it. I understand the D.A.’s ready to go ahead. It’s a county case.”

“Preliminary is on Friday,” Mason said.

“Well, it is out of my hands.”

“Not necessarily. You are interested in seeing justice done, aren’t you?”

Tragg’s smile was somewhat whimsical. “Well, Mason, I am and I am not. The department has its own ideas of what constitutes justice. If we could uncover some evidence which would bolster the D.A’s case, that would be justice. If we uncovered some evidence that wouldn’t... well, you know how it is.”

“Suppose you could find evidence that would pin the guilt on some other party?”

Tragg rubbed his hand across his forehead, up ever his hair, and down to the back of his neck. His fingertips rubbed the base of his skull. “Lovely weather we are having,” he said, “—for this time of year.”

Mason said, “All right, here is the dope. Stephane Claire wasn’t driving that automobile. A man was. He is registered at the Gateview Hotel right now under the name of Walter Lossten. I am going out to see him. I am going to charge him with driving that car. I think I have enough dope on him so he will admit that he was the driver.”

“Well,” Lieutenant Tragg said, “you could subpoena him to appear at the preliminary. If you could make him confess, that would be all there was to it. It is in the D.A.’s hands now.”

“You are not interested?”

Tragg said, warily, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that I wasn’t interested. Mason. I am always interested, but you understand I have got a lot of irons in the fire. This is really out of my jurisdiction. There are several unsolved homicides I am working on. I don’t think the department would care to have me... well, you know how it is.”

Mason pushed back his chair. “All right, you are always crabbing that I take short cuts on the police and don’t give you an opportunity to cooperate.”

Tragg ran his hand over his hair once more, scratched around the base of his ears, seemed somewhat uncomfortable. “That Stephane Claire seems a nice kid,” he said.

“She is.”

“Somehow,” Tragg went on, “I can’t figure her as a girl who would steal a car, and... This man is there now at the Gateview?”

“Yes. What is more, I have a witness there, a Mrs. Warfield. I think she will identify this Lossten as a man by the name of Spinney, and I think the San Francisco police are interested in Spinney.”

Tragg impulsively pushed back his chair. “I may catch hell for this, Mason,” he said, “but I am going to give you a play. You understand, after the D.A.’s office charges someone with a crime, it is up to the D.A.’s office to get a conviction, and up to us to help them. They won’t take too kindly to the idea of me running around with the lawyer for the defendant trying to get a confession from some other party. You understand that.”

“I can appreciate how a prosecutor might feel,” Mason admitted

“All right, just understand it. I am going to stick my neck out. If you can make a case, I shall do something about it, but it is up to you to make it.”

Mason said, “I have a cab waiting...”

“Cab, hell,” Tragg said with a grin, “we can get there in half the time a cab would take. My car is outside.”

Tragg led the way to his coupe, equipped with red light and siren. “Hop in,” he said to Mason. “Hold your hat.”

The lieutenant switched the motor into action, warmed it up for a few seconds, then swung away from the curb, and out into traffic. He made a left turn at a corner, waiting for the signal. Then, as he gathered speed and charged down on the next intersection, he kicked on the red light and siren, screamed through a closed traffic signal with gathering momentum, and shifted into high in the middle of the next block.

Mason settled back in the seat.

Tragg sent the machine whizzing through the frozen traffic, handling it with the deft skill of an artist. His hands didn’t grip the wheel, but caressed it. It seemed that something flowed from his fingertips down through the steering post to guide the car, as though car and driver were one indivisible unit.

It was less than four minutes from the time he had turned on the siren until he was slowing to a stop in front of the Gateview Hotel.

“Remember,” he said, as he opened the door and got out, “this is your show. I am a spectator.”

“Okay,” Mason told him.

Drake and one of Drake’s operatives were waiting in the lobby.

“Still up there?” Mason asked.

Drake’s face showed relief. “Yes. It seemed like you would never get here.”

“Hello Drake,” Tragg said. “I couldn’t have come any faster without tearing up the pavement.”

“It seemed like a long time,” Drake said, and introduced his operative.

“Well, let us go on up,” Mason said.

The clerk was looking at them curiously. “Please remember, gentlemen, that the hotel has tried to cooperate. If...” He looked significantly at Tragg. “We had understood this was purely a private matter.”

“That’s all right,” Mason said. “Tragg’s just the audience. Come on, boys. Let’s go.”

The quartet stopped in front of the door from the knob of which hung the usual sign “Don’t Disturb.” Mason said, “I think this is the man who was driving Homan’s car at the time of the accident, Tragg. If you would ask the questions, we might get more than...”

“Nothing doing,” Tragg interrupted. “I am listening. As far as I am concerned, the case is closed. It is the D.A.’s baby.”

Mason said, “Have it your way, but be sure you listen.”

“What the hell do you think I brought my ears along for? Go ahead.”

Mason knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked again, more loudly.

Lieutenant Tragg said, “This isn’t a runaround, is it, Mason?”

Mason glanced at Drake.

Drake shook his head. “He is here — unless, of course...”

Mason said, “All right, let us get the manager with a passkey. I think it is a stall myself.”

Tragg took a leather key container from his pocket. “We might save ourselves a trip down to the lobby,” he said. “I think one of these will do the work — unofficially, of course.”

He inserted a passkey, manipulated it for a moment without success. He tried the second passkey and the latch clicked smoothly back. Mason pushed open the door, started into the room, then suddenly stopped.

Drake, looking over his shoulder, said, “Oh-oh!”

Tragg, who had been holding back, said, “What’s the matter in here?” and Mason and Drake stepped quickly to one side, disclosing the body of a man, lying face down on the counterpane of the hotel bed.

Tragg whirled to Mason indignantly.

“Dammit, Mason,” he said, “if this was a plant...”

“Don’t be silly,” Mason interrupted. “I had no idea this man was dead. I wanted you to hear him confess.”

Tragg said grimly, “I am inclined to believe you. And I am the only one in the department who will.” He walked over to the bed, circled it, studying the position of the figure. “Don’t you guys touch anything,” he said irritably. “Better get out there in the corridor and wait.”

Neither Mason nor Drake made any move, but Drake’s operative stepped back into the corridor.

The man lay face down on the bed. His shoes were on. The double-breasted coat seemed to be buttoned. The counterpane had not been drawn back but still covered the bed and one of the pillows. The other pillow lay on the floor. The man was stretched diagonally across the bed, his right arm dangling over the edge. On the fourth finger of the hand was a diamond ring. There was a dark patch at the base of his skull, and a sinister dark trickle which had seeped down his neck across the collar of his coat to stain the bed. There had, however, been but little bleeding.

Tragg stooped to examine the hole. “Small caliber bullet,” he said, as though thinking aloud. “Gun held close. Powder burns. The tattooed type. Used that pillow on the floor to muffle the sound of the shot. Powder stains on it, too.”

“Going to turn him over?” Mason asked.

Tragg said irritably, “I am not going to touch a damn thing until the coroner gets here. You two get out of here. Go on down to the lobby and wait. And be damned sure you don’t leave. There is going to be a stink over this.”

“I tell you I had no idea this man was dead,” Mason said. “In fact, I thought...”

“The newspaper boys aren’t going to think so,” Tragg interrupted, “and the Chief isn’t going to think so. It looks as though you had made the department a cat’s-paw so you wouldn’t discover any more bodies.”

“What is the use?” Mason said to Drake. “Let us go.”

“While you are down in the lobby,” Tragg said, “telephone headquarters, tell them I am here, tell them to send out the Homicide car. And don’t go away, Mason. I want to ask you some questions.”

Mason and Drake picked up Drake’s operative in the corridor. Mason said significantly, “Paul, wouldn’t it be a good idea for your man to see if he couldn’t get chummy with the telephone operator and find out if Lossten had any calls last night?”

Drake said, “Shucks, Perry, you know he didn’t have any calls. He got that room, went immediately to...”

Mason nudged him with his elbow, and, as the detective ceased talking. Mason went on smoothly, “Well, you know, Paul, he might have done some telephoning, and those telephone calls would be on his bill. After Tragg gets the Homicide Squad here, he will sew everything up, and we won’t be able to get any information at all.”

“I get you,” Drake said, and then to the operative, “You understand what is required?”

“Uh-huh. It is not going to be so easy, because the telephone operator who is on now won’t be the one who was on last night.”

“Well, see what you can do,” Mason said, “and you should better go on down in the elevator a few minutes before we do. We will give you a chance for a head start before we show up. And telephone Tragg’s message to headquarters. Don’t give out any information to anyone except the police.”

“I won’t.”

When the elevator door had closed on Drake’s operative. Mason said in a low voice, “Thought we would better get rid of him while we talk. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Drake said, “Shucks, Perry, we are in the clear on this.”

“That shows all you know about it.”

“What is wrong with it?”

“In the first place, the baggage. Did you notice the baggage over in the corner of the room?”

“No.”

“A suitcase and a hatbox,” Mason said. “Mrs. Warfield’s. Tragg, of course, thought it was the dead man’s baggage. The coroner will open it, and then...”

“Oh-oh!”

“We have got to tell Tragg what we were doing here. We have been altogether too prominent around the place, what with Mrs. Warfield’s disappearance and all that.”

“I suppose so,” Drake admitted gloomily, “but he can’t...”

“Well, there was Mrs. Warfield’s baggage over in the corner of the room.”

“Why the devil didn’t she get it away from there?” Drake asked irritably.

“Take it easy,” Mason said. “We have got to reason this thing out. That Warfield woman certainly played us for a couple of suckers.”

“What do you think happened?”

“This man followed us to the hotel, went down to her room, told her he had a message from her husband, or else told her that he was Spinney. He told her she was sticking her neck out, playing with the wrong crowd, that you were a private detective, and I was a lawyer, and that her husband would have a fit if he found out what she was doing. He told her to grab her baggage and come down to his room.”

“So far so good,” Drake said, “but I can’t figure the play after that.”

Mason said, “There is only one thing that could have happened.”

“What’s that?”

“She found out Spinney was double-crossing her, that her husband was double-crossing her. And the only way she could have found that out was by having seen Homan’s picture with the Photoplay stamp on it. Don’t you get it? She knew then that he was in pictures. Get the sketch?”

Drake pursed his lips, “Damn it, yes.”

“Now, then,” Mason went on in a low voice, “look at it from Tragg’s viewpoint. He will think I am protecting Mrs. Warfield, that I advised her to beat it, and that the story we handed the hotel manager about her disappearance was merely a runaround.”

Drake’s face twisted. “Damn” he said.

“So watch your step,” Mason warned. “And now let us go to the lobby.”

They went down in the elevator. Drake’s operative came bustling toward them. “That Mrs. Warfield you wanted. She was in the hotel all the time.”

“What?”

“The clerk was just telling me,” the man said, “that she walked out not over ten minutes after Mr. Mason had paid the bill. The clerk spotted her in the lobby, and asked her to wait a minute. He said the manager wanted to see her, that he had a message for her from her brother-in-law.”

“And what happened?”

“The natural and obvious thing. The clerk stepped back to call the manager. Mrs. Warfield stuck her chin up in the air, told them she wasn’t Mrs. Warfield, that she had no brother-in-law, and if they tried to detain her, she would sue the hotel for damages, and with that she swept out of the lobby.”

Mason and Drake exchanged glances.

“You know how it was,” Drake’s man went on. “The manager wasn’t going to run out and grab her. Her bill was paid. He just let her walk out.”

“Well,” Mason said, “if you think we aren’t in a sweet spot now, you just don’t know Lieutenant Tragg.”

Drake said with feeling, “I shall never fall for one of those tired-eyed, droop-shouldered women again. Remember that handbag she was carrying, Perry, how it bulged, and seemed to be heavy? Well, she was carrying a gun in that.”

Mason said, “I don’t give a damn who killed him, Paul. That’s Tragg’s headache. My job is to prove that this man was driving the car. When I’ve done that, I’m finished.”

“Well, can’t you have Miss Claire come over and identify him?”

Mason’s laugh was scornful. “Sure, she can identify him, but how are we going to get any corroboration? He can’t betray himself by some inadvertent slip of the tongue. He can’t confess. Not now. He is dead. Stephane Claire’s word won’t be any good. If a woman could get out of a negligent homicide charge by simply pointing to a corpse and saying — ‘There’s the man who was really driving the car.’ — well, a good lawyer could always find a likely looking corpse somewhere.”

Drake’s forehead furrowed in a frown. He stood staring down at the floor.

“Our only hope now,” Mason went on, “is to find Mrs. Warfield’s husband, and make him kick through with evidence that will show Spinney was driving the car, and that this man is Spinney.”

“Some little job,” Drake said.

“Uh-huh. He...”

“Good morning, Mr. Mason.”

Mason turned. Jacks Sterne was walking toward him with outstretched hand. “How are things looking this morning?”

Mason took the hand in a perfunctory greeting, turned anxiously toward the elevator, said, “What are you doing here?”

“Why, you are the one who suggested that I come here. Remember? I was asking you about a good hotel last night...”

Mason said, “Get out and get out fast.”

“Why — why, I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to,” Mason told him. “Get up to your room, pack up, check out.”

“Well, where shall I go?”

Mason’s voice showed his impatience. “Never mind that now. Get out of here and get out right away. Don’t stand there arguing. Check out. Go to the Adirondack.”

“But Stephane wouldn’t...”

“Go to the Adirondack. It’s the natural place for you to be. Act as though you had been there all the time.”

“But I...”

“Beat it,” Mason said. “Get packed and get out!”

Sterne seemed somewhat dazed. “I was on my way to see Stephane, Mr. Mason. I had telephoned her...”

Mason grabbed the man’s arm, pushed him toward the elevator. “Sterne,” he said, “the reason I am not explaining is because I haven’t time to explain. Get to your room, get your things packed, get a taxi, go to the Union Depot, wait in the waiting room for half an hour, then call a redcap, get another cab, and go to the Adirondack. Now do you get that?”

“Why, yes, I get it, but...”

An elevator stopped at the lobby floor. Mason all but pushed him in. “All right then,” he said, “get started. If I am still here in the lobby when you come down, don’t speak to me. Don’t look at me.”

“But what will I tell Stephane?”

Mason turned his back. A moment later the elevator door clanged. Mason rejoined Paul Drake and the operative.

“Who?” Drake asked.

“Stephane Claire’s boyfriend,” Mason said. “Wanted a quiet place to stay, and I suggested this hotel just because it was close to the Adirondack and...”

Drake said, “If Tragg finds out he was here, he will darn near pin the killing on Stephane Claire.”

“Are you telling me?” Mason asked, looking anxiously at his wrist watch. “Come on, Paul. Let us go back up and stand in the corridor. I don’t want to be talking with Tragg when this drink-of-water checks out.”

“Didn’t you tell him not to give you a tumble if...”

“I told him,” Mason said, “but he is just the sort who would walk up and say, ‘Mr. Mason, why didn’t you want me to speak to you when I came out?’”

“You do have the nicest friends, Perry.”

“Don’t I,” Mason said. “Come on, let’s go up.”

It was a good half hour before Tragg sent for Mason.

Members of the Homicide Squad were still at work, developing latent fingerprints, taking photographs of the body, drawing a scaled map of the room.

“I hope,” Tragg said with the flicker of a smile at the corners of his eyes, “you have got your story ready.”

“I have.”

“If you want any more time to think up a good one, I shall talk with Drake first. You understand the position I am in. The chief will think you used me as a cat’s-paw.”

Mason said, “I get fed up with this. If I cooperate with you, I am using you as a cat’s-paw. If I go ahead on my own, I am included in the list of suspects.”

“The trouble, Mason, is that you find too many bodies.”

Mason said, “No. The trouble is that I can’t stay in my office and wait for people to come in and see me the way clients are supposed to. I have to get out on the firing line. When you do that, you circulate around quite a bit and...”

“And you still find too many bodies,” Tragg said.

“I was going to add,” Mason remarked with some dignity, “that once a man gets a reputation for being a good lawyer in a murder case, murders have a tendency to gravitate in his direction.”

Tragg thought that over for a few moments, and said, “Yes. I guess that’s so. A person who has committed a murder naturally thinks of Perry Mason. And, by the same token, a person who intends to commit a murder naturally thinks of Perry Mason.”

“I am glad you recognize that fact. It may simplify matters.”

“Who is this guy?” Tragg asked, jerking his head toward the bed.

“I don’t know,” Mason said.

“You don’t know! I thought you said you did.”

“I know that he was registered here as Walter Lossten. That is all I know about him.”

Tragg looked at him suspiciously. “You couldn’t see the face when you came in?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know that you don’t know him?”

“If he is the man I think he must be, I have never met him.”

“And who do you think he must be?”

“The man who was driving Homan’s car.”

Tragg frowned. “Listen, Mason, you keep trying to drag Homan into this thing. Hollywood has a few million dollars invested around this town. A group of the highest-salaried men and women in the world are gathered into a few square miles. Naturally, it is the richest blackmail pasture on earth. The D.A.’s office knows this, and tries to give Hollywood the breaks. You know that as well as I do.”

Mason nodded.

“Now, I can’t go barging up to Homan the way I would an ordinary citizen. You know that.”

Mason said, “You were asking me for facts. I was giving them to you. I take it that you want them?”

“Nuts,” Tragg said.

Mason said, “Perhaps I would better take a look at the body.”

“Perhaps you had.”

Mason walked over to the bed, stepping over a tape measure with which two of Tragg’s assistants were measuring the distance from the bed to the window.

The body had been turned over on its back, and Mason looked down upon features so perfectly in accord with the description Stephane Claire had given him of the man who was driving the car that Mason felt he must have known this man at some time, personally and intimately.

He turned away. Tragg raised his eyebrows. Mason nodded.

Tragg said to one of the men, “You boys finished with this telephone?”

The man to whom he had spoken said, “Yeah. The fingerprints on it are all pretty badly smudged, and I think they are old. I don’t think anyone has used it within the last twenty-four hours.”

“All right,” Tragg said, picked up the telephone, called headquarters and said, “This is Lieutenant Tragg of Homicide. I am in five-twenty-one at the Gateview Hotel working on a case. Stephane Claire, who is being held on that automobile accident on the Ridge Route, may know this man. Have a couple of radio officers pick her up and bring her here fast. She is at the Adirondack Hotel.” He hung up.

Mason said, “So you know where she is?”

Tragg grinned. “Don’t be silly. It is a county case, but when she was released on bail — well, they asked us to cooperate. After all, it is a homicide, you know.”

“I didn’t know you boys worked together with so much harmony.”

“Orders from the Chief,” Tragg said.

Mason smiled. “Hollywood certainly does have a drag!”

Tragg changed the subject.

“You were looking for this man?”

“Naturally. He is the driver of the Homan car.”

“What name did you know him by?”

“I tell you I didn’t know him.”

“What name did he give your client?”

“He didn’t give her any. The accident happened before they got that well acquainted.”

“Cagey, aren’t you?”

“No. Truthful.”

“When you wanted me to come out, you said something about a Spinley or Semley, or some such name.”

“I don’t remember it.”

Tragg tried another tack. “How did you happen to look for him in this hotel?”

“Paul Drake’s men were making a search. They asked the clerk if a man who answered this description had arrived at the hotel last night and found he had.”

Tragg’s slight frown showed his irritation. “Very, very nice,” he said, and then added, after a significant pause, “for you. That is, it would be nice if I believed it.”

“You can prove it,” Mason said.

“How?”

“By checking with the clerk.”

“I am not doubting that. You are too shrewd to give me a false lead on something that could be checked as easily as that. But what I want to know is how Drake’s men happened to pick this particular hotel.”

“They were looking for the driver of the car.”

“You mean the corpse over here?”

“Yes.”

“And why did they happen to look here?”

“They were covering the hotels.”

“How many other hotels did they cover?” Tragg asked.

As Mason remained silent, Tragg grinned. “You are a tough customer, Mason. You know your rights, and you will keep within them, but if I have to I will get the facts from Paul Drake. Remember, Drake is running a private detective agency. He would hate to have anything happen to his license.”

Mason said, “Drake and I had a witness we were keeping in the hotel. We thought this man might try to reach her.”

“That is better. Who was the witness?”

“I would prefer not to discuss that.”

“Doubtless you would, but who was it?”

“I don’t think I shall answer that, Tragg.”

Tragg said to one of the men, “Get Paul Drake up here.”

Mason said, “After all, Tragg, you have no right to inquire into the confidential affairs of a lawyer even if you are trying to clear up a murder case.”

Tragg didn’t even bother to reply.

Paul Drake appeared in tow of the officer.

Tragg said, “All right, Drake, let us have this straight. Your men located this man here in the hotel. No, don’t look at Mason. Just answer the question.”

Drake nodded.

“How did they happen to locate him here?”

“They made inquiries of the clerk.”

“All right, Drake, I will be patient with you, but don’t carry it too far. How did they happen to make inquiries of the clerk?”

“Mason thought the man might be here.”

“And when did Mason get that bright idea?”

“About nine-fifteen or nine-thirty this morning.”

“Who was the witness that was here at the hotel?”

“I didn’t know there was any.”

Tragg’s face flushed slightly. “How many times have you been at this hotel within the last twenty-four hours, Drake?”

Mason said, “Go ahead and tell him, Paul. He will find out from the assistant manager, anyway.”

Drake said, “Mason and I brought a woman into the hotel last night. I didn’t know she was a witness. I thought she was just going to give Mason...”

“What is her name?”

“Mrs. Warfield.”

“Where is she from?”

“New Orleans.”

“Where did she register?”

“Room six-twenty-eight.”

“Well,” Tragg exclaimed, “it took us quite a little while to get that simple piece of information, didn’t it? Where is that woman now?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said.

“You have been to her room?”

“Been to her room,” Mason said, “secured a passkey, gone in, and looked around.”

“Indeed, and what did you find?”

“Nothing. She wasn’t there.”

“The room in the same condition now that it was then?”

“Inasmuch as I was paying the bill,” Mason said, “and apparently she had no intention of using the room, I checked out for her.”

Tragg’s voice became crisply businesslike. “All right. Mason — and you too, Drake, get this straight. We aren’t always on the same side of the fence. I can’t help that, and you can’t help it. You have your living to make. I have my living to make. But, by God, when I ask you fellows a question, I want an answer. Beating around the bush isn’t going to get you anyplace. If you don’t want to answer and think you can make it stick, simply refuse to answer. But don’t try giving me a runaround. Is that straight?”

Mason said, “Watch your questions then. Don’t accuse me of giving you a runaround if I don’t volunteer information.”

“If it is going to be like that,” Tragg said, “I can take care of it. All right, let us go take a look at that room Mrs. Warfield had.”

“Someone else may be in it now,” Mason said. “We checked out.”

“Get the manager,” Tragg told one of his men.

While the man was getting the manager, a radio officer escorted Stephane Claire out of the elevator. She seemed white and frightened. Her eyes glanced appealingly at Mason.

Mason said, “This is Lieutenant Tragg of Homicide, Miss Claire. You will find him very competent, but exceedingly partisan. I am afraid you are in for a disagreeable experience. We want you to look at a body.”

“At a body!”

Mason nodded.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?... What?...”

Mason said, “The man was mur...”

“That will do,” Tragg said to Mason. “I shall do the talking from now on. Miss Claire, we thought perhaps this might be the body of a man whom you have known. If you won’t mind stepping this way, please...” He took her arm and escorted her into the hotel bedroom.

There was the unmistakable atmosphere of death in the room. The body that was sprawled on the bed clothed the surroundings with the quiet dignity of death. On the other hand, the men who were working trying to develop clues, seemed entirely set apart from all solemnity. So far as they were concerned, the body on the bed might have been a sack of potatoes. It was merely an inanimate object to be photographed, measured, and studied in connection with the other objects in the room.

These men worked skillfully and quickly, with a complete air of detachment. Constant familiarity with death had in some way made them seem immune to it.

Lieutenant Tragg guided Stephane Claire past these men, moved around the foot of the bed in such a way that his body obstructed her vision. Not until she was where she could look directly down at the man’s face did Tragg step quickly to one side.

“Know this man?” he asked.

Stephane Claire stared down at the still gray features. For several moments her eyes were held as by some magnetic attraction which was stronger than her own volition, then she managed to shift her eyes to Tragg’s face.

“Yes, I know him. I don’t know his name.”

“Who is he?”

“He was the one who was driving the car the night of the wreck, the one who picked me up as a hitchhiker.”

Tragg made a little bow to Mason. “Very neatly done, Mason,” he said sarcastically. “I congratulate you. I suppose that will be your defense.”

“Naturally,” Mason said.

“Why, it is the truth!” Stephane Claire exclaimed. “Mr. Mason hasn’t said a word to me. I haven’t seen or heard from him since I left the hospital.”

Tragg looked from Stephane Claire to Mason. “Dammit,” he said to Mason, “I believe you. And offhand I can mention the names of three thousand eight hundred and seventy-six persons directly and indirectly connected with the police who won’t.”

The assistant hotel manager was profuse in his expostulations, emphasizing his desire to work with the police, and the high reputation which the hotel enjoyed.

“We want to take a look at Mrs. Warfield’s room,” Tragg said. “Come on. Mason. You and Drake come along — and you can stay with that officer, Miss Claire.” And it was significant that Tragg hadn’t even mentioned the baggage which he had found in the room with the corpse.

The little group walked down to the elevator, rode up to the sixth floor, and the manager said, “I understand the room is in the same condition as it was when...”

“When the party checked out?” Tragg asked.

“When the bill was paid.”

“Who paid it?”

“This gentleman here, her brother-in-law.”

“Her brother-in-law!” Tragg exclaimed.

“That is what he said.”

Tragg looked at Mason. “Well, well, well, you didn’t tell me she was related to you, Mason. And you a brother-less bachelor.” He turned to the manager. “I don’t suppose you know when this party checked out?”

“I most certainly do,” the manager said. “Mr. Mason and this other gentleman appeared and paid the bill. There was a very attractive young woman with them at the time. Mr. Mason said the party in the hotel was his sister-in-law, that she had a weak heart, and that he was afraid something had happened to her. I sent a bellboy up to investigate. We found the room unoccupied. There was no baggage in it.”

“No baggage?” Tragg asked.

“No.”

“Then she had baggage when she rented the room?”

“She had a suitcase and a hatbox.”

Tragg digested that information. Once more he kept silent about the baggage which Mason had seen in the room where the murder had been committed.

“Go on,” Tragg said. “What else happened?”

“After Mr. Mason had paid the bill and left, he told me that in case I saw Mrs. Warfield, I was to let her know that her brother-in-law had been looking for her and was very much concerned about her.”

“The only catch being that he knew you wouldn’t see her,” Tragg said.

“On the contrary, I did see her.”

“You did?” Tragg stopped abruptly and stared at the manager.

“Yes Lieutenant, she walked across the lobby not more than fifteen minutes after Mr. Mason had paid the bill. You see, the clerk who was on duty wasn’t the one who had checked her in, but we had her description, and he knows most of the regular guests. He called to her and told her he had a message for her. She came to the counter to wait for the message. He called me, and I told her brother-in-law had been here and wanted her to communicate with him. She insisted that her name was not Warfield, that she had no brother-in-law, that we were impertinent, and started for the door. I tried to detain her, but she was so utterly indignant that I couldn’t be certain of my ground. After all, her bill had been paid, and there was no legal ground on which I could hold her, but there are several matters in connection with her stay here which haven’t been properly explained.”

“She had no baggage with her when she left?”

“No.”

Tragg said, “Let us take a look at the room.”

The manager opened the door, and Tragg, motioning for the others to wait in the corridor, entered the room. He looked quickly around, then turned swifty to the manager. “Look here, this room has been made up. You said it was in the same condition as when she left.”

The manager shook his head. “I understand it is in exactly the same condition as it was when the bellboy opened it with his passkey.”

“What time was that?”

“Perhaps around eight-thirty.”

Tragg gently turned back the covers of the bed. “She didn’t make this bed?” he asked.

“No, sir. The sheets are absolutely clean. The bed hasn’t been used.”

“The chambermaid didn’t change the sheets?”

“The chambermaid hasn’t been in here.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes.”

Mason, standing in the doorway, said, “No towels have been used in the bathroom either, Lieutenant.”

Tragg turned to Mason, regarded him speculatively, then devoted his attention once more to a study of the room.

He whirled back to Mason. “What was she doing out here?”

“Looking for work.”

“Did she find any?”

“She had a job under consideration.”

“What sort of a job?”

“I believe she was told that the vacancy hadn’t occurred as yet, but might within the next few days, and that her salary would be kept on while she was waiting.”

“Do you believe that is what she was told?”

“Yes.”

Tragg’s smile became a grin. “All right,” he said, “who told her?”

Mason answered his grin. “Paul Drake.”

“At whose suggestion?”

“Mine.”

Tragg said, “Well, I had to make those questions specific enough in order to get an intelligent answer.”

“You got the answer, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Tragg said, “Let us see if we can’t short-cut some of this a little, fellows. You made Mrs. Warfield that proposition because you wanted her for something — what?”

“We wanted to locate her husband for her.”

Tragg said, “Nuts,” and walked away to stand in the door to the bathroom. Then he came back, looked at the drawn shades and the electric light.

He turned again to Mason, “What would I have to do, Mason, to get you to give me the whole dope on this thing — the real low-down?”

“Ask questions,” Mason said. “Ask anything you want, and I shall answer it.”

“And what would I have to do to get you to give it to me without asking questions?”

“Follow up the leads I was working on.”

“You mean Hollywood?”

Mason nodded.

Tragg hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “That’s too large an order — yet.”

“Then keep on asking questions,” Mason said.

“Thanks. I will,” Tragg promised grimly. “I shall begin by asking you the name you mentioned when you called on me earlier this morning.”

Mason frowned as though perplexed. “Homan?” he asked.

“No, no,” Tragg said. “Come on, quit stalling. The one from San Francisco.”

“Oh, from San Francisco. I am not certain that I...”

“The one that sounded like Spelley or something of that sort.”

Mason frowned. “I don’t remember any Spelley.”

“Was that name Greeley, Adler Greeley?” Tragg asked.

“No,” Mason said.

“Well, what was it?”

“So the dead man’s name is Greeley, is it?”

“I am not answering questions. I am asking them. I want that name that you mentioned, the one that you said was wanted by the San Francisco police.”

“Oh, you must be referring to Spinney,” Mason said.

“That’s it. What about him?”

“That’s all I know about him,” Mason said. “The name of Spinney.”

“And how did you happen to find that out?”

“One of Drake’s men uncovered a lead which made him think Spinney was associated with Homan.”

“Homan again,” Tragg groaned. “My gosh, why do you always come harping back to him?”

“Because he is the angle I am working on.”

“Well, what made you think he was registered here under the name of Lossten?”

“Because,” Mason said patiently, “I thought the man who was registered here was the man who had been driving the car. I thought the man who was driving the car was associated with Homan. I thought that Mr. Spinney was associated with Homan. Therefore, I thought it was a good possibility that the man who was registered here was Mr. Spinney.”

“You didn’t come here because Miss Claire asked you to?”

“No.”

“You didn’t look him up on account of anything Mrs. Warfield told you?”

“No.”

“And why did you come to my office before you went to call on the gentleman?”

“I told you,” Mason said. “I wanted to cooperate.”

Tragg bowed. “I certainly appreciate your frankness, Mr. Mason. Don’t let me detain you. I know you are a busy man, and while I appreciate the great help you are giving me, I can’t ask you to sacrifice your practice.”

“Meaning that we are free to go?”

“Yes, all except the Claire girl.”

“Why can’t she go?”

“Because I am holding her.”

“I don’t know what grounds you have for holding her.”

“So far she is the only one we have found who knew this man. She had every reason not to like him. The man is dead. Under the circumstances, we are going to have to hold her for a while.”

“She has just been released from the hospital.”

Tragg smiled. “It isn’t where she has just been that counts, but where she is just going. And that’s the D.A.’s office.”

“May I talk with her before she leaves?”

“I would prefer that you didn’t.”

“She is my client. I demand the right to talk with her.”

Tragg smiled, “I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your right to talk with a client,” he said, “but unfortunately she isn’t here. A detective is driving her to the D.A.’s office.”

Mason said irritably, “Even when we cooperate, we don’t seem to be of much help to each other, do we?”

“Are you,” Tragg said, “telling me? However, Mr. Mason, don’t worry. I will start an investigation of Mr. L. C. Spinney who has been residing at San Francisco, and — shall we say Bakersfield?”

“I don’t know why not,” Mason said.

Tragg, looking at him, said, “Well, I shall pull that one chestnut out of the fire for you. What did Mrs. Warfield look like?”

“About thirty-one or two, tired looking, blue eyes, light chestnut hair, drooping shoulders, average height, thin. Wearing a blue serge skirt and jacket when we last saw her.”

Tragg picked up the telephone, called headquarters, and said, “I want a dragnet out for a Mrs. Warfield who registered at the Gateview Hotel last night as Lois Warfield of New Orleans. She checked out of the hotel within the last hour. Search all the restaurants nearby. She is thirty-odd, thin, average height, tired looking, blue eyes, light chestnut hair, blue serge suit. I want her damn bad. Rush it.”

He hung up the telephone.

“And do you,” Mason said, “want us anymore?”

Tragg grinned. “Hell, no!”

Out in the street once more, Mason said, “I thought he would give us more action going after Spinney if he thought I was trying to keep what I knew about Spinney away from him.”

“It may work that way,” Drake admitted. “Why didn’t he mention her baggage in Greeley’s room?”

“Trying to trap us,” Mason said. “Watch your step, Paul. In the meantime, we shall see if there is an Adler Greeley in the telephone book. If there is, we will pay a very hurried call. While Tragg is busy unscrambling the leads we have given him, we may manage to steal a march.”