“You can see where it all ties in. Conway was blackmailing Alden Leeds. Leeds was to come up around ten o‘clock—evidently with another twenty grand. With that money in his jeans, Conway was going to bail Serle out.”

  Mason, pacing the floor, said, “Paul, we’ve simply got to fix the time of that telephone call.”

  “I know it,” Drake said. “If it was as late as ten-thirty, it will prove Milicant, or Conway, was alive after Leeds left.”

  Mason said, “Hell, Paul, it must have been either while Leeds was there, or right after he’d left. Conway must have told Serle that the dough was ready. Serle went down and gave himself up on the strength of it.”

  “Well,” Drake said, “it’s just one of those things. No one seems to have bothered about the exact time. Apparently, Serle doesn’t have the time element fixed very clearly in his mind. He thought it was nearly nine o‘clock before he left Conway’s apartment. We know it was before eight-thirty. He was down at the pool room by nine o’clock. He said he was to call Conway around ten-thirty. The men who heard the telephone conversation think it was right around ten-thirty, but the point is, they aren’t sure.”

  Mason said, “How about checking it the other way, Paul? The police records must show when Serle was booked.”

  “They do, but he gave himself up sometime before he was booked. Estimates vary from as little as five minutes to as much as twenty. He was booked at ten-fifty-five.”

  Mason said, “I’ve got to talk with Serle.”

  Drake said, “The cops hold all the trumps. Remember, they have a felony rap on Serle.”

  “What happened to his bail?” Mason asked.

  “There wasn’t any bail. It was fixed at five grand. Serle squawked his head off and tried to get it at a thousand, but they sat tight at five. By the time the argument was over, and Serle called for Conway to come down and put up the bail, it was around eleven-thirty. By that time, of course, there was no answer on the phone. Serle thought Conway had given him a double cross, and he was so damn mad he could hardly talk. He kept calling Conway’s place until the cops threw him in the cooler. They won’t let him out now until he’s signed a written statement, and you can figure that statement ain’t going to help us any.”

  Mason said, “Look here, Paul. Our only chance is to mix this thing all up, so the D.A. doesn’t know just what to go after, and then grab the facts we want out of the scramble.”

  Drake nodded, but without enthusiasm. “It isn’t going to be so easy, Perry,” he said.

  The telephone rang. Mason picked it up, said, “Hello,” and Drake’s secretary said, “Mr. Mason, would you mind passing the word on to Mr. Drake that operative number twelve telephoned in to report that Guy T. Serle is out walking the streets?”

  “Thanks,” Mason said, “I will. Was there anything else?”

  “No, just that,” she said.

  Mason hung up the telephone, and said, “Serle’s out.—That was your office on the line.”

  “Where did the report originate?” Drake asked.

  “Your operative twelve.”

  Drake said, “Well, there you are, Perry. They could have thrown the book at him a dozen different ways. He’s out walking the streets. That means he did just what the D.A. wanted him to.”

  Mason said, “I want to get in touch with this bird. How can we fix it up so it seems casual?”

  “We can’t,” Drake said.

  “Sure we can,” Mason insisted. “What are his personal habits? How well do you know them?”

  “We’ve covered him up one side and down the other,” Drake said.

  Mason looked at his watch, drummed with his fingers, and abruptly inquired, “Does he eat lunch, Paul?”

  “I’ll say he does. He’s a great eater, likes his food, and eats plenty of it.”

  “Where do you suppose he’ll eat lunch today?”

  Drake took a notebook from his pocket, opened it, and thumbed through the pages. “Here we are,” he said. “Complete data on the guy. . . . H’mmmmm. . . . Let me see where he eats. . . . Here it is. Most of the time at the Home Kitchen Cafe down on East Ranchester. It’s only a couple of blocks from where he was running the business.”

  “What does he look like?”

  Drake read a description from the book. “Around forty, an even six feet, hundred and sixty pounds, gray eyes, long, straight nose, thin features, red hair, thin lips, always wears double-breasted suits.”

  “Why should a bird who likes his grub eat at a dump on East Ranchester?” Mason asked.

  “Because it’s a swell place to eat, Perry. My operatives looked it up. It’s run by a French couple. Serle kids one of the waitresses quite a bit, and she seems to like him.”

  “Got her name?” Mason asked.

  Drake turned over the page, ran his forefinger down the notes, and said, “Sure. . . . Here it is. . . . Hazel Stickland.”

  “Does she figure in it?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t think so. I told my men to collect everything they could on the bird, and they went to town.”

  Mason said, “Think I’ll drop in there for lunch.”

  “You might land him that way,” Drake said, “but it wouldn’t fool him any.”

  “I’m not so certain I care about fooling him, Paul. He . . . ”

  The door from the outer office opened, and Della Street came breezing in. “Hi, Paul,” she said, by way of greeting. “How’s the sleep?”

  Drake groaned. “Not worth mentioning, and I’m headed back to put my nose to the grindstone. . . . So long.”

  When he had gone, Mason said to Della Street, “What did the handwriting expert say?”

  “He’ll try and get us a preliminary report just as soon as possible. It’s not a report that he’d swear to, but it’ll be something you can bank on just the same. What was in the envelope, Chief, and why did you rush it over to the expert?”

  Mason said, “An omelet that I can’t unscramble. Photostatic copies of hotel registers back in October of 1907, the Regina Hotel at Dawson, the Golden North Hotel at Skagway, a hotel at White Horse, and one in Seattle.”

  “What do they show?”

  “The signatures of Bill Hogarty.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  “There was a letter written by Leeds to John Milicant, dated thirty days ago, stating that he had never heard of Mr. B. C. Hogar, and that if Mr. Hogar presumed to give him a reference, it was an indication that Hogar would stand investigation. There was an old yellowed newspaper clipping from a Dawson paper telling about the finding of a body in the Tanana district. The body showed evidence of violence. The clipping doesn’t state specifically what was found. It goes on to say that the body had been tentatively identified as that of an Alden Leeds who had been in partnership with a Bill Hogarty and was reputed to have struck it rich, that Hogarty had left the Klondike district in the fall of 1907 after coming upstream from the Tanana district. He had been traced as far as Seattle where he had married a girl who had been employed in the ‘M and N Dance Hall’ at Dawson. At this late date—the article was dated 1912—the police had been unable to find any further trace of either party.”

  Della Street frowned. “What does that add up to, Chief?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “There were a lot of other things, photographs, location notices, things which had evidently been collected with the greatest care.”

  “And who’s B. C. Hogar?” she asked.

  Mason smiled and said, “He might be Bill Hogarty under another name.”

  “Then the first initial would be ‘W,’” she said. “Bill is a nickname for William.”

  Mason nodded. “And, on the other hand,” he went on, “it might be that someone who suspected rather strongly that Alden Leeds was in reality Bill Hogarty, wanted him to sign the name, ‘Bill Hogarty,’ for the purpose of checking handwriting, but naturally he was afraid to let the cat out of the bag, so he wrote a letter asking information about a B. C. Hogar, and Leeds, without suspecting what was in the wind, answered the letter in such a way that he wrote the name not only once but twice.”

  The telephone rang. Mason looked at his wrist watch and said, “I’ll bet Stive has a golf engagement this afternoon and broke his neck to get an opinion in just before twelve.”

  He lifted the receiver, said, “Hello,” and Gertrude Lade, at the switchboard, asked, “Do you want to talk with Mr. Stive, the handwriting expert?”

  “Put him on,” Mason said.

  A moment later, Milton Stive said, “Hello, Mason. I can’t give you a lot of reasons backing up my conclusion as yet, but the letter dated last month was written by the same person who signed the hotel registers ‘Bill Hogarty.’”

  “You’re certain?” Mason asked.

  “A good handwriting expert offers only his opinion,” Stive said, “but in this instance it’s virtually a mathematical certainty. There are, of course, certain allowances to be made for the lapse of time. There has evidently been an interval of thirty-two years in the signatures. A man’s handwriting naturally changes, particularly when the thirty-two years’ lapse carries over the period of greatest physical efficiency. We naturally would expect to find the curves more angular, the style a little more cramped, but, making proper allowances for that, the similarity between the capital ‘B’ in the ‘Bill’ and a comparison of the word ‘Hogar’ and ‘Hogarty’ remove any possible doubt. I have photographed one of the Hogarty signatures, and have photographed the name ‘Hogar,’ on an exactly identical scale. I have then superimposed the two photographs, and there is more than a similarity. There is a virtual identity.”

  Mason shot Della Street a swift wink. “When can you give me a complete written opinion, Stive?” he asked.

  Stive cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “not before Monday evening at the earliest. It would require a great deal of work. In addition to that, it would be necessary to make certain photographs and . . . ”

  Mason interrupted with a laugh. “Oh, go ahead and shoot your golf, you big bluff, and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  Mason hung up the receiver, said to Della Street, “I’m going out and try to locate Serle, Della. I think he’ll eat at the Home Kitchen Cafe. Stick around the office, keep in touch with developments, and eat after I get back.”

  “Okay, Chief. How about the outer office?”

  “Close it up,” Mason said. “Give Phyllis Leeds a ring after a while just to let her know we’re on the job. Don’t tell her anything that she couldn’t read in the newspapers. Ask her if she knew John Milicant had a crippled foot, and see if she knows how it happened.”

  Chapter 9

  Perry Mason, sitting at the corner table in the Home Kitchen Cafe, surveyed the restaurant in shrewd appraisal.

  A sign announced that the restaurant opened at seven o’clock A.M. and closed at seven-thirty P.M. Placards, placed on the wall, listed a series of tempting breakfast combinations. Particular inducements were made to secure regular patronage.

  There was a lunch counter running half the length of the restaurant on one side. At the front end of this was a well-stocked cigar counter and a large cash register presided over by a genial, fat man whose lips were held in a good-natured grin of easy affability. His bald head shone like a freshly peeled onion in the light reflected from the plate-glass window at the front of the restaurant. His eyes were quick, and keen as those of a hawk.

  Opposite the lunch counter were tables capable of seating four, and along the wall were a number of booths. Fast-moving, capable waitresses in clean, starched dresses darted swiftly about. Everywhere was an atmosphere of well-oiled, clock-like efficiency.

  A waitress approached Mason to take his order. The lawyer smiled, handed her two one-dollar bills, and said, “I’m giving you the tip before I eat. I’m waiting for a party. Do you happen to know a man named Serle?”

  She hesitated over taking the tip.

  “A tall, thin chap around forty,” Mason said.

  Again she shook her head.

  “He’s friendly with a waitress named Hazel.”

  “Oh, I know the man you mean.”

  “If he comes in for lunch,” Mason said, “tell him that Perry Mason, the lawyer, wants to see him and point me out to him.”

  “Is that all?” she asked.

  Mason said, “That’s all.”

  She took the two dollars, and said, somewhat dubiously, “Suppose he doesn’t want to see you?”

  “Then,” Mason said with a grin, “I’ll see him.”

  She smiled and left him.

  Not more than ten minutes later, Mason saw a man who answered Serle’s description enter the restaurant, nod to the proprietor, and start for a table. The waitress whom Mason had tipped glided swiftly toward him. Mason, turning his profile, devoted himself to a cigarette. A few seconds later, he turned around—casually.

  Guy T. Serle was approaching his table.

  Mason nodded without eagerness and indicated a chair with a wave of his hand.

  “So you’re Mason,” Serle said, his eyes showing quick interest. “I’ve heard about you. . . . I don’t need a mouthpiece.”

  “I don’t solicit business,” Mason told him.

  Quick comprehension showed in Serle’s eyes. “And I’m not talking about that other matter,” he said.

  “Why not?” Mason asked.

  “I’m a witness for the prosecution.”

  “That doesn’t keep one from telling the facts.”

  “It does me.”

  “Been ordered not to talk?” Mason asked.

  Serle shrugged his shoulders, caught the eye of a waitress, and beckoned to her. As she crossed over to the table, Serle asked, “Where’s Hazel?”

  She said, “Hazel’s not here today.”

  Serle frowned. “Her day off?” he asked.

  The waitress shook her head.

  “Well, where is she?” Serle demanded.

  “I don’t know. I guess she’s gone. It was her morning to open up. She didn’t show, and the boss got sore. I wasn’t supposed to come on until eleven, and he got me up out of my beauty sleep. He telephoned Hazel’s rooming house, and they said she’d left before midnight last night, took a suitcase with her, and beat it.”

  “Beat it?” Serle echoed.

  “Uh huh—and her room rent’s paid up until the first, and today’s payday. She has a week’s wages coming—fat chance she stands of getting them now. What’s your order?”

  “Lunch,” Serle said shortly.

  Placing silverware, a butter dish, and a glass of water before Serle, she glanced at the place which had been set in front of Mason at the table, and asked, “How about you? Ready to give your order now?”

  Mason nodded. She handed him a menu, and Serle said, “If you want some good eats, just order lunch.”

  Mason smiled. “Just bring me the lunch.”

  When the waitress had left, Mason said, conversationally, “What were you and Milicant talking about?”

  “Milicant?” Serle repeated questioningly. “Oh, yes, I keep forgetting his name was Milicant. I knew him as Louie Conway.”

  “What were you talking about?” Mason asked.

  Serle said, “Listen, Mason, I’m not foolish enough to talk my way into the cooler.”

  Mason said, “The D.A. can’t square your rap.”

  “I’ll take a chance,” Serle said. “Anyway, they have nothing on me. I have a legitimate business. I don’t know whether the people who buy stuff I sell are stage magicians or whether they intend to start gambling. I always warn them it’s a crime to introduce fraud into a gambling game. That lets me out. I’ve done my duty.”

  “How about the lottery?” Mason asked.

  “There wasn’t any lottery. I don’t know where you heard that.”

  “The D.A. can’t square a federal rap.”

  “What are you leading up to?”

  “Where a man writes a letter and says, ‘I can’t deliver you the stuff you ordered by mail, but you’ll get it by special messenger,’ it’s the same as using the mails in the business.”

  The waitress appeared with two bowls of pearl barley soup.

  “What did you mean by that last crack?” Serle asked.

  “Nothing,” Mason said, munching a cracker.

  “Listen, Mason,” Serle said. “Get me straight on this. That lottery business is the bunk. I was closed up on a tip-off. It was a grudge tip-off. The D.A. doesn’t go for that stuff. He doesn’t use his office to settle private grudges. What’s more, you can’t convict a man on a tip-off. You’ve got to have evidence.”

  “That’s right,” Mason agreed.

  There was another long silence while Mason finished his soup. Serle watched him uneasily. Mason pushed the plate away and said, “Nice soup.”

  Serle said, “Understand this, Mason, I don’t think Leeds killed him, but the D.A. thinks so, and the D.A. has a case so airtight you couldn’t punch a hole in it with a drill.”

  “What makes it airtight?” Mason asked.

  Serle said, “I’m not talking.”

  “Is that the price you had to pay for squaring the rap with the D.A.?” Mason asked.

  Serle said, “There isn’t any rap.”

  The waitress brought a fruit salad, a plate of delicious meat pie made with tender squares of meat, rich, yellow carrots, new potatoes, walnut-sized onions, and steaming gravy.

  “Certainly is fine grub,” Mason said, appreciatively inhaling the aroma of the food.

  “Look here,” Serle said, “I’m not supposed to do any talking to anyone, newspapermen or anyone.”

  “In return for having that lottery business squared?” Mason asked.

  “Quit harping about that,” Serle said irritably. “There isn’t any evidence on the sale of any lottery tickets.”

  Mason said, “If you don’t mind, Serle, I’m going to sop this bread in the gravy. Certainly has a wonderful flavor. Are all their dishes this good?”

  “They specialize in home cooking. Look here, Mason, you can’t pull this stuff with me.”

  “What stuff?” Mason asked.

  “Trying to shake me down. Hell, don’t think I was born yesterday. All I’ve got to do is to step over to that phone, ring the district attorney, and tell him the defense lawyer is trying to tamper with one of his witnesses, and they’ll have you on the spot so fast you won’t have a chance to finish your dinner.”