Tragg’s eyes narrowed. “You might have something there,” he said. “Provided, of course, we could get that top back into the can without it appearing the tin had been opened.”

  Rebecca countered that objection with the rapid-fire retort of an enthusiast upholding a pet idea. “We could copy the message on to the top of another can and seal that one up and put it up there on the shelf. After all, the person who’s going to get that message couldn’t tell one tin from the other.”

  Tragg regarded Rebecca with a certain respect appearing in his eyes. “That might be an excellent thing to do,” he admitted.

  Rebecca, conscious of the impression she had made, modestly lowered her eyes. Her skirt swung slightly as she moved her bony hips from side to side. “Somehow, you really inspire a person to get ideas, Lieutenant.”

  Tragg hesitated for only a moment, then he was running up the cellar stairs two at a time, calling Mrs. Gentrie away from the telephone.

  “Now look,” he said when he had the three women gathered around him in the basement, “I’m going to take this tin for evidence. But I’m going to copy this message in another new tin, seal it, and place it on the shelf. I don’t want anyone to know anything about what I’ve done. That means anyone. None of you women are to communicate to a soul what has happened. Do you understand, Hester?”

  She looked at Mrs. Gentrie. “If Mrs. Gentrie says so . . .”

  “I do, Hester,” Mrs. Gentrie said. “You mustn’t tell a soul.”

  “And you?” Tragg asked Rebecca.

  The spinster clamped her lips together tightly and nodded with vehemence.

  Tragg shifted his glance to Mrs. Gentrie. She said, “I can’t understand the fact that my cellar is being used for. . .”

  “But you do appreciate the necessity of keeping this matter absolutely to ourselves?” Tragg asked.

  Slowly, Mrs. Gentrie nodded.

  “That means that you mustn’t tell even your husband about it,” Tragg said.

  “I don’t keep secrets from Arthur. I. . .”

  “But this is a secret you must keep. Everyone must maintain absolute and complete silence about this. Do you understand?”

  “Well, if you say so.”

  “I do say so, and that means particularly that Junior isn’t to know anything about it.”

  Mrs. Gentrie glanced resentfully at Rebecca. “I suppose I have you to thank . . .”

  “Do I have your promise?” Tragg interrupted.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Gentrie said. “I guess so—yes, if you say so. But you’ll see Junior isn’t the one who will walk into your trap.”

  Tragg said, “Now let’s go some place where we can get a can. I’ll etch these letters in the top of the can with the point of my jackknife.”

  Rebecca beamed at Tragg with the smile an unattached woman in the forties bestows upon an attractive male. “I’ll get the can for you and show you how to seal it.”

  “Thanks,” Tragg said. “First, however, I want to use the telephone. Is it where I can have absolute privacy?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Gentrie said apologetically, “it isn’t in a phone booth, if that’s what you mean. It’s in the living room, but. . .”

  “I guess that will do,” Tragg said.

  “We won’t listen,” Rebecca assured him.

  “And to make certain we don’t,” Mrs. Gentrie said with the ghost of a smile twitching the corners of her lips, “we’ll all go out in the kitchen.”

  Rebecca said indignantly, “Well, I don’t see any reason for us being herded around like . . .”

  “We’ll all go out in the kitchen,” Mrs. Gentrie interrupted firmly.

  Rebecca, her lips compressed into a thin line of indignation, marched up the cellar stairs and followed Mrs. Gentrie into the kitchen while Hester tagged along behind her. Tragg turned toward the living room. Carefully closing the doors behind him, he surreptitiously twisted the key. To his discomfiture, the lock clicked noisily. But there was nothing to do about it now. Tragg picked up the telephone, took out his notebook, called for Detective Texman, and when he had him on the line, said in a low voice, “This is Tragg, Tex. Get that dictionary and look up these words. Got a pencil? . . . Okay. The seventh word in the first column on page 569. The sixth word in the first column on page 615. The second word in the second column on page 455. Seventh word in the first column, page 377. Twelfth word in the first column, page 748. Seventeenth word in the second column, 472. Eleventh word in the second column, page 1131. Sixth word, second column, page 364. Twenty-second word, second column, page 1094. Fourth word, first column, page 832, and the twenty-sixth word in the second column on page 600. When you have that list of words, call me back at the residence of Arthur Gentrie. I’ll be sticking around here, stalling along until I get your call. It shouldn’t take long. Read me those words in that order. And keep absolutely mum about this message. I don’t want a word of it to get out to the newspapers—not even to anyone else on the force. Keep this as the most closely guarded secret in the office. Got it? All right, good-by.”

  Tragg hung up, and went back to the kitchen where Hester was matter-of-factly engaged in peeling potatoes, where Mrs. Gentrie was rubbing a tin can with a rag and watching her sister-in-law with tolerant good humor.

  Rebecca, sitting in the straight-backed kitchen chair, was tapping the floor with her toe. Her thin, rigid form fairly quivered with indignation. She got to her feet to face the officer.

  “Was it necessary to lock that door?” she snapped.

  Tragg regarded her with candid surprise in his blue eyes. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed. “Did I do that? That’s what the force of habit does for a man who’s detecting murders for a living. Miss Gentrie, I apologize. No hard feelings, I hope.”

  He extended his hand, and as Rebecca hesitantly placed her thin, bony hand in his, Tragg put his left hand over hers, and stood for a moment smiling down at her.

  The indignation vanished from her face. Her smile became coy and arch. “No one could withhold forgiveness from so attractive a penitent,” she said.

  Mrs. Gentrie said matter-of-factly, “Forget it, Rebecca. The lieutenant’s a busy man. He doesn’t have time to think of all the little things. After all, he isn’t a suitor.”

  Rebecca turned to her sister-in-law, started to say something, then changed her mind. The anger in her face gave way once more to a smile as she turned back to Lieutenant Tragg. “Do be seated, Lieutenant.”

  He bowed, holding her chair gallantly. “After you, Miss Gentrie,” he said.

  Rebecca sighed with satisfaction. She settled down into the straight-backed kitchen chair as though she had been the star in a movie receiving a penitent but ardent swain. “Do you ever do crossword puzzles—on your days off, Lieutenant?” she asked invitingly.

  Chapter 12

  Mason left the elevator and came walking down the long corridor of his office building. His hat was tilted back on his head at a jaunty angle, and his hands were thrust deep in his pockets. He was whistling the catchy chorus of one of the popular tunes and his manner was that of a man who was very well pleased with himself and the world.

  The door of Paul Drake’s office opened, and Della Street, thrusting out her head, came running after him down the corridor.

  Mason turned and looked down at her with smiling eyes. “Hi, Della,” he said. “What’s the rush?”

  “I was waiting for you,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get you.”

  “What’s the excitement?”

  She looked up and down the corridor, slipped her hand through his arm, said, “Come on into Paul Drake’s office.”

  Slowly the smile faded from Mason’s eyes. He walked back the half dozen steps which took him to Drake’s office, and Della Street piloted him past the girl at the switchboard, down the glassed-in partition to Paul Drake’s private office.

  Drake looked up as Mason entered, said to Della Street, “See you got him.”

  She nodded.

  Mason perched a casual hip on the edge of Paul Drake’s desk. “What is the excitement?” he asked.

  Drake said, “They found out something about that telephone, Perry.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one in Hocksley’s flat.”

  “You mean the fingerprints on it?”

  “No. Something else.”

  “What?”

  “The thing had been rigged up into an ingenious burglar alarm. There was a small hole in the base which looked as though it might have been a place for a wire. In reality, it was a little lens. A beam of invisible light ran through it, and when anyone stepped across that beam, it worked the alarm. Lifting the telephone receiver disconnected the whole thing. Then you had only to walk over to a switch by the safe, throw that, turn back, and put the telephone receiver back in place. Because it was a dial phone, the thing didn’t interfere with the operation of the telephone.”

  Mason said, “Oh-oh.”

  Della Street and Paul Drake were watching him anxiously.

  “See where that leaves young Gentrie?” Drake asked after a while.

  Mason nodded.

  “And,” Della Street said, “it all ties in with the message in the tin. Tragg can really go to town on that.”

  Mason lit a cigarette. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “that would account for it. The tin itself was a signal. Whenever the can was placed on the shelf, it meant the time had come to rob the safe. If any unforeseen developments necessitated a minor change in plans, that would be noted in code on the inside of the tin top.”

  “It was noted,” Drake said, “and the person for whom the message was intended got it all right.”

  “And acted on it,” Della Street supplemented with a meaning glance at Mason.

  “And,” Drake added, “they’re Junior’s fingerprints on the telephone. Now just suppose, for the sake of the argument, Perry, that message has something to do with the telephone. You could see where that would leave young Gentrie.

  “Of course,” Drake went on, “they may never decipher that code. But they have some pretty clever cipher men knocking around these days. Whatever that message is, it’s an even money bet Tragg will have it all worked out within a week or two, perhaps a lot sooner than that.”

  Mason lit a cigarette, blew out twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. “Just as a gambling proposition, Paul, what would you say the percentage of chances was?”

  “Percentage on what?”

  “That the message has anything to do with the telephone.”

  “I’d say it was even money,” Drake said.

  “Well,” Mason told him, avoiding Della Street’s eyes, “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Anything else new?”

  “Yes,” Della said. “Rodney Wenston’s waiting in the office. There’s a woman with him who claims to be the daughter of Karr’s partner. Wenston thinks she’s an impostor, and wants you to trap her.”

  “Has she seen Karr?”

  “No. Karr arranged with Wenston to answer the phone and handle all calls that came in on that ad. Wenston says that unless she can really produce some evidence, he’s not even going to let her talk with Karr. He said he was against Karr’s putting that ad in the paper. He says it’s certain to attract swindlers. He thought that if Karr wanted to do anything, he should quietly engage a firm of private detectives to find out what had happened to the daughter. Karr got impatient and said he couldn’t wait.”

  “Where is this woman now?” Mason asked.

  “Waiting in the office with Wenston. He hasn’t let her tell her story. He wants you to be with him the first time she tells it.”

  Drake said, “There’s one other thing, Perry.”

  “What?”

  “Wenston acts the part of the wealthy playboy. He has quite a place down between Culver City and Santa Monica. There’s a hangar and a swell little private landing field. He flies back and forth to San Francisco quite a lot. Guess who he has for a passenger on nearly all of the trips?”

  “Karr?” Mason asked.

  Drake nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. When Karr’s taking the plane, a big limousine comes to Wenston’s place. The driver opens a locked gate in the fence around the estate, follows the driveway around back of the house to the hangar, then past the hangar out to the far end of the flying field. Wenston has his plane all warmed up. He taxies out there, and turns around; then a door opens, a couple of men get out—that Chinese servant and Johns Blaine, who apparently is a bodyguard. Then Karr gets out and . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “You say gets out?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You mean he walks?”

  “Uh huh. Not very well, but he walks.”

  Mason said excitedly, “How did you get that, Paul?”

  Drake said, “Talking with a queer old hobo who lives in a scrap house down on the edge of the railroad right of way near where Wenston has his landing field. You know the sort. They squat down on waste land that no one cares anything about and build houses out of flattened-out coal-oil tins, old pieces of corrugated iron, and a few boards here and there.”

  Mason nodded.

  “This chap’s seen Wenston take off and come back from trips. Occasionally a passenger gets aboard or gets out down at the far end of the landing field. A heavy-set man who’s probably Johns Blaine is always on hand. Also there’s a Chinese. The passenger usually walks the few steps from the plane to the automobile, and gets in. He walks rather slowly, but he walks. From the description, it has to be Karr.”

  “Is that hobo on the level?” Mason asked.

  “I can’t guarantee him,” Drake said. “I think he’s okay, but he’s a queer cuss. I spotted his shack and thought it might be worth while trying to pump him for information. You told me to get a line on Wenston. I don’t think any amount of money would have bribed the old codger, but I got some old clothes and a roll of blankets and came walking along the railroad. I stopped to pass the time of day with him, and had a bottle of cheap liquor in my blanket roll. We got pretty well plastered. I’ve still got a headache from it. But he loosened up and told me a lot of stuff.”

  Mason grinned. “Perhaps I’d better go out and talk with him.”

  Drake said, “You! Hell’s bells, Perry, if you’d had to go through what I did, you’d have died. That booze was awful. My head feels like a toy balloon just before it busts.”

  Mason slid off of Drake’s desk, said, “Why don’t you get better booze when you want to get plastered, Paul? It’s on the expense account. First time I ever knew you to economize on it.”

  Drake said grimly, “Yeah. A nice time I’d have hitting the rails as a hobo, and then pulling a bottle of bonded hooch out of my blanket roll. Here I sit up most of the night finding bodies for you, grab a couple of hours’ sleep, go out and get drunk on cheap rotgut, and this is all the thanks I get.”

  Mason started for the door. “It’s lack of imagination, Paul. You should have told him you were a hijacker, or poured some bonded stuff in a bottle with a cheap label.”

  Drake snorted. “Let’s see you try that stunt on this coot. Go right ahead, my lad. Hop to it.”

  Out in the hallway, Mason asked, “These people waiting, Della?”

  “Yes. I told them you were in conference in another lawyer’s office, and I couldn’t reach you on the telephone, as you’d left word you weren’t to be disturbed, but I thought I could go over, explain the situation, and get you to come back with me. How about it? Did you plant that tin?”

  “Nothing to it,” Mason said. “I walked in with a bulging brief case and wearing gloves, said I wanted to look the premises over again, and particularly wanted to see the smudges of paint on the garage door. They sent Hester, the stolid servant who certainly seems none too intelligent, down to show me around. I waited until her back was turned and slipped the tin up on the shelf.”

  “You don’t think she spotted it?”

  “She didn’t even so much as look back when I started upstairs. She’s either just an ox, or she’s trying to keep out of the mess by seeming to be one. So now we’ve baited the trap, and we’ll wait to see what walks in.”

  “I don’t like the bait,” Della said. “Be careful someone doesn’t steal it.”

  “I’ll do that little thing,” Mason promised.

  He unlocked the door of his private office, and pushed it open. Della Street said, “I’ll go and bring them in. Mr. Wenston wants to talk with you before you see this girl.”

  “All right, get him in. Let’s see what’s on his mind.”

  Wenston, looking very trim and military, entered Mason’s private office. He had a courteous bow for Della Street, a handclasp for Mason. “This ith a complication,” he said. “This girl ith an imposter. I have refused even to listen to her. I want you to hear her story the first time she tells it. I don’t want to take her to the guv’nor until after you’ve talked with her. After that, I won’t have to. You can trap her, and expose her as an impothtor.”

  “What makes you think she’s an impostor if you haven’t talked with her?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know,” Wenston said, “unless it’s some sort of a telepathic intuition. She doesn’t theem genuine. There’s something phoney about her whole approach.”

  “And you want me to talk with her?” Mason asked.

  “I want you to cross-examine her—give her the works.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to do that in front of Mr. Karr?”

  “No. I know most of the facts. I want to see if she’s telling the truth. If she isn’t, I’m not going to let her even get near Karr.”

  “And you want me to cross-examine?” Mason asked.

  Wenston nodded.

  Mason said, “Well, let’s have her in here and see what she looks like.”

  Doris Wickford followed Della Street into the office. She was between twenty-seven and thirty, Mason judged, with very dark hair, dark, thin eyebrows, long lashes, slate-colored eyes, and a pale skin which, coupled with a poker-faced immobility of countenance, gave her a peculiarly detached manner. She said, “Good afternoon. You’re Mr. Mason, aren’t you?” and came over to give him her hand. The slate-gray eyes gave him a long, steady scrutiny. She said, “I presume Mr. Wenston has told you I’m an imposter.”