The Case of the Rolling Bones

Chapter 2

Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, relaxed all over the big, leather chair in Mason’s office. His backbone, seeming to have no more rigidity than a piece of garden hose, bent forward until his chin came close to his knees. His feet were propped against the opposite arm of the chair. He habitually sat sideways in the big chair, and adopted an attitude of extreme fatigue. His eyes were dull and expressionless, his voice had a tired drawl. His appearance of general lassitude and lugubrious disinterest in life kept anyone from suspecting he might be a private detective.

Drake said, “Give me a cigarette, Perry, and I’ll tell you the sad news.”

“Get it?” Mason said to Della Street, tossing the detective his cigarette case. “The big moocher comes in here and bums my cigarettes to report that he’s foozled a case.”

“Nuts to you,” Drake said, extracting a cigarette and snapping a match into flame. “I did some good work on that case. The blonde who cashed the check gave the name of Marcia Whittaker. Her address checked with the address on her automobile license — but it wasn’t her address. However, the name was right, and it didn’t take me long to locate where she’d been living.”

“Been living?” Mason asked.

“Sure,” Drake said. “She hadn’t figured on having to give her name at the bank. When the cashier demanded it, she was smart enough to give him the right name so it checked with her driving license. She was also smart enough to go home, pack up her things and move out that afternoon.”

“Any back trail?” Mason asked.

“Of course not. What the hell do you think she moved for?”

“And that,” Mason said sarcastically, “represents the result of your complete investigation, I take it.”

Drake was silent while he drew in a lungful of smoke, then blew it out, and resumed his account as casually as though he had not heard Mason’s comment. “I did a little snooping around the place where she had her apartment. The banker had described her as hard. That was only the first half.”

“You mean hard and fast?” Della Street asked.

“You guessed it,” Drake said. “So I hunted up the landlady and ran a blazer on her about the kind of joint she was running and scared her into convulsions. She said she’d do anything she could, but the girl hadn’t left any forwarding address and all that. I told her I wanted to know something about the men who had called on Marcia Whittaker. That lead didn’t pan out. Then I asked the manager if she gave apartments to every tramp who showed up without asking for references. She said she certainly didn’t. She usually asked for references, although she admitted that if a girl gave references that sounded all right and didn’t hesitate or ‘hem and haw’ about it, she seldom wrote to the references.

“So we looked up Marcia Whittaker and found that when she’d taken the place, she’d given as a reference an L. C. Conway, manager of the Conway Appliance Company at 692 Herrod Avenue.”

Mason lit a cigarette. “Not bad, Paul.”

“Just luck,” Drake said, wearily. “Don’t give me any credit for that — although you’d have been the first to blame me if the name hadn’t been there. Anyway, it was a lucky break. I went down to 692 Herrod Avenue. The Conway Appliance Company had had an office there for a couple of months. It had received lots of mail, and then it had moved out suddenly and left no forwarding address.

“I got a description of L. C. Conway.” Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it, and read, “L. C. Conway, about fifty-five, around five foot ten, weight a hundred and ninety pounds, bald in front, with dark, curly hair coming to a point about the top middle of his head. Has a slight limp, due to something wrong with right foot... No one knew where he lived or what he did.”

Mason frowned.

“Couldn’t find a thing?” he asked.

“Nope,” Drake said, “but I found one thing that was significant.”

“What?”

“The day after he moved, all mail quit coming to the office.”

Mason studied his cigarette thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Meaning a forwarding address had been left at the post office?”

“Yep.”

“Any chance of getting it?”

“None whatever,” Drake said, “but I bought a post office money order for twenty-five bucks payable to the Conway Appliance Company, scribbled a note that it was in payment of the merchandise I’d ordered a couple of months ago, and asked him to send it by mail to a phony address. I sent it to 692 Herrod Avenue.”

“How did you know what kind of merchandise he was selling?” Mason asked.

“I didn’t,” Drake said, “but a guy like that isn’t going to turn down twenty-five bucks, and he isn’t going to take a chance on cashing a post office money order without giving the sucker some sort of run for his money.”

Mason nodded. “Good work, Paul. Get an answer?”

“Yep,” Drake said, squirming around sideways so that he could get his left hand into the inside pocket of his coat. “Found out what the bird’s selling all right and got his address.”

“What’s he selling?”

“Crooked crap dice by the looks of things,” Drake said, pulling a letter from his pocket and reading.

“How’s it signed?” Mason asked.

“Signed ‘Guy T. Serle, President,’” Drake said.

“Address?” Mason asked.

“Uh-huh. 209 East Ranchester.”

“So then what?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “Thought I’d drop in for instructions. Think I’d better let him make a delivery?”

“Yes,” Mason said, “and tail the man who makes it. Try and pick up Conway and put a tail on him. Find out who Serle is.”

Drake said, “Okay, Perry. Of course, this delivery guy will probably be a rat-faced punk who thinks he’s a big shot because he’s peddling phoney dice, but he may lead to something. I’ll...”

He broke off as Mason’s telephone shrilled into sound.

Mason said, “All right, Paul, be seeing you. Keep me posted,” and picked up the receiver. The girl at the switchboard said, “Miss Leeds on the line, says it’s a matter of the greatest importance.”

Mason said, “Put her on,” then, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, said to Drake, who was halfway to the exit door, “Stick around a minute, Paul. This is the Leeds girl calling now... Yes, hello... Yes, this is Mr. Mason, Miss Leeds.”

Phyllis Leeds was so excited that her voice was high-pitched. “Mr. Mason,” she said, “the most terrible thing has happened.”

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s have it.”

“Jason Carrel, one of the relatives, has put Uncle Alden in a sanitarium and won’t tell me where it is.”

“How did that happen?” Mason asked.

“He called early this morning to take Uncle Alden for an automobile ride. When they didn’t come back within an hour, I got worried. Uncle Alden doesn’t like long rides, and I don’t think he likes to ride with Jason anyway. I went around to Jason’s house. Sure enough, his car was in the garage. I asked him where Uncle Alden was, and he said that Uncle Alden had been taken very sick while they were riding and that he’d rushed him to a sanitarium and called a doctor, that the doctor had insisted upon absolute rest and quiet for at least two days. He said he was just coming to tell me about it when I arrived.”

Mason said, “All right, I’ll fix that in short order. Now listen, this is more important than it sounds. Does your uncle love to gamble?”

“Why, no, not particularly.”

“Does he ever shoot craps for large stakes?”

“Why, no... well, wait a minute. He was in a little game a few days ago — oh, maybe a week ago.”

“With whom was he playing?”

“John Milicant.”

“Related to Emily?” Mason asked.

“Yes, he’s her brother.”

“How much did the brother lose?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know. I think he won.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know. There was a little talk back and forth, a little kidding.”

“Was the game for high stakes?”

“No — just twenty-five cents a throw or something like that. I don’t know much about how to play the game.”

“Where can I find John Milicant?”

“I don’t know just where he lives. I can find out from Emily.”

Mason said, “Get him. Bring him into the office. I want to talk with him. Don’t worry about your uncle. I’ll get out a writ of habeas corpus and serve it on Jason Carrel.”

“And there’s nothing else for me to do?”

“No.”

“Nothing I can do to help Uncle?”

“Not a thing,” Mason said. “Bring in John Milicant and forget about it. Quit worrying.”

He hung up the telephone, said to Paul Drake, “Okay, Paul. It’s nothing important. The relatives are closing in on the old man, that’s all. Go ahead and get busy on the Conway Appliance Company.”

As Drake left the office, Mason said to Della Street, “Get out a petition for a writ of habeas corpus. I’ll present it to Judge Treadwell and we’ll give Jason Carrel a jolt right between the eyes.”