Erle Gardner - The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink

“Wait a minute,” Mason said, “not from here, Paul.”

“No?”

“No. The only person on duty downstairs is that night clerk. I have an idea that he’s pretty much interested about what’s going on. If he listens in while you’re tracing that car he might get a good idea of where we’re going after we leave here. And no one is keeping an eye on the girl who was in here... How long will it take to round up some men and put a tail on that girl in 815, Paul?”

“Not too long.”

Mason said, “Hang it, Paul, I think this is a case for the police. I think we’re getting beyond our depth.”

“Do you want to give the police a ring?”

“Not right like that,” Mason said, “but I would like to have a little police action if we can figure out just the right way to get it — and how to control it once we got it... And there’s still something screwy about this thing.”

“How do you mean?”

“That license number on the back of the mirror,” Mason said.

“What about it?”

“Who left it there?”

“Probably the real Dixie Dayton,” Drake said. “She was here with Morris Alburg. They were waiting for you. Somebody had them spotted. They left the door unlocked so you could walk in without making any commotion.”

“That part of it checks,” Mason said. “I’ll ride along with you that far, but keep talking, Paul. What happened after that?”

“Someone who knew where they were, someone who didn’t want them to get in touch with you just opened the door and walked in. And when he walked in he had a gun in his hand.”

“So then what?”

“So then he told them they were going to have to take a ride, and probably Dixie Dayton said, ‘All right, boys, let me make up my face first,’ and walked over to the mirror and took her lipstick and started putting on a little lipstick and smearing it around with the tip of her little finger. While she was doing that she kept watch in the mirror to see what was going on.

“Alburg may have acted a little rusty, or perhaps they thought he was going to act rusty, so they moved in on him, and Dixie immediately stepped up to the mirror, moved it out an inch from the wall and marked down the license number of the automobile.”

“What automobile?” Mason asked.

“One that would give us a clue as to where they were being taken.”

“You mean she’d know the license number of the car that was waiting?”

Drake frowned. “No, I guess that’s out.”

“And then they were forced to accompany the people who had entered the room?” Mason asked.

“Sure.”

“Down the elevator, across the lobby, out into the night?”

Drake suddenly became thoughtful.

“Sounds like one of those things they do in motion pictures,” Mason said.

“Well, it could have been done,” Drake said. “Damn it, Perry, it has been done.”

“And this car number?” Mason asked.

“That stumps me,” Drake admitted.

Suddenly Mason snapped his fingers.

“What?” Drake asked.

“We’re looking for an automobile,” Mason said. “This may be the license number of the automobile that was driven by the potential kidnaper, the automobile that has the bullet hole in the right front door.”

“Could be,” Drake said, frowning in thoughtful concentration.

Mason said, “That gives us two messages, Paul. One of them could be a genuine message left by Morris Alburg’s woman companion, whoever she was, and the other one a fake message left by other persons. Now the fake message points directly to George Fayette. What would that indicate?”

Drake said, “I’m inclined to play along with this Herbert Sidney Granton from the telephone directory. It won’t do any harm to go out there.”

“I’m afraid it will, Paul.”

“Why?”

Mason said, “We’re working against time. Someone wants to send us on a wild-goose chase. The thing I can’t understand is why the wild-goose chase should lead to Fayette, who is one of the conspirators, unless for some reason they have decided that they don’t want Fayette any more. Perhaps they’re going to sacrifice Fayette. But if so... Hang it, it doesn’t make sense, Paul.”

“They’re not going to sacrifice him because in that event Fayette would talk,” Drake said.

“Unless,” Mason said suddenly, “he’d be in a position where he couldn’t talk... Paul, let’s find out more about what’s in room 815. Let’s...”

The door of the room opened abruptly. Lieutenant Tragg of Homicide Squad, accompanied by another officer whom Mason didn’t know, stood on the threshold and said, “What the hell do you know about room 815?”

“Well,” Mason said, “we’re honored by unexpected visitors, Paul. What brings you here at this hour in the morning, Lieutenant?”

“Line of duty,” Lieutenant Tragg said. “What about 815?”

“Oh,” Mason said, “we were talking about getting a little sleep and leaving a call for eight-fifteen.”

Tragg’s face darkened. “Mason, you keep on with this kind of stuff and you’ll be where you won’t need to leave a call. You’ll get up at six-thirty in the morning, have coffee and mush pushed through the bars and like it. Have you ever met Sergeant Jaffrey?”

Mason acknowledged the introduction. “I thought. I knew most of the boys on Homicide,” he said.

“He isn’t on Homicide,” Drake said in a low voice. “I know him, Perry. He’s on the Vice Squad.”

Jaffrey nodded curtly to Drake.

Lieutenant Tragg said, “Sergeant Jaffrey is in charge of the Vice Detail. Bob Claremont was working under him when he was killed and this whole damn thing is tied in with Claremont’s murder. Mason, you’re in bad. Now what the hell did you have to do with room 815? Let’s have a straight answer, because this time the chips are on our side of the board.”

“Frankly,” Mason said, “I wanted Paul Drake to shadow the occupant of room 815 because I wanted some more information about her.”

“About her?”

Mason nodded.

Tragg said, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to meet a client.”

“Listen, Mason, I’m going to lay it on the line with you. We know all about...”

“I wouldn’t do that, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Jaffrey interrupted. “Let him answer questions.”

Tragg brushed the interruption to one side, said, “I’m going to give you a fair deal, Mason, with the cards on the table and not try to trap you. This hotel is a dump. Usually anything that goes on here doesn’t attract any attention, but the occupant of 813 heard the sound of an argument and what he thought was a muffled shot. He called the police.”

“How long ago?” Mason asked.

“Not very long ago,” Tragg said. “We just got here. A radio car showed up within two minutes of the time the telephone call came in. They found the door of 815 unlocked, a body on the bed, and notified Homicide Squad. I happened to be working with Sergeant Jaffrey on another angle of the case and we made time getting here.

“The dead man on the bed in room 815 is a rather chunky chap, with dark complexion and exceedingly bushy black eyebrows that almost meet at the bridge of the nose. The driving license in his pocket says his name is Herbert Sidney Granton, and he resides at 1024 Colinda Avenue. I put my men in charge and started giving the clerk the works. He’s one of these fellows with a photographic memory for faces. I asked him if anything unusual was going on in the hotel, and he said that Perry Mason was here, that he thought Mason had gone to room 721, that he’d been joined by a private detective, and that a woman had registered whom he took to be an operative of some sort. Now then, what the hell’s going on here?”