The Case of the Long-Legged Models

Chapter Seven

Mason swung his car into the parking lot the next morning, nodded to the attendant, pulled into his regular parking stall, walked over to the sidewalk, and was just turning in to the foyer of the building where he had his office when he became conscious of Della Street at his side.

“Hi, Chief,” she said in a low voice. “Thought I’d catch you before you’d get to the office. Want to keep walking?”

Mason glanced at her in surprise. “What’s wrong, Della?”

“Perhaps a lot.”

“Shall we go back to the car?”

“No, let’s just walk.”

They fell into step, moving along in a stream of early morning pedestrian traffic which was pounding its way along the sidewalk.

“What gives?” Mason asked.

Della Street said, “Lt. Tragg was in the office looking for you. I wouldn’t doubt but what he’s waiting in the foyer of the building to collar you as soon as you show up. I tried to ring you at your apartment, but you’d left.”

“What does Tragg want?” Mason asked.

She said, “George Casselman has become a corpse. A maid opened the door of his apartment and found him dead on the floor, a big bullet hole in the front of his chest.”

“When?” Mason asked.

“Apparently about eight o’clock this morning. The news just came over the radio as I was...”

“No, no,” Mason said, “when was the time of death?”

“No information on that as yet.”

“Why does Tragg want to see me?”

“I’m just putting two and two together and making eight.”

“Good girl!” Mason said. “I have one very important thing to do. Let’s catch a cab and see if we can find out something important before we have to answer a lot of questions.”

Mason swung over to the curb, waited impatiently as the long line of morning traffic went streaming past. Finally he caught a vacant cab and said, “Lodestar Apartments.”

Della Street glanced at him. “We don’t telephone first?”

Mason shook his head.

“Surely, Chief, you don’t think...?”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “I’m not doing any thinking yet. I want information, then I’ll start thinking.

“For your confidential, private, and exclusive information, Homer Garvin called on George Casselman around eight-fifteen yesterday evening. He didn’t see fit to tell me about that visit, so I said nothing to anyone.

“Also, for your confidential information and as food for thought, if when Stephanie Falkner called on Casselman at eight-thirty last night she found she was interviewing a corpse, and had subsequently been asked what she had been offered for her stock, she’d have had to make up a fictitious figure.

“That might account for the discrepancy between what Casselman offered me for Garvin’s stock and what she said she had been offered for hers.”

“Oh-oh!” Della Street exclaimed. “I never thought of it in that light, Chief. I guess I’m a little dumb this morning.”

“Nothing dumb about the way you stood down there on the sidewalk waiting to catch me as I left the parking lot. You did a smooth job. I didn’t pick you out. That’s an art, blending with a crowd.”

She laughed. “Actually I was in the shoeshine stand. I had the shine boy shine my shoes, and then had him give me another shine. I was on my third shine when you showed up. I felt that I’d be conspicuous if I stood around on the sidewalk, and I didn’t know whether Tragg had any men on the job or not.”

“Good girl!” Mason said.

They were silent until the driver drew up in front of the Lodestar Apartments.

“Better wait,” Mason told him. “We’ll be back within a few minutes and then we’re going other places.”

“Okay, I’ll hold it,” the driver said.

Mason and Della Street entered the apartment house. Mason nodded to the man at the desk and walked across to the elevators so casually that no one asked him where he was going.

They took the elevator to the third floor, walked down to Stephanie Falkner’s apartment.

Mason tapped gently on the door.

Stephanie Falkner called through the closed door. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Mason.”

“Are you alone?”

“Miss Street’s with me.”

The bolt clicked on the door. Stephanie Falkner, dressed in a house-coat and slippers, said, “Everything’s in a mess. I’m a slow starter in the mornings. I’ve just had breakfast and haven’t cleaned up. Can I fix you some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Mason said. “We just wanted to get a little information.”

“I presume it’s rather important to bring you out at this time in the morning.”

“It could be,” Mason said.

“All right, what’s the information?”

“When we left here last night, Homer Garvin was here?”

She nodded.

“How long did he stay here?”

For a moment her face broke into an expression of anger. “None of your damn business!” she flared.

Mason said, “I’m sorry. We’re making it our business. For your information, George Casselman turned up very, very dead in his apartment this morning.”

Her gray eyes surveyed Mason’s face, then shifted to Della Street’s face. “Sit down,” she said.

The folding bed had not as yet been made, and she seated herself on the edge of the bed.

Mason looked at the rumpled pillows on the bed, suddenly jumped to his feet, walked to the bed, jerked one of the pillows aside, and disclosed a snub-nosed revolver.

“What’s this?”

“What do you think it is? A toothbrush?”

Mason stood looking down at the revolver.

“Unless I’m greatly mistaken,” he said, “this is very similar to the revolver which Homer Garvin had in his shoulder holster last night.”

She said nothing.

Mason leaned over and picked up the revolver.

“In case you want to know,” she said after a moment, “Homer was concerned about my personal safety. He was going to try to do something with the syndicate and... well, you know what the syndicate did once before.”

“So he left his gun here with you for your protection?”

“That’s right.”

Mason looked the weapon over, smelled the barrel, frowned, swung open the cylinder, and said, “You seem to have one empty cartridge in the gun, Miss Falkner.”

“I don’t have any empty cartridges in any gun,” she said. “It is not my gun. I tell you Mr. Garvin left it here last night for my protection. I didn’t want it and I don’t want it.”

“But you did put it under your pillow?”

“Where would you put it?” she asked sarcastically.

Mason abruptly arose from his chair, put the gun back under the pillow where he had found it.

“Now what?” she asked.

Mason said, “I am not representing you. I am not your attorney. I am not a police officer, and I have no right to question you, but I want to know if you went out last night after we left you.”

She said, “I haven’t been out of this apartment since the last time you saw me.”

Mason nodded to Della Street.

“All right,” Stephanie said, “George Casselman has been murdered. He’s the man who killed my father. What do you expect me to do? Break down and have hysterics?

“Look,” she went on, “you’re a lawyer. You’re clever. You know the ropes. You’re representing Homer Garvin. You aren’t representing me. You’d do anything in your power to save your client. You’d throw me to the wolves so Homer Garvin could get away.”

“That’s rather an inaccurate description of my attitude,” Mason said, “but we’ll let it go at that. Come on, Della.”

Mason walked out.

“Now where?” Della Street asked as the door of the apartment closed behind them.

“Now,” Mason said, “we go hunt up Homer Garvin and we hunt him up fast. We hope we get there before the police do.”

“Do they have any line on him?” Della Street asked.

“They will if Stephanie Falkner tells them about the gun.”

“And will she tell them about the gun?”

“That,” Mason said, “is something on which I don’t care to speculate.”

“Do you think she will?”

“She will if she’s smart. Think what it would mean if that should turn out to be the murder weapon.”

“Shouldn’t you have taken it?”

Mason held the elevator door open for Della Street. “Not on your life,” he said. “It’s too hot for me to handle.”

They went down in the elevator, crossed the lobby, entered the cab, and Mason gave the address of Homer Garvin’s office.

“Think he’ll be there?” Della Street asked.

“He’ll either be there or we’ll find out where we can locate him,” Mason said. “This time we won’t take any back talk from a blond secretary who’s trying to make a production out of everything she does.”

The cab deposited them at the building where Garvin had his office. “Keep on holding it,” Mason said. “We shouldn’t be long.”

He and Della Street were whisked up in an express elevator.

Mason walked down the corridor to the door which said: “Homer H. Garvin, Investments. Enter.”

The lawyer twisted the knob, pushed the door, and recoiled in surprise.

The door was locked.

Mason looked at his watch. “Hang it! Garvin should be here or one of his secretaries should be in. She...”

“Remember,” Della Street said, “he told us that he’d fired her last night. Perhaps there was a scene, and she has decided he’s not entitled to two weeks’ notice, or he’s decided he doesn’t want her hanging around.”

“Well, there should be someone here,” Mason said. He knocked on the door of the office then walked around the corridor to the door marked, HOMER H. GARVIN, INVESTMENTS, PRIVATE, and knocked on that door.

“Guess there’s no one home,” Mason said. “Let’s go down to the lobby and get busy on the telephone, Della.”

“I don’t know the phone number of his apartment, and it’s an unlisted telephone, Chief.”

“That’s all right. We’ll get it from Gertie.”

Mason and Della Street went down to the lobby of the building where there was a row of telephone booths. Della Street got Gertie on the phone, got the number of Garvin’s apartment, dialed, waited, and said, “No answer.”

“All right,” Mason said to Della Street, “try Homer Garvin, Jr.”

“He’s on a honeymoon,” Della Street said.

“Not in the used car business,” Mason told her. “He had his honeymoon in Chicago. Say you want to talk with him personally. Don’t tell anyone who it is unless you have to. Say it’s about a car you want to buy, and you want to talk with him personally.”

Della Street nodded, put through the call, spent a few moments arguing with a salesman, then opened the door of the booth to say, “He’s coming on the line.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “let me take it.”

Della Street glided out of the booth. Mason slipped in to take her place.

A brisk voice came over the receiver. “Yes, hello. This is Garvin talking.”

“Perry Mason, Homer.”

“Oh, yes. How are you, Counselor?”

“Fine! Congratulations!”

“Well, thanks. Thanks a million!” he said. “It was... It was rather sudden — but after all, that’s the way I do things.”

“Going to be out there for a few minutes?” Mason asked.

“Sure, I’m on the job all morning. What can I do for you?”

“We’re coming out,” Mason said. “I want to talk with you.”

“Got a car to trade?” Garvin asked.

“It’s a little more personal than that.”

“Okay, I’ll be here.”

Mason hung up the phone, nodded to Della Street, and they returned to the taxi. Mason gave the address of the block where Garvin had his used car market.

The cab driver slowed down as he came to the address. “Some place here you wanted?” he asked. “This is a used car lot.”

“That’s the place,” Mason said. “Right in there.”

“Okay.” The driver turned in through an archway over which crimson letters some six feet high spelled out: “GIVE-AWAY-GARVIN.”

The car purred into the lot. Cars were parked in a row under a shed on the edge of which were various messages: “IF THEY DON’T MOVE WITHIN THIRTY DAYS — I MOVE THEM! — GARVIN.”... “YOU CAN’T GO WRONG, BECAUSE I WON’T LET YOU! — GARVIN.”... “IF I BUY IT, IT’S GOOD! IF I SELL IT, I MAKE IT GOOD. — GARVIN.”

“Any place in particular?” the driver asked.

“To the office,” Mason said.

The office building was a one-story rambling affair. Several salesmen were on duty, talking with customers or looking for prospects.

Mason told the cab to wait, smiled at the salesmen, said, “I’m looking for the skipper,” and entered the office.

Homer Garvin, Jr. was twenty-seven years of age, unusually tall, with dark hair, dark restless eyes, and quick, nervous gestures. He was wearing an expensively tailored suit, and was talking over the telephone as Mason entered the office.

“All right. All right,” Garvin said into the telephone, looking up at Mason as he did so. “My lawyer’s here. I’ve got to talk over this thing with him. I’ll have to call you back... No, I can’t say when... I may be busy... Good-bye.”

Garvin slammed down the receiver, pushed back the swivel chair, jumped to his feet, and came toward Mason with outstretched hand.

“Well, well, well! How are you, Counselor. I haven’t seen you for quite a while!”

“It has been a long time,” Mason said. “Congratulations!”

Young Garvin bowed modestly. “She’s a wonderful girl, Counselor. I don’t know how I managed to hypnotize her. I guess it’s just good old salesmanship paying off. How are you, Miss Street? You’re certainly looking fine.”

“Thank you.”

Mason said, “We wanted to get in touch with your Dad, Junior, and his office is closed.”

“The office closed!” Junior exclaimed. “Why, the office should be open. Eva Elliott should be there.”

“I have an idea she’s no longer with your Dad. Do you know where he is?”

“Why no! I haven’t... The truth of the matter is I haven’t seen Dad since we got back... To tell you the truth, Mr. Mason, there’s just a trace of a misunderstanding, a little friction. Dad will come around all right, but he thought I was playing fast and loose, and — well, you know how it is. It’s hard for the older generation to understand us younger people. I venture to say my Dad had the same trouble with his father.

“We’re living at a much more rapid pace than we ever did before, and — well, things are different, that’s all. Now you take the way I run my business. I have to operate at high speed. I have to keep moving. I’m like a man skating on thin ice, and it affects the way I live, the way I feel, the way I think. But times are different from what they were a few years ago.”

“You’re talking about friction with your father over business matters?” Mason asked.

“No, a difference over personal affairs,” Garvin said. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Mason. How about looking at a car while you’re down here. I’ve got just exactly the sort of car for you. Good, big, powerful, air-conditioned automobile that is in virtually new condition. You can make enough of a saving on it so you could count on economical transportation.”

“I’m afraid not,” Mason said. “How about Eva Elliott, your father’s secretary? If she isn’t at the office, where would she be?”

“You’d have to catch her at her apartment, I guess.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Sure. Wait a minute. I have it here.”

Young Garvin opened a drawer in the desk, took out a little, black notebook, thumbed through the pages, said, “She lives in the Monadnock Apartments, Apartment 317, and her telephone number is Pacific 7-2481. But she’ll be at the office. She may have stepped out for a little while, but she’s there. She’s always there. She’s very dependable, that girl. I recommended her to Dad, and she’s making a wonderful secretary. Thoroughly efficient, up on her toes all the time. And she’s sure a pretty girl. Walk in that office and see her sitting there with the back lighting on her blond hair, and it’s a pretty picture.”

“Well, I’ll go take a look at the picture,” Mason said. “If your father gets in touch with you, tell him that I want to see him on a matter of some urgency.”

“I’ll do that,” Garvin promised. “How about a car for you, Miss Street? We’ve got some dandies here, and I’d be in a position to give you folks the real low-down. I’d not only give you a bedrock price, but I’d give you all the history of the automobile. You see I’m making a specialty these days of one-owner cars. Every car you see on this lot has only had one owner.”

“Some other time,” Della Street smiled. “Right now I’m a working girl.”

“Well, remember the address. Here, take one of my cards. You have to use transportation, and that’s quite a big item in a working girl’s overhead. I can cut your transportation costs right down to the bone.”

“Thank you,” Della said. “I’ll be in sometime.”

“Well, do that.”

Junior escorted them out to the taxicab, looked at the cab with some disfavor, said, “Just the mileage that you’re paying on this cab would... Oh well, never mind. I’ll tell Dad if he gets in touch with me, Counselor.”

The cab driver slammed the door and drove out of the used car lot.

Della Street looked at Perry Mason and suddenly burst out laughing.

Mason shook his head. “Well, he’s always trying.”

“Where to now?” the cab driver asked.

“Monadnock Apartments,” Mason said. “You know where that is?”

The driver nodded, eased the cab out into traffic. “About a ten-minute run,” he said.

“Okay,” Mason told him.

Della Street said, “Now the trouble Junior had with his father must have started when he telephoned him from Chicago and told him that he was married, or that he was just about to get married.”

Mason nodded.

“Do you suppose it was because his dad had suspected he was doing wrong by Stephanie Falkner?”

“It’s hard to tell what caused the trouble,” Mason said, “but evidently there’s a bit of feeling. It will be interesting to see what Eva Elliott has to say about the marriage.”

“There’s just a possibility,” Della Street said, “that Eva Elliott doesn’t feel very cordial toward you.”

“I would say that was a masterly understatement,” Mason said.

“And,” Della Street went on, “it’s only etiquette to call and ask if it’s all right to come up. A young woman quite frequently doesn’t look her best in the morning.”

“And if she says she doesn’t want to see us, then what do we do?”

Della Street thought that over. “Well,” she said, “that could prove embarrassing.”

“Exactly,” Mason told her. “So we’ll get up to the apartment as best we can, and then see what happens.”

The Monadnock Apartments proved to be one which had an outer door and a push button system, with communication from the apartments.

Mason found a key on his ring which fitted the outer door, and he and Della Street went to Apartment 317.

Mason knocked on the door of the apartment, one sharp knock, a pause, four short knocks, a pause, then two, short knocks.

Almost instantly the door was thrown open. Eva Elliott, dressed for the street, said, “Well, you have a crust to—” She stopped short as she saw Mason and Della Street on the threshold.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought it was someone else.”

“I want to talk with you a minute,” Mason said. “May we come in? This is Miss Street, my secretary.”

“I don’t have much time this morning. I’m going out. I have an appointment and...”

“It will only take a few minutes.”

She yielded the point with poor grace. “Well, come on in.” Mason and Della Street entered the apartment.

“You’re not with Mr. Garvin any more?” Mason asked.

“Thanks to you,” she said, but without bitterness, “I am not.”

Mason raised his eyebrows. “Thanks to me?”

“Mr. Garvin said that I should have told you where he was.”

“You knew?” Mason asked.

“I knew, but he told me not to tell anyone. In my vocabulary, Mr. Mason, anyone means anyone.”

“I see.”

“What would it mean to you?”

“Well,” Mason said smiling, “almost anyone. Do I gather that there are some hard feelings?”

She said, “If you ask me, I think the whole Garvin family stinks. I did think that only the son was a rotter, but I guess it’s a question of ‘like father like son,’ and vice versa.”

Mason said, “I dislike to see you lose your job on account of some misunderstanding, particularly one that had something to do with my calling on you.”

“Don’t give it a thought,” she said. “I’m a lot better off than I would be sitting in that stuffy, old office wasting my time. I’ve got places to go and things to do, and it’s about time I started.”

“Would you mind telling me about it?” Mason asked.

She said, “Mr. Garvin got back from Las Vegas. He had a chip on his shoulder and I knew it the minute he walked into the office. He had telephoned and asked me to wait until he arrived. He said I could have dinner and put it on the expense account. Not a word about overtime. Just a dinner on the expense account. And I have to watch my figure. I ate pine-apple and cottage cheese salad when I’d like to have had a big steak and everything that goes with it but you can’t have poise and avoirdupois at the same time. The plan I’ve laid out for my life calls for grace, a certain amount of poise and not too much avoirdupois.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“Well, as you’re probably aware, Mr. Garvin has that private office of his fitted up so it’s almost an apartment. There’s a nice tile shower and dressing room. He has a little closet that is fixed up with an electric plate so he can warm up coffee and fix himself a snack whenever he doesn’t want to go out. He has a bar with an electric icebox. In fact, he sometimes uses the place as an apartment. I’ve known times, when he’s been expecting an important long distance call, that he’d stay right there in his office for twenty-four hours at a time.

“Well, he came back from Las Vegas and I could see that he was terribly worked up about something. I hoped he’d get it off his chest and leave me at least part of the evening free, but not him. He is just as selfish as his son. He told me he was all dirty and sticky from the trip, and he was going to take a shower. So he popped into his dressing room and took a shower, and left me cooling my heels out there in the outer office until he came out all nicely fixed up with a clean suit out of his closet, and then he proceeded to jump on me.”

“And you?” Mason asked.

She said, “I told him I didn’t have to take that from anybody. I told him that when he gave me instructions I followed them, and that, as far as I was concerned, he could take his job and give it to somebody else.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said that suited him all right, and I went out of the office.”

“What time was this?” Mason asked.

“He got in early enough, about eight-forty-five I guess, and he kept me waiting while he was getting all cool and comfortable so he could pick on me... I just kept getting madder and madder.”

“Now, wait a minute. What time did this interview take place?”

“I guess it was a little after nine.”

“And he told you he’d just got in from Las Vegas?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Did he drive in from Las Vegas or fly?”

“I don’t know. He had his car with him but that doesn’t mean anything because he keeps four or five cars, and then whenever he wants he’ll pick up other cars from his son’s used car lot.”

“How long had he been in Las Vegas?”

“Two days.”

“May I ask what you intend to do now?”

“What I intend to do now,” she said, “is do what I should have done a long time ago: devote myself to my stage career.”

“I didn’t know you’d been on the stage.”

“Well, I... I didn’t say I’d been on the stage, but I’ve had training for the stage. I’m being interviewed this morning for a bit part and I’m going to have to go right now, Mr. Mason. I’m sorry. I don’t have any hard feelings against you but I think I’ve received a raw deal.”

“You’re finished at the office?” Mason asked.

“Am I finished? I hope to tell the world I’m finished... Now I don’t like to have to throw you out but out you go. You’ve taken up too much of my time already.

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Garvin what happened? He’ll tell you.”

“I wanted to get your side of it.”

“If I gave you my side,” she said, “you’d be here all morning. His low-down son rushed me off my feet, and then when he began to get tired of me he wished me off on his dad as a secretary. Then the first thing I knew Junior was making a whirlwind campaign for Stephanie Falkner. Then he goes to Chicago and marries some babe he’s hardly had a chance to know. She’s some cutie from Las Vegas who came drifting into his used car lot — just by chance. He sold her a used car and she certainly sold him a bill of goods!

“Believe me, he won’t have her six months before he’s trading her in on another model. That man doesn’t know what he wants... Now come on. I’m awfully sorry but you’re going to have to leave. Be a sport and get out of here.”

“You have a car?” Mason asked.

“I’m getting a cab.”

“Going out to...”

“I’m going out to Hollywood, in case you’re interested.”

Mason said, “I have a cab waiting downstairs. You can ride with us as far as my office. That’s right on your way and that will save you getting a cab here.”

She looked him over and said, “Well, darned if you aren’t human after all. That’s a deal. Come on. Let’s go.”

She bustled out of the apartment, closed and locked the door, hurried to the elevator, and almost ran to the cab.

They drove to Mason’s office. Mason said to the cab driver, “Add a trip to Hollywood to what you have on the meter already, and tell me how much.”

The cab driver made an estimate.

“Here’s the fare and a tip,” Mason said. “Deliver the young lady where she wants to go.”

The cab driver touched his cap. Mason and Della Street got out of the cab and had no more than crossed the sidewalk when Lt. Tragg of the Metropolitan Homicide Squad fell into step beside them.

“Well, well,” he said. “So you’ve been out early birding this morning. Catch any worms?”

“Oh, we don’t call this early,” Mason said.

“It isn’t... I thought you were in the office, Miss Street.”

“I was,” Della Street said.

“You folks get around. You certainly do,” Tragg told them. “Well, let’s go up where we can talk.”

“About what?” Mason asked.

“Oh, about murder,” Tragg said. “It’s as good a subject as any, and it happens to be a subject in which we’re both interested, you on one side, I on the other.”

They walked silently across to the elevator, rode up to Mason’s floor, walked down the corridor. Mason unlocked the door of his private office, offered Tragg a cigarette, seated himself, held a flame to the tip of the officer’s cigarette, nodded surreptitiously to Della Street, and settled back in his chair.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“George Casselman,” Lt. Tragg said.

“What about him?”

“Dead.”

“How did he die?”

“A contact shot with a .38 caliber revolver.”

“When?”

“Sometime last night.”

“Where?”

“In the apartment where I understand you saw him sometime around eight o’clock.”

“Indeed,” Mason said. “How did you get that information?”

“That,” Tragg told him grinning, “is a professional secret. I’m keeping the extent of my information to myself. In that way you won’t know how much I know or how little I know. It gives me all the advantage in asking questions.”

“Assuming that I would be inclined to depart from the truth in my answers,” Mason said.

“That’s what I’m assuming,” Tragg told him. “Not that you’d lie, Mason, but you have a diabolically clever way of giving answers that don’t answer. Now you saw Casselman last night. What did you see him about?”

“A business deal.”

“What sort of a business deal?”

“One that involved a client’s affairs.”

“There you go again,” Tragg said. “I want to know what you were discussing.”

“My client’s affairs are always kept private,” Mason said. “There’s a code of legal ethics dealing with the matter.”

“Makes it very convenient for you in a murder case, doesn’t it?”

“At times,” Mason admitted.

Tragg studied him thoughtfully. “Now Casselman had some other appointments last night.”

“Did he?”

“Do you know with whom?”

“I know other people were going to see him — that is, Casselman was expecting them.”

“Who were they?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Lieutenant.”

“What do you mean, you can’t help me?”

“I mean just that. I can’t help you.”

“That could mean a lot of things. Either that you don’t know or that you can’t tell.”

“There’s still a third possibility,” Mason said. “Hearsay evidence is no good in a court of law. When I say that I can’t help you, it might mean that I had only some hearsay evidence, and that would be of no help at all.”

“You see what I mean?” Tragg said turning to Della Street. “What kind of an answer is that?”

Tragg turned back to the lawyer.

“Now I wanted to see you this morning before you’d had a chance to talk with any of your clients,” Tragg said. “I’m sorry that didn’t work out. I think perhaps Miss Street’s efficiency may have had something to do with that. However, Mason, we police aren’t entirely dumb. After I found out that you didn’t arrive at the office at your usual time and that Miss Street had stepped out on a matter of some urgency, I put two and two together and so I waited. When you drove up in the taxicab you were getting just a little careless. You should have paid off the cab a block from the office and walked the rest of the way. As it is now, I have the number of the cab, and as soon as I call the dispatcher the cab driver will be asked to report to us. Then we’ll know just where you went with the cab and gradually we’ll piece that cab trip together and perhaps find some very interesting stuff.”

“Doubtless you will,” Mason said. “I’m glad you called my attention to a mistake in my technique, Tragg.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tragg said. “I knew from the expression on your face, that as soon as you saw me you were mentally kicking yourself for not walking that last block.

“I suppose you’d have done it anyway if it hadn’t been for this cute blonde in the car with you. She’d have thought it a little strange if you’d stopped the cab a block from your office.

“Now then, that brings up the next pertinent question: Who was this blonde and why didn’t she get out when you got out?”

“The blonde,” Mason said, “was named Eva Elliott. She lives in Apartment 317 at the Monadnock Apartments. Her telephone number is Pacific 7-2481. She was formerly employed as a secretary for Homer Horatio Garvin, a client of mine, and was on her way to Hollywood to try out for a bit part. The young woman is more than mildly interested in a theatrical career.”

“Well,” Tragg said, “thanks for the information. I can cross that off.”

“What do you mean, you can cross that off?”

“It doesn’t have very much connection with the murder,” Tragg said, “or you wouldn’t have told me all of that. Now where else did you go with the cab?”

“That,” Mason said, “is a matter I don’t think I’m in a position to discuss at the moment.”

“I see, I see,” Tragg said. “Now this Eva Elliott had been secretary to Homer Garvin?”

“That’s right.”

“And Homer Garvin is a client of yours?”

“Yes.”

“When did he last consult you?”

“I take care of all his legal business, I believe,” Mason said. “Sometimes I will have quite a bit of work for him, and then at other times things will go along for months at a time without my hearing from him.”

Tragg turned again to Della Street. “Just listen to this fellow, Miss Street? Lots of interrogators would get sidetracked and forget what the question was about by the time they’d digested an answer like that. Now, let’s see, didn’t my question have to do with when Garvin had last consulted your employer? I’m afraid you’ll have to help me from getting lost in a maze of words, Miss Street.”

“As it happened,” Mason said, “I was the one who was trying to get in touch with Garvin. I was trying to get in touch with him Monday afternoon and I am still trying to get in touch with him.”

Tragg thought that over, then said, “You were trying to get in touch with him Monday afternoon?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re still trying to get in touch with him?”

“Right.”

“Now,” Tragg said, “would you go further and say that you had not seen Garvin between the time you first tried to get in touch with him Monday and the present time when you are still trying to get in touch with him?”

Mason grinned.

Tragg shook his head. “A man has to watch you all the time, Mason. It’s not what you say, but what you don’t say. Now for your information, I know that Homer Garvin saw George Casselman last night.”

“That he saw George Casselman last night?” Mason exclaimed.

Tragg nodded. “Now then, let me ask you a personal question.”

“What?”

“Did you go to Casselman’s apartment last night, then wait out by the back stairs, pick up a young woman and take her away in your car?

“A witness thinks you did. The light wasn’t too good, but this witness saw you well enough to recognize you.”

“Indeed.”

“Now then, could it be possible that some young woman pushed a gun up against Casselman’s breadbasket, pulled the trigger, then rang you on the telephone and said, ‘Oh, Mr. Mason, come at once. Something terrible has happened!’ Could it further be possible that you asked her what had happened, and she told you that she and Casselman had had a difference of opinion, that in order to frighten him she had pulled out a gun, that Casselman grabbed her and struggled for the gun, and in the struggle, much to her surprise, she heard the roar of an explosion and then Casselman fell back on the floor?

“And under those circumstances, could it have been possible that you suggested to her that it would be highly inadvisable to go out the front door, but that you would come to the service entrance and escort her out the back door and down to your automobile, and that in the meantime she was to say nothing about what had happened?”

Mason gave that matter thoughtful consideration. “You mean that I would advise her to say nothing to the police about what had happened?”

“I’m considering that as a possibility.”

“Not to report the body?”

“Exactly.”

“Wouldn’t that be rather unprofessional on my part?”

“It depends on how you look at it,” Tragg said. “A legal code of ethics can be interpreted in many different ways. It’s a well-known fact that your interpretation of a code of ethics is all in favor of your client. You wouldn’t want your client to do anything that would incriminate her no matter what the law on the subject might be.”

Mason deliberated for a moment. “I take it you mean that my obligation not to betray a client would control all of the other rules of ethics?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s an interesting possibility,” Mason admitted.

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“Then I’ll answer it now. The answer is no.”

“You wouldn’t kid me?”

“No.”

“When did you first learn Casselman was dead?”

“Miss Street heard it on the radio this morning.”

“And told you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Early.”

“How early?”

“I can’t say.”

“And you went right out to start a cover-up?”

“I went right out to try to get in touch with a client.”

“Garvin?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to tell him Casselman was dead. I thought it might change some of his plans.”

“See Garvin?”

“No.”

“Talk with him?”

“No.”

“Well thanks, Mason. I wanted to ask. I was instructed to interview you.”

“I’m always glad to co-operate with the police,” Mason said.

Tragg drew his extended forefinger across his throat. “If everyone co-operated like you do, Mason, that D.A. wouldn’t have a thing to worry about.”

“No?”

“No, we’d never catch anyone so he wouldn’t have to try any cases... Well, I thought I’d give you an opportunity to come clean.”

“Thanks.”

“You have had an opportunity to come clean, you know. By the same sign if you’ve tried to gum up the works, you’ve done it after knowing what we’re looking for. That’s bad.

“Now we’re looking for Garvin. If you get in touch with him tell him to call Homicide and ask for me. Tell him it’s rather important.”

Tragg got up from his chair, stretched, yawned, said, “Thanks a lot for all the help you’ve given me, Mason. Not conscious help of course, but unconscious help. I can assure you it’s been considerable.

“By the way, just checking through the records, we note that Homer Garvin had himself appointed a deputy sheriff so he could carry a gun — a special deputy... You know the pitch — personal protection. Large sums of money late at night, and all that sort of thing. He’s quite an operator, I understand. Carries quite a bit of cash with him... You wouldn’t happen to know where Garvin’s gun is now, would you?”

“What gun?”

“The one Mr. Garvin usually carries with him.”

“Wouldn’t it be in Mr. Garvin’s possession?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure I don’t know,” Tragg said. “But,” he announced purposefully, “we intend to find out and you can gamble on that, Mr. Mason. Well, good morning. I won’t detain you any longer. I know that you’re busy. And after all, now that I’ve been here you’ll probably have some telephoning to do.”

“You haven’t tapped the line, have you?” Mason asked.

“No, no, no,” Tragg said. “We wouldn’t go that far. Well, I’ll be seeing you, Counselor. ‘Bye now.”

Tragg left the office.

Mason said to Della Street, “Get Marie Barlow on the phone, Della.”

“Marie Barlow...? Oh, Marie Arden. I can’t get used to her married name.”

Della Street called the switchboard and a moment later said, “Here’s Marie on the phone.”

“Marie,” Mason said, “this may be rather important. A lot of things have happened since I saw you last. Garvin may call you. If he does, I want you to tell him to get in touch with me at once, and tell him that he had better be a little careful how he does it because police are looking for him.”

“Good heavens! The police!”

“That’s right.”

“What makes you think he’ll get in touch with me?”

“Because I told him last night that you had been in to see him twice. It was news to him. His secretary had given him to understand that you’d never even asked for him.”

“What! Why that little, two-timing... why that...”

“Careful,” Mason said, “don’t get your blood pressure up. For your information, Eva Elliott was fired last night and is no longer with Mr. Garvin.”

“Well, good for the boss!” Marie exclaimed. “Who’s running the office?”

“So far no one,” Mason told her.

“Look, Mr. Mason,” she said, “I’m going back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m going back and open up that office for Mr. Garvin, and I’m going to stay on the job until he can get another secretary.”

“You can’t do that,” Mason told her.

“Why can’t I do it? I still have my old key to the office. I know the ropes. I know the clients. And while a lot of water has run under the bridge since I have been there, I know enough about his investments and his manner of operation so I can keep from lousing anything up.

“With my figure the way it is, I won’t be any ornament to the office the way Eva Elliott tried to be, but at least I can be efficient and I’ll answer the phone and see that he gets messages and see that the people who want to get in touch with him can get in touch with him.”

“That might not be advisable,” Mason said.

“What do you mean?”

“Some people,” Mason said.

She laughed. “I’ll use my discretion.”

“The situation may be a little different from what you anticipate. Some of the people who want to get in touch with him may be clothed with authority.”

She thought that over for a moment, then said, “Thanks for the tip, Mr. Mason. My husband has the car. I’m calling a taxicab. If you get in touch with Mr. Garvin, tell him I’m on the job, and that all he’ll owe me will be taxicab fare back and forth.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “It may be a good idea.”

He hung up the telephone, turned to Della Street. “I’m going out, Della. This time I’m going in my car, not in a taxicab.”

“Want a witness?” she asked.

“No, I think you can do more good right at the moment by staying on the job here and—” He broke off as the phone rang.

Della Street picked up her secretarial phone, said, “Who is it, Gertie? Yes, I’m quite sure Mr. Mason wants to talk with him... Homer Garvin on the line,” she said.

Mason grabbed the phone. “Hello, Homer. Where are you?”

Garvin said, “Listen closely, Mason. I may not have time for anything except a few words.”

“Shoot!” Mason told him.

Garvin said, “There’s a possibility Stephanie Falkner fired the shot that killed Casselman while she was acting in self-defense. I want you to get on the job and protect her.”

“All right,” Mason said. “If those are your instructions, that’s fine, but where the devil are you and what—?”

“I’m being a red herring,” Garvin interrupted.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m drawing the police off on a false scent. I’m going to try to keep on being a red herring. If I can get the police to accuse me of the crime, it will take a lot of the sting out of it when they finally back up and go after Stephanie.”

“Wait a minute,” Mason cautioned. “That’s dangerous. You may not be in the clear yourself.”

“I don’t want to be in the clear.”

“Flight,” Mason said, “can be taken as an indication of guilt and can be received in evidence as such.”

“All right then, I’ll resort to flight.”

“You can’t do that,” Mason protested. “You can’t pile up evidence against yourself. You may wind up behind the eight ball in this thing.”

“That’s all right. You take care of Stephanie. I’ll take care of myself. Your first duty is to Stephanie. Do whatever you can to protect her, regardless of where the chips fall.”

“Even if you become involved?”

“Even if I become involved.”

“What’s the idea?” Mason asked. “Just because your son was going with Stephanie Falkner and—?”

“Because,” Garvin interrupted, “I love the girl. I guess I always have. I had been afraid to admit it even to myself. I’m telling you that in confidence, Mason, and if you blab that to anyone, even to Della Street, I’ll break your damn neck. You wanted to know why. Now I’ve told you why.”

Mason paused thoughtfully.

“You on the line?” Garvin demanded.

“I’m on the line,” Mason said. “Here’s a piece of news for you. I talked with Eva Elliott. She’s out of your life for good and all. She won’t even go near the office. The place is closed up tighter than a drum.”

“We can’t have that,” Garvin said. “I’ve got a dozen deals pending and... You’ll have to get me someone, Mason.”

“I already have,” Mason said. “I talked with Marie Barlow on the phone. I told her Eva Elliott had been fired and that there was no one in the office. She’s grabbing a taxicab and going up. She has her old key. She says she’ll at least keep things in line.”

“That,” Garvin said, “is a load off my mind. Bless the girl. You said she was going to have a baby?”

“In about nine weeks.”

“Tell her to stick it out as long as she can,” Garvin said. “You may not hear from me for a while, Perry. I may be hard to find.”

“Damn it!” Mason said. “You can’t do that. You...”

There was a click at the other end of the line. The phone went dead.

Della Street raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry.

Mason said, “He may be stringing me along. He says he’s playing red herring. I’m to represent Stephanie Falkner and try to keep her from getting involved.”

“I heard your end of the conversation,” Della Street said. “What was it he said when you asked him if he felt he owed that duty just because his son jilted her?”

Mason grinned and said, “He told me that if I told anyone, even you, the answer to that, he’d break my damn neck... I’m going out, Della. I’ll be back in about an hour. If anybody wants me, you haven’t the faintest idea where I am.”

“Could I make a guess?”

“Certainly.”

“You’re going to Homer Garvin’s office and make certain there is no incriminating evidence for the police to find.”

“That,” Mason told her, “is an idea. It’s a very good idea. The only trouble is there are two things wrong with it.”

“What?”

“First,” Mason said, “as an attorney I couldn’t remove any evidence. That would be a crime. Second, I have something a lot more important to do.

“You must learn, Della, that an attorney cannot conceal evidence and he can’t destroy evidence.

“You must also learn that an attorney with imagination and an abiding belief in the innocence of the client he’s representing can do a great deal. We have two things to be thankful for.”

“What?”

“First, that we know in advance the police are going to trace the route taken by that taxicab, and second, the fact that Homer Garvin’s wife insisted their first child should be named Homer Jr.”

“That,” Della Street said, wrinkling her forehead, “is just half as clear as mud.”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Mason said, and walked out.