Erle Gardner - The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink

“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 that 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.

“I’m hot.”

“Why can’t it wait until I get to my office in the morning?”

“Tomorrow maybe I am not around any more.”

“All right,” Mason said wearily, “if you’d played fair with me and given me the low-down on this thing, perhaps you wouldn’t have been in such a jam.”

“I’m in a jam before I ever see you, Mason.”

“Where are you?”

“The Keymont Hotel, room 721. The place is not high-class. It’s a joint. Don’t stop at the desk. Walk by the desk like you had a room. Don’t speak to anybody. Take the elevator, come up to the seventh floor, go to 721. The door is unlocked. I’m there.”

“All right.”

“And, Mason—”

“Yes?”

“Make it snappy, yes?”

“All right,” Mason said. “I’ll be there.” He hung up the telephone, kicked the covers off, telephoned the garage to have his car brought out in front and left with the motor running, rubbed exploratory fingers over the slight stubble on the angle of his jaw, jumped into his clothes, hastily knotted his tie, started for the door, then returned to pick up his overcoat, paused to ring the desk and make certain his car was waiting outside, then dashed for the elevator.

The night clerk looked at him curiously, said, “Must be something of an emergency, Mr. Mason.”

“Must be,” Mason said, and glanced at the clock over the desk. It was two-fifteen.

The lawyer glanced at his wrist watch to verify the hour shown by the clock on the wall, walked over to the revolving door, and out into the crisp, cold air of early morning.

The night garage-man was seated in Mason’s car at the curb. He nodded to the lawyer, opened the door and got out.

Mason slid in behind the steering wheel, noticed that the heater was already warming up the interior of the cold car.

“Thanks a lot, Jake,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

He glanced at the dial on the gas tank.

“I filled it up when you brought it in last night,” the night man said. “You instructed me to see that it’s always kept full and...”

“That’s fine,” Mason told him. “I never know when I may have to go some place in a hurry.”

“This looks like one of those times.”

“It does for a fact,” Mason admitted. He slammed the door and sent the car purring smoothly away from the curb.

It took Mason about fifteen minutes to reach the Keymont Hotel. At that hour of the morning there were plenty of parking spaces and Mason parked his car, locked it and entered the lobby.

It was a shabby lobby with well-worn chairs and a musty atmosphere. Entering the place after his brief sojourn in the crisp night air, Mason was all the more conscious of the stale odor of decay. The empty chairs arranged in an orderly row seemed hopelessly incongruous. In keeping with the atmosphere of the place, they should have been occupied by seedy men sitting quietly, reading newspapers, or just staring off into space.

The clerk looked up as Mason entered the lobby, followed the lawyer with his eyes, until Mason had reached the elevator shaft.

“Someone you wanted to see?” the clerk asked, as Mason jabbed the button on the elevator.

“Me,” Mason told him.

“You mean...”

“That’s right.”

“You’re registered here?”

Mason said, “Sure. And you’d better call me at seven-thirty in the morning... No, wait a minute, I’ve got to make a couple of calls first. I’ll wait until I get to the room and then give you a ring when I find out what time I want to be called. I may be able to sleep later than seven-thirty.”

The elevator rattled to a stop. Mason pushed back the door. It was, at this hour of the night, on automatic, and Mason jabbed the last button, which was for the eighth floor. He waited what seemed an interminable interval until the elevator, swaying and rattling, came to a hesitant stop.

Mason slid back the door, closed it and walked down the corridor to a red light which marked the location of the staircase. He took the stairs down to the seventh floor, located room 721 and tapped gently on the door.

There was no answer.

Mason waited a few moments, then tapped again, this time more insistently.

There was still no answer, no slightest sound from within the room.

Mason tried the doorknob. It turned and he opened the door a crack. The light was on.

Mason, standing in the hallway, pushed the door with his foot, swinging it wide open.

The room was empty, but seemed to have been recently occupied since there was a distinct odor of fresh cigarette smoke.

Mason cautiously crossed the threshold.

It was the standardized room of a cheap hotel. The thin carpet was worn through the pattern in a well-defined trail from the door around the bed to the window. There was a washstand and mirror over in the corner, and the carpet in front had been worn through almost to the floor.

Mason’s eyes made swift inventory.

He saw the imitation-leather-bottomed rocking chair, the two straight kitchen chairs with cane bottoms, the square table which looked as though it had been primarily designed to hold a white glass pitcher and bowl before running water had been installed in the room.

Mason left the door open, and took two swift but cautious steps to the door, pulling it toward him to make sure no one was standing behind it. He walked over to another door and disclosed a narrow closet. The next door showed a toilet and a shower jammed together in a room scarcely the size of a good-sized closet.