Dr. Arlington nodded to show that he understood and shot ahead.

  Della Street said, “I think Paul Drake is in the office tonight. He told me he was working on a case and expected to be there until nearly midnight.”

  “That’s fine,” Mason said. “We’ll talk with Paul personally. Swing over to the right and turn a corner, Della. I presume that officer is still watching our tail-light and it’s quite possible Sgt. Holcomb might relay a radio message to him asking him to hold us for another inquiry.”

  Chapter 9

  The night switchboard operator at the Drake Detective Agency offices looked up as Mason held the office door open for Della Street.

  She nodded and smiled.

  “Anybody in with Paul?” Mason asked.

  “No, Mr. Mason, he’s alone.”

  “Tell him we’re on our way,” Mason said.

  The operator nodded and plugged in a telephone line.

  Mason opened the gate which led to a corridor lined with doors opening into small cubbyhole offices.

  Paul Drake’s private office was at the end of the corridor.

  Mason opened the door.

  “Hi, Perry!” the detective said. “Hi, Della. What brings you out at this time of night?—Oh-oh, I’ll bet I don’t want to know the answer.”

  Mason pulled up a chair for Della Street, then sat down next to Drake’s desk. “Paul, we’re mixed up in a case that I can’t figure out. I want a lot of research work done and I want it done fast.”

  Drake picked up a pencil and moved a pad of paper toward him.

  Tall, long-limbed, poker-faced, he moved with an easy, double-jointed rhythm which seemed awkward, yet eliminated all waste motion.

  “Shoot!”

  “A girl using the name of Fern Driscoll, 309 Rexmore Apartments. I want everything you can get on Fern Driscoll. She was working in Lansing, Michigan, and left suddenly. Now, this girl who’s using Fern Driscoll’s name has a job with the Consolidated Sales and Distribution Company.”

  “This floor?” Drake asked, looking up.

  “This floor.”

  “I know the head of that concern pretty well,” Drake said. “I can get a line on her.”

  “She’s only been here ten days or two weeks. I want to get her background.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “Harriman Baylor of Lansing. A big-shot manufacturer. A daughter named Katherine and a son named Forrester. I want everything you can get on the family. Fern Driscoll worked for Baylor’s company in Lansing.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Carl Harrod of the Dixiecrat Apartments, 218. I want to know everything about his past.”

  “How about the present?” Drake asked.

  “There isn’t any,” Mason told him.

  Drake looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s all in the past,” Mason explained.

  “Since when?”

  “Probably about an hour ago.”

  “All of this is going to take lots of men and lots of time,” Drake told him.

  “It’s going to take lots of men and probably lots of money, but it can’t take lots of time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we don’t have that much time.”

  “Do the police know about Harrod?”

  “Yes.”

  “About your interest in him?”

  “Hell yes!” Mason said. “I got caught standing in front of the apartment waiting for Dr. Arlington to come down and make a report.”

  “Report on what?”

  “Nature and extent of the injuries. He was stabbed with an ice pick. The woman who was living with Harrod had already called headquarters before we got there and reported the death as a homicide. My friend, Sgt. Holcomb, caught me flat-footed.”

  “So what happens next?” Drake asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “I want all the information I can get before the going begins to get tough.”

  “I take it there’s some sort of a tie-in by which all of these people are joined together more or less?”

  “There may be,” Mason said.

  “Okay. Where are you going now?”

  “Down to my office,” Mason told him. “You start getting information, relay it in as fast as you can get it. Minutes may be precious. We’re probably one jump ahead of the police on certain phases of the case and I’d like to keep ahead of them as far as possible.

  “The Baylor family use the Vista del Camino Hotel as headquarters. They’re very shy about the wrong sort of publicity. Carl Harrod was all set to see that they got lots of it.

  “Katherine Baylor is in town. She may be implicated in some way. On the other hand, the girl using the name of Fern Driscoll says she did the stabbing.”

  “You don’t think this girl is really Fern Driscoll?”

  “I know she’s Mildred Crest of Oceanside. Get busy and check everything.”

  “Okay,” Drake said, “get down to your office and let me start pouring instructions into the telephone. I’ll have ten men on the job within ten minutes and each one of those men will put out more men if he has to.”

  Mason nodded to Della Street and they left Drake’s office, walked down the corridor to Mason’s office.

  Mason latchkeyed the door, switched on the lights.

  “Well?” Della Street asked, as Mason hung up his hat and settled back into a swivel chair.

  “We wait it out—for a while at least,” Mason said. “If our client is telling the truth, she was entirely within her rights in protecting herself.”

  “And if she’s lying?”

  “Then,” Mason admitted, “things could be in quite a mess.”

  “She seems to have lied before.”

  “Exactly. Those lies are going to put her in quite a spot if the breaks start going against her.

  “As Mildred Crest, she could find herself charged with the murder of Fern Driscoll. All that background of deceit is going to make her a pushover in this Harrod case—if the authorities decide it’s murder.”

  They waited twenty minutes, then the unlisted phone rang sharply.

  “I’ll take it,” Mason said. “It must be Paul Drake.”

  Mason picked up the receiver, said, “Hello, Paul.”

  Drake’s voice came over the wire. “Get either morning paper. You’ll find a picture of Harriman Baylor, the famous manufacturer and financial wizard, just getting off an airplane. He arrived late this afternoon. Reporters met him at the airport.”

  “I’ll take a look,” Mason said. “You say there’s a photograph?”

  “A nice photograph. Mr. Baylor is not out here on business. Mr. Baylor is out here for a well-earned vacation and for his health. Mr. Baylor has been troubled with bursitis.”

  “Bursitis, huh?” Mason said.

  “Uh-huh. An infection of a capsule of fluid or something in the shoulder that—”

  Mason laughed and said, “I know all about bursitis, Paul. That is, I know enough about it to cross-examine doctors. It can be stubborn and painful. We don’t have our morning papers at the moment. Tell me, how did Mr. Baylor look in the photos?”

  “Influential,” Drake said. “He has many million dollars, and he looks like many million dollars. The photograph shows him holding a brief case in his left hand, his right hand waving his hat in greeting, a beautiful hostess on each side and a caption about the manufacturing and financial wizard who believes that the Pacific Coast is on the eve of an unprecedented growth. Baylor says that what has happened so far is merely scratching the industrial surface.”

  “Radiating optimism, eh?” Mason asked.

  “Radiating optimism.”

  “Could I call him at the Vista del Camino Hotel?” Mason asked.

  “No dice,” Drake said. “Trying to get a phone call through to him requires an Act of Congress and the unwinding of yards of red tape. But he’s there and, as nearly as I can find out, he’s in his suite.”

  “What about his background, Paul?”

  “Big manufacturer. Big financier. Big investor. Boards of directors and all that stuff. Who’s Who takes a whole column on him.”

  “Find out anything about Katherine Baylor?” Mason asked.

  “Postgraduate work at Stanford. Nice kid. Popular. For herself and not for her money. Unostentatious. A good scout. Something of a crusader, imbued with the idea of improving the administration of justice, safeguarding justice for rich and poor alike. A nice kid.”

  “Entanglements?”

  “Apparently not. Nothing formal. Very popular, therefore it’s hard to tell whether she’s playing the field or has her eye on some particular individual. Apparently, there was an affair back East, something that the folks were afraid might prove serious, and that’s the reason for postgraduate work at Stanford.

  “I’m just beginning to get the dirt, Perry, and I’ll have more for you in a little while. But in the meantime I thought you’d like to know about Baylor.”

  “That’s fine,” Mason said. “Keep digging and keep in touch with us. I think I’ll go out to the Vista del Camino Hotel and try for an interview.”

  “No chance,” Drake said. “He had a press interview at the plane, then he ordered everything shut off. No phone calls, no interviews. Nothing.”

  “Any exceptions?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know. The house dick over there is a friend of mine. I might be able to find out.”

  “Find out and call me back,” Mason said. “I’m interested.”

  The lawyer hung up the phone and Della Street drew a cup of coffee from the electric percolator.

  “Listen in on the extension?” Mason asked.

  She nodded.

  “Take notes?”

  Again she nodded.

  Five minutes later Drake again called on the unlisted telephone.

  “Now look, Perry,” he said, “you’re going to have to protect me on this. I got it from my close friend, the house detective. It would cost him his job if anyone knew there had been a leak coming from him.”

  “Go ahead,” Mason said.

  “Baylor has shut off all telephone calls. Everything. His suite is completely isolated. There’s even a guard at the door. He has, however, left instructions that if a Mr. Howley tries to get in touch with him, the call is to be put through immediately, no matter what hour of the day or night.”

  “Howley, eh?” Mason asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Who’s Howley, do you know?”

  “Can’t find a thing in the world about him. All I know is Baylor is sewed up tight except for Howley. And Howley is to be put through the minute he picks up a phone.”

  “Is Howley arriving at the hotel?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know. Instructions are for action the minute Howley shows up. I gather that he’s probably coming in on a plane or something and Baylor is waiting for him.”

  “But you don’t have anything definite on that? That’s just a hunch?”

  “Hunch, hell! It’s a deduction,” Drake said.

  “All you have is the deduction?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why should Baylor be taking all those precautions?” Mason asked. “It would seem to indicate that he expects to become the center of interest somehow.”

  “He is a center of interest,” Drake said. “He’s a big shot.”

  “But he doesn’t ordinarily take all those precautions against disturbance?”

  “He doesn’t ordinarily have bursitis and—probably he’s working on a big business deal. I don’t know. All I can do is get the facts and relay them to you. You’re going to have to do your own thinking.”

  “No more deductions?” Mason asked.

  “Not after the cool reception I got on the other one.”

  Mason laughed. “Don’t be so sensitive. Keep working, Paul.”

  Mason hung up the telephone, looked at Della Street thoughtfully, said, “Try to reach our client, Della. Perhaps the police haven’t taken her out of circulation. In that event, they’ve probably completed their questioning and we might be able to get her on the line.”

  Della Street put through a call, got no answer, so called the manager of the apartment house, asked for Fern Driscoll in Apartment 309, said, “Just a moment, please,” then turned to Mason. “The manager says Miss Driscoll left with two men and asked the manager to hold all mail.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, “hang up.”

  Della Street said, “Thank you. I’ll call later,” and hung up.

  Suddenly Mason turned to his secretary. “You sit here and hold the fort, Della. I’m going over to the Vista del Camino Hotel.”

  “Be careful,” she warned.

  Mason nodded.

  Mason left the office and went directly to the Vista del Camino Hotel.

  In the lobby the lawyer picked up one of the room phones, said, “Connect me with Mr. Harriman Baylor, please.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Baylor’s phone has been temporarily disconnected. He has left orders that he’s not to be disturbed.”

  “Well, he’ll talk with me,” Mason said. “I’m supposed to call him.”

  “I’m very sorry, but there are to be absolutely no—Just a moment. What’s the name, please?”

  “Howley,” Mason said.

  Mason heard the sound of swift whispers, then the operator said, “Just a moment, Mr. Howley. If you’ll hold on, I’ll see if we can get Mr. Baylor.”

  A few moments later a rich baritone voice said cautiously, “Hello. This is Harriman Baylor speaking.”

  “Howley,” Mason said.

  Baylor’s voice showed excitement. “Where are you now?”

  “In the lobby.”

  “Well, it’s about time,” Baylor said. “They had the damnedest report that you’d been—Wait a minute. How do I know you’re Howley?”

  “As far as that’s concerned,” Mason said, “how do I know you’re Baylor?”

  “What’s your other name, Howley?”

  “Look,” Mason said, “I’m not going to stand down here in the lobby where anyone can buttonhole me at any minute and have you give me a catechism. I’ll come up there, then I’ll answer your questions. I—”

  “What’s the other name I know you by?” Baylor interrupted.

  Mason hesitated.

  Suddenly the receiver clicked at the other end of the line and the line went dead.

  Mason immediately left the room phone, sauntered across the lobby to the cigar stand and waited.

  A house detective hurried to the bank of house phones, looked around, then made a survey of the lobby.

  Mason lit a cigarette, strolled over to one of the reclining chairs, settled back and waited.

  A bellboy, closely followed by the house detective, paged “Mr. Howley.”

  Mason made no move. He waited for five minutes, then went to the hotel drugstore, entered a phone booth and again called the number of the Vista del Camino Hotel.

  “Will you please tell Mr. Harriman Baylor,” Mason told the operator who answered, “that Mr. Howley is calling?”

  The operator hesitated perceptibly, then after a moment a man’s voice came on the line.

  “Hello?” the voice asked.

  “Mr. Baylor?” Mason asked.

  “That’s right,” the voice said.

  “Howley,” Mason told him.

  “Where are you now, Mr. Howley?”

  “Not too far away,” Mason said.

  “If you tell me where you are, I’ll—”

  “Look here,” Mason said indignantly, “this isn’t Baylor. Who the hell is that?”

  “Now, just a minute! Take it easy! Take it easy!” the man’s voice said. “We’re filtering Mr. Baylor’s calls. Someone tried to get through to him by using your name. Just a minute, and I’ll put Baylor on.”

  A moment later another voice came on the line. “Hello,” the voice said cautiously.

  “Baylor?” Mason asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Howley.”

  Baylor said promptly, “What was the other name you gave me, Howley?”

  “Why, hell! You know,” Mason said.

  “I know,” Baylor retorted. “But I want to be sure that this is the man I think it is. What was the other name?”

  “Carl Harrod,” Mason said promptly.

  “All right,” Baylor told him, relief in his voice, “that’s better! There was a report around that you were seriously incapacitated, that—Never mind, I’ll discuss that with you. Now, I want you to come up to my suite. It’s the presidential suite, Suite A. But you can’t get near the door of the suite because it’s guarded. Walk up to Room 428 and knock on the door. Knock twice, wait a moment, knock twice more, then wait a moment, and knock once. Do you understand that?”

  “Perfectly!” Mason said.

  “All right, I’ll see you there. How long will it take you to get there?”

  “About two minutes,” Mason told him.

  “Did everything go all right?”

  “Everything went fine.”

  “All right. Come on up and we’ll discuss arrangements.”

  Mason hung up the telephone, sauntered into the hotel, took the elevator to the fourth floor, walked down the corridor. Presidential Suite A was at the end of the corridor, and the entrance was blocked by a man who was over six feet tall, bullnecked, and built like a wrestler.

  The man eyed Mason suspiciously. Mason paid no attention to him but turned sharply to the left to the door of 428 and knocked twice, waited a moment, knocked twice more, waited another moment, then knocked again.

  The door was opened by a stocky, quick-moving individual in the early fifties, a man with a high forehead, bushy eyebrows, dark piercing eyes, and an assertive manner.

  He recoiled as he saw Mason. His left hand holding the doorknob tried to slam the door shut.

  Mason lowered his shoulders, pushed the door open and walked into the room.

  “I’m Perry Mason, Mr. Baylor,” he said. “I’m the attorney for the young woman in the Rexmore Apartments. I think you and I had better have a talk.”

  Baylor stepped back, said, “Perry Mason, the lawyer?”

  “That’s right.”

  Baylor said, “I’m sorry, but you can’t come in, Mason. I can’t see anyone!”