Mason’s taxicab took him to the telegraph office where he sent Della Street a message, saying simply, “WIRE RECEIVED MAKE NO COMPLAINT ABOUT MATTER MENTIONED DO NOT BE SURPRISED AT ANY CONVERSATIONS I HAVE WITH YOU OVER TELEPHONE.”

  He signed the wire, paid for it, returned to his taxi, and said, “Take me to a newspaper office. I want to put an ad in the personal column.”

  At the newspaper office, Mason, with moisture glistening on his suit and dripping from the brim of his hat, wrote an ad for the personals. “Wanted: Information concerning the past life of William Hogarty, age fifty-four years, walks with slight limp because four toes of right features, partially bald, black eyes, black hair. In 1906, Height, five feet ten. Weight, a hundred and eighty. Heavy features, partially bald, black eyes, black hair. In 1906, Hogarty went to Tanana district to Klondike. Returned Seattle sometime in 1907. Has gone under name of L. C. Conway. Any accurate information as to past life, heirs and former associates of this man will receive liberal reward. Particularly anxious to find doctor who performed operation on frostbitten foot and learn what, if any, statements were made by Hogarty at that time. Communicate Perry M. care this paper.”

  Mason shoved the ad across the counter. “Here,” he said, “is a fifty-dollar bill. Keep this ad running until the money’s used up or until I tell you to stop. Run it in display type, or double-space it, or whatever is necessary to attract attention.”

  “Yes, sir,” the girl said, looking at his wet clothes. “It must be raining outside.”

  Mason shivered, passed one of his cards across the counter. “Any replies you receive,” he said, “are to be sent at once by airmail to this address. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good night,” Mason said, and strode out into the cold rain. “If I can’t buy an overcoat,” he told the cab driver, “perhaps I can find an airplane that will carry me far enough south to get into a different climate.”

  The cab driver looked at him in amazement.

  “In other words,” Mason said, “the airport, and make it snappy.”

  At the airport, Mason found that the next regular passenger plane left Seattle at ten-thirty-five the next morning. The taxicab took him to one of the city’s better hotels where he again registered and explained to the clerk that he had no baggage.

  In his room, Mason enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath and a night’s sleep. In the morning, he called Della Street on the long distance telephone. “Get my message?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Mason said, “Listen, Della. Here are the developments. I located Alden Leeds up here. I’ve found out quite a bit of family history. John Milicant was Leeds’ former partner. He went by the name of Bill Hogarty. He and Leeds went into the Klondike in 1906. They struck it rich. Hogarty and Leeds had a falling out over a dance hall girl. The dance hall girl was Emily Milicant. Hogarty married Emily Milicant in Seattle in 1907.”

  “Then he wasn’t Emily Milicant’s brother?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Mason said

  “But why did she say he was?”

  “It’s a long story,” Mason said. “I think we can identify the body absolutely as that of Hogarty because of his frostbitten foot. But we want to keep the district attorney from finding out what we’re doing.”

  Della Street said, “Is there anything you want me to do at this end, Chief?”

  Mason said, “Yes. Explain to Phyllis Leeds that everything is okay, and that I’ll be back in the office Monday morning. Tell her I’ve seen her uncle; that he’s all right and wants to be remembered to her.”

  “Where,” Della Street asked, “is her uncle now?”

  Mason said, “The last I saw of him he was at his hotel.”

  “Are you in the same hotel?”

  “No. I registered again in a second hotel because I didn’t want Leeds to be interrupting me with a lot of questions. I was tired and wanted to sleep. See you tomorrow, Della. ‘By.”

  Mason hung up, went down to the lobby, paid his bill, and caught the plane south. It was still raining.

  In San Francisco, Mason bought a newspaper. He found what he wanted on the second page. While he was flying to Los Angeles, he read the newspaper account with twinkling eyes:KLONDIKE MILLIONAIRE WANTED FOR MURDERING SAME MAN IN TWO STATES. KNOTTY EXTRADITION PROBLEM PRESENTED TO WASHINGTON GOVERNOR.

  Seattle, Washington. Did Alden Leeds murder Bill Hogarty in the Klondike in 1906? Did Bill Hogarty murder Alden Leeds in the Klondike in 1906? Or did Alden Leeds murder William Hogarty in California last Friday night?

  These are questions which are perplexing the authorities and causing a particular headache to the Governor of the State of Washington, who is advised that he will shortly receive, in due form, demands that Alden Leeds, who is at present held a prisoner in Seattle, be returned to Alaskan authorities to answer to the charge of murdering Bill Hogarty, his mining partner, back in the later days of the Klondike gold rush. On the other hand, California authorities, who have appeared on the ground in Seattle, are equally positive that Alden Leeds murdered Bill Hogarty no later than last Friday night.

  A discrepancy of thirty-three years in the date of a man’s demise is startling, to say the least, to say nothing of the fact that it is virtually an impossibility for a man to be murdered in Alaska and then again in California. There is, in the popular mind, a supposition that murder is a final gesture. The corpse is supposed to remain in, what the lawyers term, status quo.

  Alaskan authorities claim that they have found the body of Bill Hogarty where it was left in a shallow grave by Alden Leeds following a rich strike which the partners made in a mining claim. The Alaskan authorities claim to have evidence showing that Leeds disguised his identity by taking none other than the name of the murdered man, and left the Yukon, masquerading as Bill Hogarty. So completely were the officers fooled by this clever ruse, that for years they were searching for Bill Hogarty, on the theory that he had murdered Alden Leeds.

  California authorities, however, claim that the Alaskan body was not that of Bill Hogarty because Bill Hogarty was killed by Alden Leeds no later than last Friday night, and cite a frostbitten foot on the part of the corpse to prove identity.

  The situation is rendered more puzzling in view of the fact that a well-known criminal attorney, whose dramatic exploits have attracted more than state-wide attention, has instituted a frantic search for information concerning the deceased Bill Hogarty, and, in particular, as to the manner in which he lost his toes.

  To the layman, the whole affair appears puzzling, to say the least. It is as though Alden Leeds, having murdered Bill Hogarty in the Klondike in 1906, was subsequently confronted with the body of a corpse which had refused to accept the murder as final, and who had suffered only the amputation of four toes from his right foot as the result of thirty-three years’ interment in an icy grave in the far north. Whereupon, as though to illustrate the maxim of, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again, the dead man was murdered again—so that now all that is mortal of Bill Hogarty lies in a Southern California mortuary undoubtedly quite dead, frostbitten foot and all.

  It is to be borne in mind that the contention of the authorities that Alden Leeds is the murderer is as yet entirely unsubstantiated in any court of justice. It is quite possible that Alden Leeds could make a statement which would go far toward explaining the matter, but Alden Leeds has become afflicted with a temporary impediment of speech which prevents him from answering any questions.

  Emily Milicant, whom the authorities insist was occupying a room with Alden Leeds in Seattle, has also mysteriously vanished. Inasmuch as she seemed to evaporate into thin air during a time when the hotel was under the closest surveillance, the authorities are, to put the matter mildly, irritated. They insist that there is more than a casual coincidence in the fact that Miss Milicant’s astounding disappearance into the Seattle atmosphere coincide with the arrival on the scene of a noted criminal lawyer.

  Della Street and Paul Drake were waiting for Mason at the airport. “Hello, gang,” Mason said. “How about eats?”

  “Swell,” Della Street said. “There’s a fine restaurant right here in the main administration building.”

  Mason said, “And we won’t discuss any business until after we’ve finished with the food.”

  On the way to the restaurant, Drake said, “Seen the papers about Leeds, Perry?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Where,” Drake asked, “did you get that dope about the frostbitten foot?”

  Mason said firmly, “We eat now and talk later.”

  Drake said, “I always like to eat with a client who’s on an expense account.”

  Mason grinned. “Go as far as you like.”

  “I take it then,” Drake said, “Leeds was appreciative—and generous.”

  “And I’ll discuss that over the coffee and cigarettes,” Mason said.

  When they had finished the meal and were huddled over cups of black coffee, Mason lit a cigarette and said to Paul Drake, “Okay, Paul, let’s have it.”

  Drake said, “Following your tip-off, Della had me check on the tenants above the sixth floor in that apartment house. We drew blanks until we looked up the occupant of 881. She’s Inez Colton—has a secretarial job in a hardware store. She’s been seen two or three times with a young man who drove a red convertible. Jason Carrel has a red convertible. Descriptions on the cars check absolutely. What’s more, Inez Colton took a powder right after the murder. We can’t locate her anywhere. She simply walked out and disappeared. She told a friend she was going on a week-end trip.”

  Mason said, “Jason Carrel, eh? It sounds as though we’ve struck pay dirt, Paul.”

  “Struck it,” Drake said, “but can’t do anything with it. We’ve got men covering Jason Carrel. He may lead us to her, but I think he’s too wise.

  “The officers slapped a subpoena duces tecum on your handwriting expert. That meant either that Della had been shadowed when she went to him, or that the telephone line was tapped. I did a little investigating and found out your telephone line to the office and hers at her apartment were tapped.”

  “How about this waitress at the Home Kitchen Cafe?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to that,” Drake said.

  “She left before the murder was committed. Evidently, it’s just a coincidence.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “Around nine o’clock. Someone saw her leaving her room. She was carrying two heavy suitcases. I tried to cover taxicabs, but can’t find anything as yet. Her room rent was paid up. She had wages coming. Oscar Baker is the waiter at the Blue and White Restaurant who took the dinner up. He’s positive on the time element. He doesn’t know Hazel Stickland, the waitress at the Home Kitchen Cafe—says he doesn’t, and I’m inclined to believe him, but I’m checking back on him. He’s just a punk kid who’s drifted around, flunky in a lumber camp, waiter, dishwasher—plays what money he can get on the horses—a colorless chap who’s never found himself because there isn’t anything to find. I’ve planted an operative who’s become friendly with him, posing as a waiter out of a job. Baker says he’ll try and get him on at the Blue and White as soon as there’s a vacancy.”

  Mason said, “You can’t tell about kids these days, Paul. A lot of the most puzzling crimes and the most vicious crimes are committed by persons under twenty-five.”

  “I know,” Drake said, “and, of course, there’s a possible motivation. John Milicant was quite a ladies’ man. He played the races. Hazel played the races, and Oscar Baker played them. But that doesn’t mean anything. A lot of people play the ponies these days.

  “I find that Oscar Baker has been winning money crap shooting lately and losing it on ponies. From the way he’s been winning with craps, I wouldn’t doubt that he had some of the merchandise of the Conway Appliance Company.”

  “Check on that?” Mason asked.

  “Hell,” Drake said, “he’s too wise. My operative got in a crap game with him, and won three dollars. If Baker had any crooked dice from Conway, he was wise enough to ditch them as soon as he read about the murder.

  “Serle has sold us outright. Naturally, you’d have to expect that. I think that he talked with Conway at ten-thirty, but he’s fixed the time at ten o’clock now. Of course, there wasn’t any bribery or anything like that, but, as one of the main witnesses for the prosecution, the D.A. wouldn’t want him to come into court as a crook. So they’re covering him with a thick coat of whitewash; and, of course, Serle was smart enough to figure that all out. He didn’t have to be awfully smart to do that.

  “Incidentally, while we’re checking up on things, don’t overlook this prospector friend of Leeds—Ned Barkler.”

  “What about him?” Mason asked.

  “He’s a card,” Drake said, “talks occasionally about the old days in the Yukon country, never mentions any of his own adventures, becomes interested in stories of frontier brawls, and shooting scrapes. For the most part, he wears disreputable clothes, but occasionally he spruces himself up and steps out. He looks the girls over with an appraising eye, and makes passes at the pretty ones when he thinks he can get away with it—cashiers in restaurants, girls at cigar counter, manicurists, and janes like that.”

  “Successful?” Mason asked.

  “Hell, Perry,” the detective protested. “Give me a chance. I haven’t even located him yet. He’s a colorful profane old coot who’s as salty as a piece of smoked salmon. But where the devil he came from before he contacted Leeds, is more than I can find out. He appeared a couple of years ago, right in the middle of the picture. And now that he’s left, he’s walked right out of the middle of the picture. Somehow, Perry, I have an idea there’s one man we’ll never find until he wants us to find him.”

  Mason said, “I want Inez Colton, Paul, and I want her badly.”

  “How much time can I have?” Drake asked.

  “None at all,” Mason said. “I’m going to rush that preliminary hearing through just as fast as I can.”

  “Why not stall along until I can turn up something on the Colton woman?”

  Mason shook his head. “Don’t forget the D.A. has served a subpoena duces tecum on my handwriting expert. I want to mix this case up so much and rush it through so fast that he’ll be one jump behind us all the way along the line. When he sees those papers, I don’t want him to have time enough to figure out what they mean.”

  “It’ll take work and luck,” Drake said. “I’ll furnish the work. You’ll have to pray for luck. What’s all this about Milicant being Hogarty, Perry, and how did you find out about that frostbitten foot?”

  Mason smiled at Della Street. “A little bird told me,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  Judge Knox, who had acquired a great respect for Perry Mason’s courtroom technique, by presiding over the preliminary hearing in what the press had subsequently referred to as “The Case of the Stuttering Bishop,” gazed down on the crowded courtroom, and said, “Gentlemen, in the Case of the People of the State of California versus Alden Leeds, accused of the murder of John Milicant, sometimes known as Bill Hogarty, also referred to as L. C. Conway, the defendant has previously been advised of his constitutional rights. This is the time heretofore fixed pursuant to stipulation for the preliminary hearing. Are you ready?”

  Bob Kittering, of the district attorney’s office, a thin, nervous individual with restless eyes, answered, “Ready on behalf of the People, Your Honor.”

  “Ready for the defendant,” Mason said.

  “Proceed,” Judge Knox instructed.

  The deputy coroner was the first witness. He testified at length concerning the finding of the body, introduced photographs showing its position on the floor of the bathroom, showing the fatal knife which protruded from the back, just above the left shoulder blade. He also produced photographs showing the state of the apartment with the evidences of hasty search. Under further questioning by Kittering, he produced an envelope which contained the personal possessions of the decedent which had been taken from the pockets of his clothes.

  Kittering said, “I observe that there is a fountain pen, a handkerchief, a jackknife, six dollars and twelve cents in loose change found in the trousers pocket of the deceased, an envelope with no return address, addressed to L. C. Conway, and containing scribbled memoranda. There is a pigskin key container, a watch, a cigarette case, and a pocket lighter. I call your attention to the fact that there is no wallet, no driving license, no business cards, and no currency, and ask you if you are absolutely certain that these items and these items alone were all that you found in the clothes of the deceased.”

  “That is correct,” the deputy coroner said.

  “No wallet was found in the clothing, and none was subsequently found in the apartment?”

  “So far as I know, that is correct. No wallet was ever discovered.”

  “Take the witness,” Kittering said.

  “No cross-examination,” Mason announced urbanely.

  The autopsy surgeon was called and testified at some length. He commented on the fact that from the state of the body, as he had discovered it, death had been caused by a downward thrust of a long-handled carving-knife which was still imbedded in the wound. This instrument had been inserted on a downward slope, clearing the left shoulder blade and penetrating the heart. Death, in his opinion, had been instantaneous. The time of death he fixed as approximately from eight to fourteen hours prior to the time he had made his examination.

  Kittering produced a bloodstained carving knife. “I call your attention to this knife, Doctor, and ask you if this is the knife which you found imbedded in the body of the decedent?”

  “It is,” the doctor said.

  Kittering asked that the knife be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit A.