Della came running into the office within little more than a minute. “Got it, Chief,” she said.

  “Her address?”

  “I think we can get it.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Hawaiians are at the Golden Horn. That’s a nightclub. I rang up the club and asked if they knew an Esther Dilmeyer.The hat-check girl said she did. She said that Esther Dilmeyer had been there this evening, but had left early, saying she had a headache. I asked her if she knew a Miss Faulkner, and she said she didn’t. I asked how we could find Miss Dilmeyer’s address, and she said she didn’t know, that she thought Mr. Lynk, one of the proprietors, knew where she lived, but Mr. Lynk is out tonight, and couldn’t be reached.”

  “You told her it was important?”

  “Yes, I told her it was a matter of life and death.”

  Mason said. “Okay, Della. Get me police headquarters. See if you can get… Let’s see …”

  “Lieutenant Tragg?” she asked.

  “Yes, they’ve just put him on Homicide, and he’s a live wire.”

  “Weren’t you responsible for Holcomb’s transfer?” she asked as she put in the call.

  A smile twisted the corners of his mouth. “Holcomb was responsible for that himself,” he said. “A damned, opinionated, obstinate …”

  “Here’s Lieutenant Tragg on the line.”

  Mason said, “Hello, Lieutenant. This is Perry Mason.”

  “Well, well, this is a surprise! Don’t tell me you’ve discovered another corpse.”

  “I may have at that.”

  Lieutenant Tragg’s voice became crisply businesslike. “What is it?”

  Mason said, “I had an appointment for one o’clock with an Esther Dilmeyer. She’s a witness in a case. I don’t know exactly what it is. I’ve never met her. She rang up about ten minutes ago, and could barely talk over the telephone. She said she’d been poisoned. Someone had sent her poisoned candy. She certainly sounded about ready to pass out. Evidently the telephone either slipped from her hands and fell, or she keeled over while she was talking to me. Then the receiver was hung up before I could trace the call.”

  “You don’t know where she is?”

  Mason said, “I’m coming to that. Della Street, my secretary, did some fast thinking and some good detective work. I won’t take time to tell you about it, but the result is that she got a lead into the Golden Horn. That’s a nightclub. Esther Dilmeyer is known there, and was there this evening, but apparently the under-lings don’t know her address. Lynk, who runs the place, does, but he’s out. That’s the story in a nutshell. What do you say?”

  “Sounds like quite a bit of smoke,” Lieutenant Tragg said. “There may be some fire. But we haven’t a heck of a lot to go on.”

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t tell you,” Mason said. “If someone finds her body tomorrow morning, and …”

  “Wait a minute,” Tragg interrupted. “Hold your horses. Where are you now?”

  “At the office.”

  “Want to take a run around to the Golden Horn?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be by for you in about five minutes,” Tragg said. “If you can be waiting down on the sidewalk, it’ll save that much time.”

  “Think we can do anything by telephone?”

  “I doubt it,” Tragg said. “It won’t take over a few minutes to get there. Be all ready to jump in when you hear the siren, because I’ll cut her loose.”

  Mason said, “I’ll be down there,” hung up the telephone, ran to the coat closet, and grabbed his hat and coat. “Okay, Della,” he said, “you hold down the office. I may call in a little later.”

  It took a minute or two for the elevator to get up to Mason’s floor. The night watchman dropped him to the street level, and Mason had less than a minute to wait at the curb before he heard the scream of a siren, saw the blood-red glare of a spotlight, and then Lieutenant Tragg was skidding a police sedan in close to the curb.

  Mason jerked the door open and jumped in. Tragg accelerated the car into such swift speed that Mason’s head was jerked back as the machine lurched forward.

  Lieutenant Tragg said nothing, but concentrated on driving traffic. He was about Mason’s age. His features stood out in sharply etched lines. His forehead was high, his eyes keen and thoughtful, an entirely different type from Sergeant Holcomb. Mason, studying the profile as the car screamed through the streets, realized that this man could be a very dangerous antagonist indeed.

  “Hang on,” Tragg warned as the car screamed in a turn.

  He was, Mason saw, enjoying the excitement of tearing through traffic with siren screaming and motor roaring, but, with it all, the man was as cool and detached as a surgeon performing a delicate operation. His face showed complete concentration and an entire lack of nervousness.

  Tragg slid to a stop in front of the Golden Horn. The two men debouched from the car and ran across the sidewalk. A big doorman, resplendent with uniform, barred their way. “What’s it all about?” he asked, his drawl a contemptuous challenge to their haste.

  Tragg promptly shouldered him to one side. The doorman hesitated a moment as though debating whether to try to detain the officer, then dashed for a speaking tube built into the wall. He whistled three times sharply.

  Tragg led the way into the nightclub.

  “The hat-check girl knows something,” Mason said.

  Tragg moved over to the counter, showed her his star. “Esther Dilmeyer,” he said. “Where can we find her?”

  “Gosh, Mister, I don’t know. Someone was asking over the telephone awhile back.”

  “You know her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she work here?”

  “Well, in a way. She hangs out here.”

  “Gets a commission on business she develops?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Who would?”

  “Mr. Magard or Mr. Lynk.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Mr. Lynk is out tonight, and I don’t know where Magard is. I tried to locate him after the young woman telephoned, but I couldn’t find him.”

  “This place supposed to run without anyone in charge?”

  “Ordinarily, one or the other of them is here. Tonight it just happens they’re both out.”

  “Who else would know? The cashier? Some of the waiters?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve made inquiries. I tell you who I think would.”

  “Who?”

  “Sindler Coll.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Her boy friend.”

  “Living with her?”

  The hat-check girl shifted her eyes.

  “Come on, sister. Don’t be coy. You heard what I said.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Where do we find Coll?”

  “I think the cashier has his address. He cashes a check here once in a while.”

  Lieutenant Tragg said, “Thanks. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, sister, as well as a pretty one. Come on, Mason.”

  They skirted the dance floor, and pushed past the crowded couples moving slowly to the rhythm of the music. Tragg asked directions from a waiter, and walked on to find the cashier in a cage between the dining room and the nightclub.

  Tragg showed her his star. “You know a Sindler Coll?”

  She stared at him, hesitating, apparently debating on a course of action.

  “Come on,” Tragg said. “Look alive. Do you know him?”

  “Y-y-y-yes.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “I don’t know. What’s he done?”

  “Nothing, so far as I know.”

  “What do you want him for?”

  “Listen, sister, I haven’t got time to give you a bunch of history. I want Coll, and I want him fast. What’s his address?”

  “He’s at the Everglade Apartments.”

  “What apartment?”

  “Just a minute.”

  She opened a drawer and took out an address book. Her fingers trembled nervously as she turned the pages.

  “Don’t happen to have the address of Esther Dilmeyer in there, do you?”

  “No. The hat-check girl was asking a few minutes ago. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Tragg said, “just give us Coll’s address, and make it snappy.”

  “It’s on the second floor, Everglade Apartments, 209.”

  “Got a telephone?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t his number here.”

  “You know him when you see him, do you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “He hasn’t been in here tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Would you have seen him if he had been?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you usually see the customers that come in here?”

  “Well … Not all of them, but …”

  “I see. Coll’s someone in particular, eh?”

  “Well, he drops in once in a while,” she said, her cheeks showing color beneath the patches of rouge.

  Tragg said to Mason, “Well, we’ll try Coll at the Everglade Apartments.… Listen, sister, who’s running this place?”

  “Two men, partners, Clint Magard and Harvey J. Lynk.”

  “Know where either of them are?”

  “No. Lynk has a little cabin somewhere. He goes there for relaxation.”

  “Relaxation, eh?” Lieutenant Tragg said, glancing at Mason. “Where is it?”

  “I wouldn’t know. It’s up in Lilac Canyon somewhere.… And Mr. Magard isn’t in right at present.”

  “You don’t know where Magard is?”

  “No. He should be in any minute.”

  “When he comes in, have him call police headquarters and ask for Sergeant Mahoney. Have him tell the sergeant all he knows about Esther Dilmeyer—don’t forget. I’ll call back in a little while. What number do I call?”

  “It’s Exchange 3-40 …”

  “Write it down,” Tragg said.

  She scribbled the number on a piece of paper.

  “Okay, I’ll call you back. Have Magard call headquarters.”

  Tragg nodded to Mason.

  As they walked out, Mason said, “I’ve never before fully appreciated the handicap of being merely a private citizen.”

  “Getting sarcastic?” Tragg asked.

  “No, merely making an observation.”

  “You have to handle ’em like that or they’ll start swapping gossip with you and you’ll never get anywhere. People seem to forget we have emergency calls pouring in in a steady stream. We haven’t time to dillydally, or let other people take the lead. You have to keep ’em on the defensive to ever get anywhere.”

  They squeezed past the dance floor, and on the stairs leading to the sidewalk Tragg asked, “Know anything about this joint, Mason?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I have an idea it’s a phony. Some day I’ll knock it over.”

  “Why?”

  “That doorman. In the first place, he’s a professional pug.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The way he handled himself. Notice the way he swings his left shoulder forward when he thinks there’s going to be trouble. He made a dive for a telephone when we started in. Gave a signal which had been agreed on in advance to warn of a police raid. Notice the cauliflower ear—his left.”

  The big doorman regarded them with cold hostility as they came out. Tragg, walking past him toward the car, suddenly whirled and jabbed an extended forefinger into the man’s chest. “You’re big,” he said. “You’re tough. And you’re fat! You’re not as fast as you used to be. What’s more, you’re dumb. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with the joint until you tipped me off to the lay. You might tell your boss that. When I knock the place over, he’ll have you to thank.… If you don’t tell him, I will. Next time you see me, salute. Good night!”

  He strode on past to the car, leaving the big man in his resplendent uniform staring with bewildered eyes and a mouth that sagged slowly open.

  Tragg laughed as he snapped on the ignition. “Just giving him something to think about,” he said, and spun the car in the middle of the block, roaring into speed as he kicked on the switch which sent noise pouring from the siren on the front of the car.

  The Everglade Apartments had originally been designed for a clerk, a switchboard operator, and elevator boys. The pinch of the economic shoe had converted it into automatic elevators, and a lobby used purely for purposes of ornament.

  Lieutenant Tragg pressed his thumb against the button opposite Sindler Coll’s name on the outside of the big glass door through which could be seen a part of the lobby.

  “No luck?” Mason asked after several moments.

  “No dice,” Tragg said, and pushed the button marked MANAGER.

  At the third ring, an indignant woman in nightgown, slippers, and kimono pushed open the door of one of the lower apartments, and came shuffling across the lobby to the door. For a long moment, she stood staring at them through the plate glass, then, opening the door a crack, she asked, “What is it?”

  Tragg said, “We want Sindler Coll.”

  Her face darkened with indignation. “Well, of all the nerve! … There’s his bell. Go on and ring it! …”

  “He doesn’t answer.”

  “Well, I’m not his keeper!”

  She started to slam the door. Tragg pulled back his coat and gave her a glimpse of his badge. “Take it easy, Ma’am. We have to find him. This is important.”

  “Well, I haven’t the faintest idea where he is. I’m running a respectable place here, and …”

  “Sure, you are, Ma’am,” Tragg said soothingly, “and you wouldn’t want to get in bad by refusing to co-operate with the police when they wanted a little something. The way things are now, the place has a nice reputation, and we have you marked as a law-abiding citizen who’s on the side of law and order.”

  Her expression softened. “Well, I am.”

  “Sure, you are. Oh, we keep the places pretty well pegged, and know what goes on. We know whom we can depend on, and whom we can’t. And lots of times banks and mortgage companies that are looking for apartment-house managers give us a ring and ask us what sort of a record the party had in the last job. You’d be surprised how careful the bigger people are to get managers who are friendly with the police.”

  “Well, I can understand that,” she said. The hostility had left her voice. She seemed so eager to impress them that she was all but simpering. “The way things are now, people can’t be too careful. Now, if there’s anything I can do for you—anything.”

  “We’d like to find out something about Coll—not about his habits, but where we could locate him. Do you know anything about him, who his friends are, or anything of that sort?”

  “No, I don’t. I can’t give you a bit of help on that. He’s a quiet chap, but I know he’s very popular. There are quite a few people come to call on him.”

  “Men or women?”

  “Mostly … well, some women. We don’t bother our tenants as long as they’re quiet.”

  “Do you know an Esther Dilmeyer?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Tragg said, “We have to get Coll as soon as he comes in. Would you mind dressing and waiting here in the lobby until you see him come in? Then call police headquarters, ask for Lieutenant Tragg. That’s me. If I’m not in, get Sergeant Mahoney on the line, and he’ll tell you what to do.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” she said. “It’ll only take me a minute.” Gathering her robe about her, she shuffled rapidly across the lobby to vanish through the door of her apartment.

  Tragg turned to Mason and grinned. “Doesn’t it feel pretty strange to you to be co-operating with the police?”

  Mason’s answer was prompt. “No. The strange thing is to feel that the police are co-operating with me.”

  Tragg threw back his head and laughed, then, after a moment, said, “Well, tell me about the case, Mason.”

  “What case?”

  “Didn’t you say Esther Dilmeyer was a witness?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a civil case, and I can’t give you details without my client’s consent. I’ll say this much. A Mildreth Faulkner, who owns the Faulkner Flower Shops, rang up and made an appointment for one o’clock.”

  “Afternoon?” Tragg asked.

  “No, morning. First, she called for an appointment at ten-thirty in the morning. Then she rang up again, very much excited, and said she simply had to see me sometime tonight. I was working on a brief. My secretary told her I wouldn’t be finished before sometime after midnight, and we offered her a one o’clock appointment, thinking that would make her back out. She grabbed at it and told me to be on the watch for an Esther Dilmeyer who was an important witness. I gathered that she wouldn’t have much of a case without Dilmeyer’s testimony.”

  “Then it’s a fair inference that someone knew about it, and poisoned Dilmeyer to keep her from talking.”

  Mason nodded.

  Tragg said, “Let’s start working from the other end, then. Find out from Mildreth Faulkner who the adverse parties are. We’ll start putting screws on them.”

  “We can’t get Miss Faulkner. Della Street, my secretary, has been trying to get her. She’s up in the office still trying.”

  Tragg jerked his head toward a telephone booth. “Give her a ring.”

  Mason entered the telephone booth and called his office. Tragg stood with his arm extended, the hand resting on the edge of the folding door of the telephone booth, his weight propped against the arm.

  “Hello, Della,” Mason said. “Anything new?”

  “Haven’t been able to get a thing,” she said. “I find there are three branches of the Faulkner Flower Shops, each with a separate phone. I’ve been calling them in turn.”

  “No answer?”

  “No answer.”

  “Well, we’ve got a lead on a man by the name of Coll, but we can’t locate him. I left word that Magard, Lynk’s partner, was to call as soon as he came in.”

  “I’ll keep one of the trunk lines free for incoming calls, and use the other one for my own calls.”

  Mason said, “If you get an address, call police headquarters direct.”