Эрл Гарднер - Case of the Cautious Coquette

“Suits me,” Mason said.

“Well, it doesn’t suit me,” Burger said.

“I want an answer to the question,” Mason insisted.

“Well,” Burger announced after some hesitancy, “very well. On your stipulation, we’ll let it go over until tomorrow morning.”

“Will you explain to the judge?” Mason asked.

“Very well,” Burger said, and swung around on his heel.

“Now,” Mason said to Tragg, “if you are ready to go, Lieutenant — and I think we’d better take your car.”

“Say, do you know what you’re doing?” Tragg asked.

“I hope so,” Mason told him.

Tragg backed his car into the mouth of the alley Mason indicated.

“We can see the house from here,” Mason said.

“Just what are you getting at?” Tragg asked.

Mason said, “Hollister started out on a business trip, didn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“And intended to be gone for several days?”

“Yes.”

“When you found the car and the body,” Mason said, “there were certain significant things you didn’t find.”

“What do you mean?”

“Baggage. When a man intends to go on a trip he takes baggage with him.”

“That’s right,” Tragg said.

“Now, the body was in a peculiar position,” Mason pointed out. “What does that position indicate to you, Lieutenant?”

“Only one thing,” Tragg said. “The body must have been jammed into the trunk of an automobile.”

“That’s right. Now was that the trunk of Hollister’s automobile?”

“It could have been.”

“Here comes Argyle. Driving pretty fast, isn’t he, Lieutenant?”

Tragg said, “He probably has a lot of things on his mind. I imagine this trial has disrupted his program.”

Mason stretched, yawned, said, “I suppose so.”

“What do we do now?” Tragg asked.

“Just wait,” Mason said. “You have your radio on here?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Better make sure it’s in working order. Check in to Headquarters and get the time.”

Tragg said, “What the devil are you getting at, Mason? What’s the idea?”

Mason said, “It suddenly occurred to me I’d taken you away rather unceremoniously. Burger may be trying to get in touch with you. I suppose the blowup of that identification business...”

Tragg grinned, and said, “Boy, that was pretty! I don’t mind telling you, Mason, I wanted to jump up and cheer — personally, you understand, not officially.”

Tragg tuned in his radio, checked with police headquarters, settled back and lit a cigar. “Mason, what the devil are we waiting for? If you want to see Argyle why not go over and see him?”

“Oh, let’s let him get his records together if that’s what he wants. He... here he comes now.”

Argyle came out of the front door almost on the run, carrying a handbag in one hand, a suitcase in the other. He slammed them in the car and started the motor.

“Now,” Mason said, “if you’ll start closing in on him, Lieutenant, and use your siren, I think we may get some action.”

“ Use the siren?” Tragg exclaimed. “What’s he done?”

“Follow him and you’ll see what he’s going to do,” Mason said. “He’ll at least give you a chance to catch him for speeding.”

“Damn it,” Tragg said, “I’m not a traffic cop. I...”

“Do you want this deal or don’t you?” Mason asked.

Tragg looked at him sharply, said, “Okay, I do.”

“Better get going then.”

Tragg started the motor, eased the police car into gear, slid in the clutch, and started after Argyle’s car.

After a moment he poured more throttle into the big police car, said, “That guy certainly is going!”

“What’s the limit along here?” Mason asked.

“Thirty-five miles,” Tragg said. “He’s hitting better than fifty. He shouldn’t do that.”

“Try giving him the siren,” Mason said.

Tragg said, “Well, we’ll get alongside of him and...”

“Give him the siren,” Mason said impatiently, and threw in the switch which started the siren wailing.

Tragg hurriedly kicked the switch out, said, “Damn it, don’t do that. I...”

Argyle looked back, a startled apprehensive glance, saw the police car coming behind him, and suddenly floor-boarded the throttle, sending his car into speed.

“What do you make of that?” Lieutenant Tragg said. “Why, the damn fool, he’s... hell, Mason, he’s trying to get away!”

“Of course he’s trying to get away,” Mason said. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll show you,” Tragg said grimly. He threw the siren on.

Argyle screamed into a sudden turn to the left, almost upsetting as he skidded around the corner.

“Hold everything,” Tragg said, grimly, “you’re going to travel.”

He slammed the car into second gear, poured die throttle to it and sent the car around the corner in a screaming skid, then snapped it back into high.

“Learned that in the old bootlegging days,” he said.

“He’s going to try another turn,” Mason said.

“We’ll cure him of that,” Tragg said. “A good cop can take the turns a lot faster than... hold your hat, Mason, here we go again.”

Tragg sent the car into another screaming turn, which left black tire marks all over the highway.

“I guess he’ll try the straightaway now,” Mason said. “Better get your gun handy, Tragg. He may want to shoot it out.”

“What the hell’s he running away from?” Tragg asked.

“The murder of Hartwell L. Pitkin, and the minder of Ross P. Hollister,” Mason told him, lighting a cigarette. “How about...”

Tragg threw a switch in the radio, said, “Calling Headquarters. Lieutenant Tragg, car number forty-two. I’m chasing a murder suspect in a black Buick sedan, number 9Y6370 north of Hickman Avenue, between Eighty-ninth and Ninetieth Street. Send any available squad cars to help. I have my siren going.”

Tragg eased his gun around in his holster, “You got a gun, Mason?” he asked.

“I’m a law-abiding citizen,” Mason told him.

“You’re deputized,” Tragg said tersely. “There’s a gun in the glove compartment. Get it. Do you really have the dope on this guy?”

“Of course I have the dope on him,” Mason said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be wasting time but I couldn’t prove it until he started running. I had to get him stampeded so he’d give himself away.”

“He’s sure doing it now,” Tragg said, gripping the wheel. “We’re hitting eighty miles an hour.”

“He’s going to get away on the straightaway,” Mason said.

“My siren is really clearing the way for him,” Tragg said, “but if I shut it off, we’ll hit somebody and we’ll all be killed.”

Mason said, “Just keep your siren going, Lieutenant. We can get him sooner or later and this flight is the last nail in his coffin. He... look out!”

A car shot out of an intersecting street, heard the scream of the siren, saw Argyle’s car and Tragg’s car rushing along the highway, and tried to swing back to the curb.

Argyle swerved to avoid a collision. His car went into a skid, started rocking dangerously, then suddenly spun completely around, went up on two wheels, shot across the road, over an embankment, and turned over.

Lieutenant Tragg slammed on his brakes.

Mason watched for a moment to see if Argyle emerged from the wreckage, then said, “I guess that does it, Lieutenant. I take it I’m no longer a deputy.”

With that he opened the glove compartment and returned the revolver to its holster.

Paul Drake, Della Street, and Perry Mason relaxed in Mason’s private office. Della Street, perched on a corner of the desk, held one knee in her interlaced fingers. Mason was tilted back in his swivel chair and Drake was sprawled in his customary sideways position in the big clients’ chair.