“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. “Dear Sir: It is our policy to make deliveries by messenger and never through the mail. Your valued order received, but you neglected to state whether you had any preference in color or size. Unless we hear from you to the contrary, we will deliver two pair of our regular ivory cubes. There will, of course, be the usual premium.”

  “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.”

  Chapter 3

  When Mason and Della Street returned from lunch, Paul Drake had already returned and was waiting for them.

  “What’s new, Paul?” Mason asked.

  Drake said, “We’ve located Marcia Whittaker.”

  “Good work, Paul. How did you do it?”

  “Oh, just a lot of leg work,” Drake said wearily. “We covered the Bureau of Light, Water and Gas. She had an application in for electric lights and gas. It’s an unfurnished flat. She’s evidently buying furniture and settling down.”

  Mason lit a cigarette and stared at the match for a long moment before shaking it out. “Marcia Whittaker’s this girl’s real name?” he asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  Mason said, “As I get her character from your report, she’s a drifter. Now she gets a flat and starts buying furniture. What’s brought about this sudden stability?”

  Drake hugged his knees. “Her split out of twenty thousand bucks.”

  Mason slowly shook his head. “That would send her on a splurge, not make her settle down. . . . Della, take a look at the papers—vital statistics. Just a chance, but maybe. . .”

  The two men smoked in silence.

  A few minutes later there was a triumphant grunt from Della. “This what you want? ‘L. C. Conway, 57, to Marcia Whittaker, 23.’ Notice of intention to wed.”

  Drake slumped down dejectedly. “Oh—oh,” he said. “Here I thought I’d done something smart, when all I’d have had to do was sit in my office and open the newspaper. . . . Just another case of the professional being trimmed by the gifted amateur.”

  Mason grinned. “Anything more about Conway, Paul?”

  “Nothing that helps. That twenty grand evidently made quite a difference to Conway. He sold his business to Guy T. Serle and gave Serle the right to keep on using the name of Conway Appliance Company.”

  “Does Serle know where Conway is?”

  “I don’t know. Look, Perry, what do you think of these?” He drew a pair of dice out of his pocket and threw them across the desk.

  Mason looked at the dice, picked them up and rolled them three or four times, then laughed. “I’m ashamed of you, Paul,” he said.

  Drake said seriously, “That’s the merchandise delivered to me by the Conway Appliance Company. Two pair of loaded dice, and a very special premium.”

  Mason shook his head, slid open a desk drawer and threw the dice in it.

  “What do you think the premium was, Perry?” Drake asked him.

  “Marked cards.”

  “No, a nice lottery ticket.”

  Mason whistled. “You tailed the delivery?”

  “Sure. He chased around to twenty or thirty addresses, then beat it back to the East Ranchester address. I picked up Serle—a guy about forty, nervous, quick-moving chap, six feet tall, pretty slender, bony features, pinkish blonde, gray-eyed, wears double-breasted suits. I put a tail on him to see if he has any contact with Conway. . . . However, we have a cinch now. We can locate Conway by putting a shadow on the girl.”

  Mason pinched out his cigarette with swift decision. “I’d rather talk with the girl than with Conway,” he said. “Della, when Phyllis Leeds calls, tell her Judge Treadwell has issued a writ of habeas corpus.”

  “Why did you pick Treadwell?” Drake asked.

  Mason grinned. “He has an arcus senilis.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One of the things psychiatrists like to pounce on in senile dementia cases. You’ll hear plenty about it in a day or two. Come on. Let’s go.”

  Driving out in Paul Drake’s car, Mason said, “The way I figure it, Paul, I’m retained by Phyllis Leeds. I’m not working for Emily Milicant.”

  Drake flashed him a sidelong glance. “Go on,” he said.

  Mason lit a cigarette. “A word to the wise,” he said.

  “I’m supposed to read your mind?” Drake asked.

  Mason nodded.

  They drove in silence for several blocks, then Drake turned a corner and said, “This is the place—any particular angle of approach?”

  “No,” Mason said, “we’ll have to pick up the cards and decide how to play our hand when we see what are trumps.”

  They rang the bell twice, then heard steps on the stairs. The door opened. A blonde, attired in gold and brown lounging pajamas, stared at them with evident disappointment, and said, “Oh, I thought you were the man with the drapes.”

  Mason said, “Miss Whittaker?”

  She said, “Yes. Now don’t you boys tell me you’re working your way through college.”

  “We want to talk with you,” Mason said.

  “What about?”

  “About a private matter.”

  As she continued to stand blocking the doorway, Mason added significantly, “Something which I think you’d prefer to discuss where the neighbors couldn’t hear.”

  She glanced at the doors opening on the porch. “Come in,” she said.

  Drake closed the door behind them. Marcia Whittaker silently led the way up the stairs.

  The living-room had shades but no drapes. New rugs were on the hardwood floors. The furniture seemed stiff and unreal as though it had not as yet become accustomed to its new surroundings and settled down to homey comfort.

  “Sit down,” she invited tonelessly.

  Mason studied her face, the yellow hair with a darker fringe at the roots, her hard, blue eyes containing a hint of fear, her skin seeming smooth enough when her face was in repose but showing hard little lines which sprang into existence between her nose and the corners of her mouth as she placed a cigarette in her lips, adeptly scratched a match along the sole of one of her Chinese shoes, and said, “All right, let’s have it.”

  Mason said, “It’s about that check you cashed.”

  “My God,” she said, “can’t anyone cash a check without being hounded to death? You’d think I was the only person in the city who ever had a check to cash. I was a fool for giving my address. I found out afterwards I didn’t have to.”

  “What was the consideration for that check?”

  “None of your business.”

  “The point,” Mason said, “is that this check was given by a man seventy-two years old who is now confined in a sanitarium.”

  “That’s too bad,” she observed without sympathy.

  “His relatives will appoint a guardian if they can,” Mason said, “and when the guardian is appointed he’ll demand all the papers. When he gets the papers, he’ll find that canceled check. Naturally, a guardian wouldn’t like anything better than to start making trouble about that check. It would give him a lawsuit, attorney’s fees, extraordinary compensation.”

  “What trouble could he make,” she asked, and then added significantly, “for me?”

  “Lots,” Mason said.

  “Leeds didn’t give that check to me,” she said hotly. “I only cashed it.”

  “You have the cash,” Mason said.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You’re marrying it, then.”

  She glared at him, said nothing.

  Mason, studying the expression in her eyes, said, “Why won’t Conway marry you?”

  She flushed hotly. “Say, who cut you in on this deal?”

  “I did,” Mason said.

  “All right. Since you want to mess around in my private affairs, why doesn’t he marry me?”

  Mason studied the end of his cigarette. “Do you think he ever intended to?”

  “Of course, he intended to. He’d promised it all along, and then his family. . .”

  She broke off abruptly.

  Mason said, “Well, if you ask me, I don’t think his family have any right to put on airs. You’re just as good as they are.”

  “Say,” she said abruptly, her eyes narrowing, “how do you know all this?”

  Mason said, “Oh, I get around.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The name’s Mason.”

  “Who’s the guy with you?”

  “His name’s Drake.”

  “Well, what’s your racket?”

  “Believe it or not,” Mason said, “we don’t have any. I thought I’d let you know about that check. Of course, Phyllis knows all about it.”

  “Oh, she does, does she?”

  “And Emily,” Mason observed.

  For a split second, all trace of color left the girl’s face. Her eyes darkened with apprehension. “Emily knows about it!”

  “Yes, Emily Hodgkins,” Mason went on.

  Marcia Whittaker conveyed the cigarette to her lips, sucked in a deep drag, exhaled, tapped ashes from the end of the cigarette into the ash tray, and said, “Emily Hodgkins?”

  “Yes, an assistant employed by Phyllis Leeds.”

  “Oh!”

  “You don’t know her?”

  “I don’t know any of them.”

  Mason said, “Your boy friend might be about twenty thousand bucks ahead if a guardian wasn’t appointed.”

  She looked down at her Chinese slippers for several seconds, then raised her eyes to Mason, and said frankly, “Okay, I get you.”

  “It’ll be too bad if your boy friend has a leaky face,” Mason said.

  “I get you. I get you,” she said impatiently, “You don’t need to embroider the edges.”

  Mason, getting to his feet, said, “Nice place you have here. Going to make a cozy little home.”

  Sudden tears sprang to her eyes. “For Christ’s sake, don’t rub it in! I’ve tuned in on your program. You haven’t given your commercial yet, and I suppose you’re not going to. Now that you’re finished, why not get the hell off the air?”

  “Thanks,” Mason said. “I will.”

  She followed them as far as the head of the stairs. Her mouth corners were twitching. Tears were trickling down her cheeks, but she stood slim, straight, and defiant, watching the two men through the outer door.

  As they walked across the street to the car, Mason said, “Judging from the way that banker talked, and your comments about her record in the apartment house, I thought we’d find a red light burning over the door.”

  “Remember,” Drake said, “I was only taking the evidence of the people who had the apartment next door and the landlady who ran the joint.”