The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink

Chapter 19

Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake were in Mason’s office when Gertie, the switchboard operator, rang three frantic signals on the telephone.

“That,” Mason said, “will be Lieutenant Tragg.”

He had no sooner spoken the words than Tragg unceremoniously jerked open the office door, nodded briefly, said, “Hello, folks,” and walked over to sit down opposite Mason’s desk.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“It’s okay,” Tragg said.

“Going to tell us about it?”

“I’d rather not.”

“We’re entitled to it.”

“I know. That’s why I came here. Give me a little time.”

Tragg fished a cigar from his pocket, clipped off the end, lit the cigar, looked at Mason searchingly through the first blue wisps of cigar smoke and said, “What gave you your hunch on this thing, Mason?”

Mason said, “I was faced with clients who had an impossible story. No jury would ever have believed that story. Yet I began to think that it might be the truth.”

“I don’t see how that gives you anything,” Tragg said.

“Anyone who can force an attorney to put on evidence that is going to convict his client, yet which he feels is the truth, must be someone who knows something about evidence. The story that each defendant had to tell was so completely phony that if those stories had been told on the witness stand the defendants would have been convicted.

“In one case that might have been an accident. In two cases it showed design. And then I suddenly realized that I was dealing with a pattern. Thomas E. Sedgwick had been placed in such a position. Any story that he could have told would have eternally damned him before a jury. Therefore his only alternative was to take refuge in flight.

“Well, Lieutenant, I simply used an ordinary police method. You catch many of your criminals because of a file you have entitled Modus Operandi. It is predicated upon the assumption that a criminal, having once committed a successful crime, will thereafter follow a pattern in everything he does.

“In Sedgwick’s case he had an utterly implausible story to tell, and he had possession of a murder weapon. Morris Alburg had an utterly impossible story and a murder weapon.

“It occurred to me that since it was quite apparent Claremont was gunning for the people higher up, he might have made contact.

“There was one feature of the case in my favor. The night clerk never forgot a face. I decided I’d try the case by floundering around with a lot of cross-examination and then slip in a casual question to find out if Hoxie could remember having seen Claremont in the hotel on the night he was murdered.

“When Hoxie told about that sudden trip to Mexico City I understood just what had happened. There was one more question which might have cleared up the case. I thought it would be better for you to ask it privately than for me to ask it in court.

“When I saw Hoxie’s hand begin to shake I thought I knew the answer... The question, of course, was whether Fayette had any other visitor in his room when Claremont went up.

“Now, tell me, how far did I miss it?”

“You didn’t miss it a damn bit,” Tragg said. “I wish you had. The hell of it is that people get a feeling the police are all crooked simply because now and then some big shot starts a shakedown and piles up an individual fortune. That’s the way it was in this case. Hell, the guy owned, the Keymont Hotel. What do you know about that?”

“I was satisfied he did,” Mason said, “also the Bonsai Apartments, and probably one other apartment house where the captives were taken and where they saw the towels.”

There was a moment’s silence. Tragg puffed on the cigar, then said, “Bob Claremont wasn’t as dumb and as naive as lots of people thought. He knew that Sedgwick was making book, but he also knew Sedgwick was paying protection. He knew Fayette was the go-between. Claremont was after the sources of protection. He found them, too. The trail led to the Keymont Hotel. And then presumably Bob Claremont got quite a jolt. He found out the real identity of the man he was after. He never left the hotel alive. They took him down in the freight elevator and put him in the car. Then they sent for Sedgwick.”

“Who did?”

“Who do you think? The man who had been taking his protection money. He told Sedgwick he was hotter than a firecracker, that people were wise to the fact that he had been paying for protection. He told Sedgwick he had a twelve-hour head start to get out of town, to sell everything he had for what he could get, and get out.”

“That’s the way I had it figured,” Mason said.

“You know what happened after that. Sedgwick did what he was supposed to do, and by doing it he irrevocably put his neck in the noose.”

“How about the gun?” Mason asked.

“That was a cinch,” Tragg said. “Sedgwick was given to understand that his only chance was to stay out of the state until things cooled off, but to let this one person know where he was all the time. Sedgwick had a gun. It was a Smith and Wesson, but it wasn’t the gun Dixie pawned. That was Claremont’s gun. Somehow they managed to switch guns on Sedgwick after the murder. Sedgwick and Dixie must have had a visitor whom they thought was a trusted friend who made the substitution.”

“Why?” Mason asked.

“Because that was the gang’s life insurance. They didn’t know that Dixie Dayton would ever come back, but they thought she might. I’d a lot rather not talk about it.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but you have to do it, Tragg. You owe that much to us.”

“I know,” Tragg said, moodily. “Why the hell do you think I’m here?”

“You got a statement from Hoxie?”

“Of course I got a statement from Hoxie. You did everything except wrap the damn case up in a cellophane envelope and hand it to me on a silver platter. I knew right from the start that there was something fishy about Bob Claremont’s murder. I knew that he wouldn’t get into a car. I knew that he wouldn’t let anybody draw his own gun. The thing was screwy. It had to be. But I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it.

“And then, of course, when you cross-examined Hoxie the thing stuck out like a sore thumb. The Keymont Hotel was in the gambling racket. The D.A. was about to make an investigation. A new manager had been put in. A kid went in as night clerk who had a record. He had a memory for faces. If he’d stayed in town he’d have seen the newspapers the next morning with Bob Claremont’s picture. He’d have recognized him as the cop who came to the hotel in plain clothes following a hot lead. Then the tables would have been turned. Hoxie would have been able to control the owners... So they rigged up a deal with the man who was the head of the dope ring in Mexico. They rushed Hoxie onto a plane, and the Mexican end gave Hoxie a run-around until the Claremont story and picture was out of the papers, and then Hoxie was permitted to come back.

“Things would have stopped there if Dixie hadn’t brought Tom Sedgwick back. Fayette tried to stampede her into an alley where she could be taken for a ride. She didn’t react. And Fayette was so confident of success he’d let the muscle man use his car. He thought he might be spotted, so he rented a car for the night for his own use.

“Then Dixie ran, there was a bullet hole in Fayette’s car, and then the Seattle police discovered Dixie had pawned Claremont’s gun.

“That did it. Fayette was hot. He’d squeal to save his hide so it was decided to kill him and frame Alburg and Dixie with the crime, leaving them with an impossible story. You upset the apple cart by digging out the one weakness in the scheme, something they’d even forgotten about themselves — Hoxie having been rushed to Mexico City so he wouldn’t see Claremont’s picture in the papers.

“Of course, since it was a big racket in a big payoff, the head of the deal had plenty of people he could call on, people who had to help in the deal but who would be strangers to all concerned.”

“The real owner of the hotel?” Mason asked. “The real head of the payoff?”

“Why make me go into that?” Tragg said savagely. “You want to crucify me! You want to...”

“I don’t want anything of the sort,” Mason interrupted. “I just want to get the case cleaned up.”

“It’s cleaned up. You know who it was,” Tragg said. “It was Sergeant Jaffrey of the Vice Squad. He owned the hotel lock, stock and barrel. He owned half a dozen other places, and he had three or four safe deposit boxes. It remains to be seen what’s in them.”

“Where is he now?” Mason asked.

“He’s dead.”

Mason came halfway up out of his chair. “Dead!”

“That’s right. He was shot while resisting arrest.”

“Good Lord,” Mason exclaimed. “Who killed him?”

Tragg got up from his chair, stood motionless for a moment, then his right hand tightened, crushing the cigar he had been smoking into crumpled bits of charred tobacco leaves.

“Who the hell do you think? I did,” he said, and walked out.