Erle Gardner - The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink

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.

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?”

“Hell, 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 get 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.