Erle Gardner - The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink

Mason nodded, but with his eyes intent on the sidewalk, studying the pedestrians, said, “Go slow. After you get down to the next street, turn right and then go five blocks on the cross street, then turn and start threading back and forth along the cross streets. Just keep moving.”

“Are you the law?” the driver asked.

Mason said, “Don’t worry about who I am. Just watch your driving and keep your eye on the meter.”

“No rough stuff,” the driver said.

“No rough stuff,” Mason promised. “Just keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel.”

They cruised slowly up and down the various streets until finally at a corner they picked up the cab in which Della Street and Paul Drake’s operative were also cruising.

“Blow your horn,” Mason said. “Get the attention of the people in the other cab... That’s right.”

Mason flashed a signal to Della Street when she looked up at the sound of the horn.

She slowly shook her head.

Mason gestured back toward the office, turned and settled back against the cushions. “That’s it, Paul,” he said. “We give the guy the benefit of the first trick — actually, the first two tricks.”

“Who is he?” Drake asked.

“That’s what I was hiring you to find out.”

Drake asked, “Am I hired?”

“You’re damned right you’re hired,” Mason told him. “How strong do you want me to go?”

“Shoot the works. I’m tired of having some cheap crook make a monkey of me.”

“He may not be cheap.”

“Perhaps, but I’ll give you ten to one he’s a crook. Della will give you all the information we have. You take it from there.”

Back in Mason’s office the lawyer said, “Get Lieu-tenant Tragg on the line, Della. We’ll see what he knows. Perhaps we can interview the terrified waitress and solve at least part of the mystery.”

Della Street put through the call, then said, “Hello, Lieutenant, how are you today? This is Della Street... What’s that?... Well, Mr. Mason wants to talk with you. Just hang on, please.”

Della Street nodded to Perry Mason. Mason picked up his telephone, said, “Hello, Lieutenant, how are you?”

“What kind of a deal did you get me in on?” Tragg asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Getting that girl in a private hospital with special nurses... The next time I pull any of your chestnuts out of the fire, you can...”

“Whoa, back up,” Mason said. “What’s eating you now?”

“You know damned well what’s eating me,” Tragg said, irritably. “You knew that if we handled the matter ourselves we’d have it so she couldn’t take a powder. You pretended that you wanted her to be completely safe and then put her in a position where she could...”

“You mean she’s gone?” Mason asked.

“You’re damned right, she’s gone.”

“Tragg, I give you my word the thing was on the up and up. It was just as I outlined it to you.”

“Yeah,” Tragg said sarcastically. “Just wanted to co-operate with the good old police force, didn’t you, Mason?”

“Look here, Tragg,” Mason said, “have I ever pulled a fast one on you?”

“Have you?” Tragg said. “You’ve pulled so many fast ones on me that...”

“I may have been on the other side of the fence a time or two,” Mason said, “but have I ever asked you for your co-operation on anything in order to take advantage of you?”

“Well — no.”

“And I won’t,” Mason said. “This is as much news to me as it is to you, and it bothers me. How did she work it?”

“Nobody knows,” Tragg said. “She was there one minute, and five minutes later she was gone. She was lying apparently asleep. The special nurse stepped down the hall for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. She said, of course, that she’d only been out of the room five minutes. It probably was around half an hour. The patient was resting easily and sleeping, and the nurse was looking in and out.”

“How seriously was the patient injured?”

“Apparently she was just knocked out. Possibility of a concussion, some bruises, a couple of broken ribs that were taped up, and some scratches and abrasions. The doctor wanted to keep her under observation for a while.”

“What about clothes?” Mason asked.

“Oh, hell,” Tragg said, “her clothes were in the closet. She put ’em on and walked out.”

“What about money?”

“She didn’t have a dime. The contents of her purse had been inventoried and left at the desk.”

“How could she have got away from the hospital without taxi money?”

“You asked me,” Tragg said. “What do you think I am, a mind reader? I’m telling you what happened.”

“Well, it’s all news to me,” Mason told him. “Now then, just to show you I’m on the up and up with you, I’ll put all of my cards on the table, if you want. I’ll tell you everything I know about the case, and...”

“Not me,” Tragg said, “not me. I’ve got enough on my mind. Turn it over to Traffic Department... I just tried to do you a favor, that was all.”

“You did, and thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“You don’t want me to keep you posted if there are any further developments?”

“I was doing you a favor,” Tragg repeated. “I don’t give a damn where she goes or what she does. As far as I’m concerned, she could have got up and walked out of the front door any time. It just made me look like something of a sucker, that’s all... When the case gets to murder, call me up. I’m in Homicide, remember?”

“I’ll remember,” Mason said, and hung up.

It was late afternoon when Paul Drake tapped out a code knock on the door of Mason’s private office.

Mason nodded to Della Street, who opened the door.

“Hi, Paul,” she said. “How’s the sleuth?”

“Fine. How’s tricks?”

Drake entered the office, placed one hip on the round of the arm of the overstuffed leather chair, balanced himself in a posture which indicated his intention of making this a flying visit.

“How busy are you, Perry? Got time to listen to something?”

Mason nodded.

Della Street indicated the pile of unsigned mail.

“Go ahead,” Mason said, “talk. And I’ll sign letters while you’re talking. Have you read these, Della?”

She nodded.

“All ready for my signature?”

Again she nodded.

Mason started signing letters.

Drake said, “There’s something screwy about this case, Perry.”

“Go ahead, Paul, what is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you know there’s something screwy?” Mason asked, his pen dashing off signatures as Della Street handed him one letter after another then blotted the signatures as Mason signed.

“The police are interested.”

“They should be.”

“Not from anything we know, Perry. It’s a deeper interest than that.”

“Go ahead. What seems to be the angle?”

“Well, in the first place, you gave us a pawn ticket on a Seattle hock shop.”

Mason nodded.

“Know what that was?”

Mason shook his head and said, “It was an eighteen-dollar item. That was the amount stamped on the back of the ticket, and I figured that eighteen dollars plus one per cent a month, plus...”

“I know,” Drake said. “You figured you couldn’t go wrong as far as value was concerned. Now I’ll tell you what the article was.”

“What was it?”

“A gun.”

“Any good?”

“Apparently so. A thirty-eight Smith and Wesson special.”

“You picked it up?” Mason asked.

Drake shook his head. “The police did.”