“The girl screamed and gained the street. The bullets had missed her. A motorist knocked her down. The mouth of the alley was blocked by stalled traffic, by gawking pedestrians.

  “The man in the car really knew his way around with an automobile. It isn’t an easy job to back an automobile at high speed. There wasn’t any room in the alley to turn around. The man was trapped. He had to get out of there fast. He could have abandoned the car and mingled with the pedestrians, but for some reason he didn’t dare do that. He threw the car into reverse and went backing out of the alley just as fast as the reverse gear could propel the car backwards.”

  “You found that out?” Mason asked.

  “We found that out,” Tragg said. “A couple of witnesses saw the car backing up. They assumed that the driver was going to get out. The driver never got out. The car picked up speed. It went back in a straight line, without any wobbling or weaving. You know what that means, Mason. That means the man was an expert. The ordinary motorist doesn’t get to drive like that. A man who’s accustomed to running a squad car might do it, and a fellow who had been educated in the bootlegging or the dope-running business could do it. That’s part of their stock in trade, taking a car and whipping it around alleys and through traffic faster than other people can drive.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “let’s come to the payoff.”

  “The payoff,” Tragg said, “is that you asked me as a special favor to see that this woman was put in a private hospital. I did it. In a private hospital she had a better chance of walking out. She walked out. She took a powder, vanished.”

  “Am I responsible for that?” Mason asked.

  “I’m damned if I know,” Tragg said. “Wait until you get the punch line.”

  “What’s the punch line?”

  Tragg said, “Naturally, when she took a powder like that we became interested. It was a traffic department case. They went around to Morris Alburg’s place. They asked questions. Alburg didn’t seem to be trying to cover up particularly, but he certainly didn’t know much about this particular woman. He certainly was dumb.”

  Mason nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “However,” Tragg said, “the boys found the waitress’s purse. They looked in it. There was a pawn ticket on a Seattle pawn shop. The boys got in touch with the Seattle pawn shop detail and they went down and picked up the article that was on the ticket. It was a diamond ring, flanked with two small emeralds, a pretty good job. She’d got a hundred and a quarter on it. It was worth a thousand.”

  “And?” Mason asked.

  “And,” Tragg said, “naturally the boys got to asking questions, getting a description, finding out anything they could, and the pawnbroker remembered that there had been two transactions made at the same time. She’d pawned the diamond ring, and she’d pawned a gun.

  “We didn’t have the pawn ticket for the gun so the Seattle police didn’t know about it, but the pawnbroker remembered it. He got the gun and the Seattle police telephoned a description down to us, just in case. They gave us the serial number.”

  “And?” Mason asked.

  “And,” Tragg said, “it was Bob Claremont’s gun—the gun that had been missing ever since the night someone jerked it out of Bob Claremont’s holster, held it against his head, pulled the trigger and snuffed out his life, then fired five more shots into his twitching body, and callously dumped him out of the car like a sack of meal.”

  Tragg stopped talking. He looked at the end of his cigar, seemed surprised to find that it had gone out, took a match from his pocket, scraped it into flame on the sole of his shoe, rotated the cold cigar carefully while he nursed the end into flame, then dropped the match into an ashtray, settled back in the overstuffed leather chair and started smoking, apparently concentrating on his thoughts and the aroma of his cigar.

  Mason and Della Street exchanged glances.

  There was a thick, ominous silence in the office.

  Mason pinched out his cigarette, started drumming slowly on the edge of his desk, using only the tips of fingers, making almost no sound.

  Tragg kept on smoking.

  “When did you find this out?” Mason asked at length.

  “About half an hour before I started up here.”

  “Where were you during that half-hour?” Mason asked.

  “Where the hell do you suppose? I was trying to find Alburg.”

  “And where is Alburg?”

  Tragg shrugged his shoulders, made a little gesture with spread palms and went on smoking.

  “And just why are you telling me this?” Mason asked.

  “For one thing,” Tragg said, “I like you. You’ve cut corners before. You’ve managed to get away with it because they were cases where you were in the right. If you’d been in the wrong you’d have been lashed to the mast. As it was, you wormed out. You’re smart. You’re damned smart. You’re logical, you’re a two-fisted fighter. You stick-up for your clients…. You’ve never been in a case before where an officer was killed in the line of duty. Take my advice and don’t get in one. Things happen in cases of that sort. You could get hurt. You will get hurt.”

  Tragg ceased talking, went on smoking his cigar. Then he turned to Mason and said, “I want that fur coat.”

  Mason gave that problem frowning consideration, while his fingertips once more drummed on the edge of the desk.

  “Do I get it?” Tragg asked.

  Mason, still drumming with his fingers, said, “Let me think it over for a minute.”

  “Take your time,” Tragg said. “This isn’t tiddlywinks you’re playing.”

  There was an interval of silence. Della Street’s apprehensive eyes were on Mason’s granite-hard face.

  Abruptly Mason stopped drumming. “No question about it being the same girl?” he asked.

  “Sure, there’s a question,” Tragg said. “There’s a question about everything. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk with Alburg again…. But the girl who pawned that ring was the same girl who pawned Bob Claremont’s gun.”

  Mason resumed drumming with his fingertips, then said abruptly, “The thing that I simply can’t understand, Tragg, is why the hell she would do anything like that. Whoever killed Claremont knew that gun was hot as a stove lid. That gun would put somebody right in the gas chamber. The lawyer doesn’t live who could get an acquittal in the case of the person who showed up with Claremont’s gun. Not if there is the faintest scintilla of other evidence to hang anything on.”

  “Are you telling me?” Tragg said.

  “How much did she get for the gun?”

  “Eighteen dollars.”

  “In good shape?”

  “Just as perfect as the day Bob Claremont kissed his wife and kids good-by and put it in his holster for the last time.”

  Mason said, “The murderer simply wouldn’t have been that dumb, Tragg.”

  “The murderer was that dumb. I’ll tell you something else, Mason. It’s hard to get fingerprints from a gun. Don’t be kidded by what you read in stories. Ninety-five times out of a hundred you can’t find a fingerprint on a gun. But we found one on this. It had been out in the wet somewhere and someone had touched the rough inside of the frame with a wet finger. Then rust formed on the lines of moisture.”

  “And do you know whose fingerprint it is?” Mason asked.

  “It’s the print of Thomas Sedgwick’s right index finger,” Tragg said.

  Mason abruptly turned to Della Street. “What did you do with the fur coat, Della?”

  “I took it to a safe place.”

  “Where?”

  “A fur storage place.”

  “Where’s the receipt?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Give it to Lieutenant Tragg.”

  Della Street opened her purse, took out a blue pasteboard ticket, handed it to Tragg.

  Tragg got up, flicked ashes from his cigar and said, “Thanks.”

  “Just a minute,” Mason said. “We want a receipt.”

  “Write it out,” Tragg said to Della Street.

  “Let me see the ticket, please.”

  Tragg gave her the ticket. Della Street sent her fingers flying over the typewriter keyboard, whipped the paper out from the roller, and gave it to Tragg to sign.

  Tragg twisted the cigar over to one corner of his mouth so the smoke wouldn’t get in his eyes as he bent over and scrawled his name on the sheet of paper.

  Slowly, as though debating something with himself, he took a cellophane-covered photograph from his pocket. It was mounted on Bristol board and showed a young, ambitious face, a face with good features, keen eyes that held a humorous twinkle, a mouth that was firm without being coarse, cruel or hard, a good chin, straight nose, and a well-shaped forehead surmounted by wavy black hair.

  “Good looking,” he said.

  “I’ll say!” Della Street exclaimed. “Who is he?”

  “He isn’t. He was. Look at the youthful purpose, the square-deal eyes…. Hell, I’m getting too sentimental to be a cop.”

  “Bob Claremont?” Mason asked.

  “Bob Claremont,” Tragg said, and walked out.

  Chapter 6

  At nine-thirty Perry Mason dropped into Drake’s office.

  “Nothing yet, Paul?”

  “Nothing yet,” the detective said.

  “Find out anything about Fayette?”

  “I can’t be sure about the Fayette,” Drake said, “but there was a George Fayette arrested for making book about five years ago. It could have been the same one.”

  “Could have been,” Mason said. “What happened to the case?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing?”

  “Just that. The man was arrested, booked, released on bail and then nothing happened. The case has simply evaporated into thin air.”

  “How much bail?”

  Drake grinned. “A hundred bucks.”

  “Looks like a fix,” Mason said.

  “Could be, all right. You know how those things are.”

  “Can you find out where he lives or anything about him?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “What kind of a bond?”

  “One of the bail bond brokers—a fellow who has property worth about twenty thousand dollars, with a mortgage of twenty-five thousand on it, and he’s written about five hundred thousand dollars in bail bonds giving that piece of property as security.”

  “Can you prove it?” Mason asked.

  “Hell, no,” Drake said, grinning. “You wanted me to look up Fayette. If you want me to expose the bail bond racket you’d better get me five assistants, ten bodyguards, a suit of armor, and hunt yourself a cyclone cellar. I’m just giving you glittering generalities.”

  “All right,” Mason said. “I’ve been hoping Alburg would call me. I wrote him a letter and sent it by special messenger to his place. It was left with the cashier. I told her if Morris phoned in I wanted him to know that letter was there, and for him to arrange to have it delivered to him.”

  “What did you tell him, Perry?”

  “Lots of things. And I told him to call me at any hour of the day or night. I gave him this number and told him to call me here if I wasn’t at my office—to call me the very moment he got this letter no matter what time it was … Let me use your phone.”

  Mason picked up the phone, gave Drake’s operator the number of Morris Alburg’s restaurant, and when the line answered, said, “Mr. Alburg, please.”

  “He isn’t in.”

  “Mason talking. When will he be in?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Mason.”

  “Let me talk with the cashier.”

  “Just a moment.”

  When a woman’s voice came on the line, Mason said, “This is Perry Mason, the lawyer. I left a letter there for Mr. Alburg. That is, I sent it out by messenger, with directions that if Mr. Alburg came in or communicated with his office he was to …”

  “Yes, Mr. Mason. I think he has it.”

  “Has what?”

  “The letter.”

  “Has he been in?”

  “No. He— Well, you see, he isn’t going to be in tonight. He telephoned and—well, several people have been looking for him.”

  “Several people?” Mason asked.

  “Several people,” she said. “They’re waiting around here.”

  “I understand,” Mason said.

  “I told him,” she said, “that quite a few people were looking for him, and I also told him that I had this letter from you, which was supposed to be very important. So he asked me to hop in a taxicab and leave the letter at a cocktail bar. He said he’d pick it up later.”

  “He didn’t say how much later?”

  “No.”

  “If you should hear from him again make certain he has that letter. Tell him it’s the most important move in his schedule right now. Tell him to read that letter and to call me.”

  “I will, Mr. Mason.”

  “One other thing,” Mason said, “when do you go off duty?”

  “One o’clock.”

  “Where do you live? What’s your telephone number?”

  “Mr. Mason!”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mason said. “This is important. What’s your telephone number?”

  “Exford 3-9827.”

  Mason wrote it down. “I may have to call you,” he said. “Be sure to have Morris get in touch with me. Good-by.”

  Mason hung up the telephone, said to Paul Drake, “Morris Alburg is going to call me at this number. Now, as soon as he calls in I want you to have your switchboard operator call the unlisted number at my apartment and put me on the line with Alburg’s call. Can your switchboard handle that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell your switchboard operator that it’s very, very important. I want to be sure that call comes through without any trouble.”

  “When’s it coming in, Perry?”

  “Sometime tonight—I hope. It may be any minute now.”

  “When are you leaving for your apartment?”

  “Right now.”

  “I’m buttoning things up here myself, and going to call it a day. My night switchboard operator is new, but very competent. She comes on at midnight. The girl who’s on the switchboard now is a wizard. I’ll see both of them are posted and on their toes. You’ll get the call switched through to you the minute it comes in.”

  “That’s fine,” Mason said. “I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll ride down with you,” Drake told him.

  Drake paused at the switchboard to relay Mason’s instructions, then accompanied the lawyer to the parking lot.

  “How strong do you want me to go on this Fayette business?” Drake asked.

  “Plenty strong,” Mason told him. “Keep plugging away checking records. If you have someone who knows his way around you might ask him about Fayette.”

  “I should turn up something tomorrow if he’s around town at all, particularly if the Fayette who was picked up on that bookmaking charge is the one I think he is…. Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

  “There won’t be any trouble about that call coming through, will there, Paul?”

  “Hello, no. It’ll be a matter of routine. My switchboard operators will be watching for it.”

  Mason glanced at his wrist watch as he started the car; it was nine-forty-two.

  By ten Mason was ensconced in his apartment, trying to interest himself in a magazine. By ten-forty-five, frowning with annoyance, he started pacing the floor. At eleven-ten he picked up a book. At eleven-thirty he threw the book to one side, undressed and went to bed. It was more than an hour before he could go to sleep. At first he slept fitfully, then weariness overcame him.

  Mason was deep in slumber when the unlisted telephone by the side of his bed jangled into noise. At the third ring the lawyer managed to waken sufficiently to pick up the instrument.

  “Hello,” he said.

  A crisp feminine voice said, “Mr. Mason, I’m sorry to disturb you, but those were your instructions.”

  “Oh, yes, this is Drake’s office?”

  “That’s right. Mr. Alburg is on the other phone. He said he was calling you in accordance with a letter.”

  “Put him on. Can you connect these lines?”

  “Yes, sir. Just a moment. I’ll plug them across the switchboard.”

  There was the click of a connection, then Mason, somewhat irritably, said, “Hello, Alburg. This is going to cost you a lot of money. Why the hell didn’t you call me earlier?”

  Alburg’s voice, sounding strained and hoarse, said, “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “All right, you’re calling me now,” Mason said. “What’s the low-down on this thing? Was the story the way you gave it to me or were you acquainted with …”

  “No names please,” Alburg said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mason said angrily, “aren’t you where you can talk? If you aren’t, get to a phone where you can talk. I want to get this thing straight. I’m …”

  “Look, Mr. Mason, I’m in trouble, lots of trouble,” Alburg said. “I need you bad. Now get this, Mason, money is no object. I’m in something awful deep. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

  “When’s that going to be?” Mason asked.

  “As soon as you can get here.”

  “As soon as I can get there?” Mason exclaimed.

  “That’s right,” Alburg said. “I want you here.”

  Mason said, “If it’s really important, I’ll see you at my apartment. If it isn’t, you can come to my office at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. But if …”

  “Now listen, Mason,” Alburg said, his voice low but filled with apprehension. “This is the worst. This is one hell of a case. I have to see you. We have to make a lot of talk. I don’t go to your apartment. I don’t go to your office. I don’t go nowhere. I don’t leave this room. Instead, you get here quick. You have to come. I write you a letter. I write you before you write me. My letter has a check for one thousand dollars. That’s retainer. There’s more where that comes from. A good fee for you—the best!”

  “Why can’t you leave that room?” Mason asked.