Erle Gardner - Case of the Silent Partner

She said drowsily, “You seem like such a nice man. Clean-cut. I’d imagined the police were different... You’re... nice.”

He said, “Take your time, Mrs. Lawley.” His hands clenched until his fingers ached. Sweat made his skin moist. Damn it, he was only doing his duty. When you were solving crimes, you had to play the game according to the way the cards fell.

“A very... nice... gentleman...” the woman on the bed muttered.

As they walked out of Mildreth Faulkner’s flower shop, Della Street said to Mason, “Do you suppose he knew all the time it was I who tried to cash that check?”

Mason said, “He evidently had considered that possibility. He trumped my ace — damn him!”

They got in Mason’s car. Mason started the motor and savagely slammed the gear shift back.

“But how did he know?”

“He put two and two together. He knew I was trying to cover Mrs. Lawley until the situation clarified itself. He knew that I was trying to drag Bob Lawley into it.”

“Suppose Lawley will talk if Tragg finds him?”

“Him?” Mason asked, contempt in his voice. “Of course, he’ll talk. I know the type. He’ll make a grandstand about what he’s going to do and what he’s not going to do. He’ll tell them they can beat him up, or drag him with wild horses, but that he won’t say a word. Then he’ll cave in, spill everything he knows, and try to pin the crime on his wife.”

“Why did Mrs. Lawley leave the hotel?”

Mason said, “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?...” He slid the car to a stop at a street intersection and motioned to a newsboy who was selling the late afternoon papers. “Here’s where we answer this one.”

“You mean she advertised?”

“No,” Mason said. “He did, the heel!”

“I thought you kept all papers away from her.”

“I told her not to read any. But giving instructions to a woman is something like putting money on roulette.”

The signal changed. Mason handed the boy a quarter, grabbed the newspaper, passed it over to Della, and said, “Look in the ad section under TOO LATE TO CLASSIFY.”

Mason drove slowly through traffic while Della Street looked through the newspaper. “Here it is,” she said.

“What does it say?”

“Carla, I am worried sick with anxiety for you, dearest. Telephone Grayview 6-9841, and tell me you are all right. That’s all I want to know. I can face the music if only you are all right.”

“How’s it signed?” Mason asked.

“Honeybunch.”

“The Goddamn rat!”

Mason saw a chance to put his car in a parking place at the curb. He slid in just beyond a fire plug, and said to Della, “There’s a drugstore on the corner. Ring up the Drake Detective Agency. Tell them we want to know who has the telephone listed in Grayview 6-9841.”

“Couldn’t I handle it by calling the number of perhaps...”

“No,” he interrupted. “Drake specializes in that sort of stuff, and knows how to go about it.”

“How long will it take him?”

“Not over a few minutes probably.”

“Then do we go to the office?”

“We do not. We’ll pay Mr. Sindler Coll a visit.”

Della jumped out of the car, walked rapidly into the drugstore, and was back in a few minutes. “He’s on the job,” she reported. “And there’s a report ready on the other stuff you wanted. I took it down in shorthand.”

“All right, read it to me as we’re driving along.”

He started the car. Della opened her notebook, translated the various pothooks and slanting lines. “Peavis, a tough, two-fisted go-getter. Got into the flower business in nineteen-twenty-eight. Before that had been in the liquor-running business. In the liquor business he had some trouble with a man named Frank Lecklen who tried to hijack some of his stuff. Lecklen went to the hospital with two bullets in him, and wouldn’t talk. He told police he shot himself. Peavis called to see him, hired a special nurse and doctor. Lecklen is now going under the name of Sindler Coll.

“Esther Dilmeyer, twenty-three, a come-on girl at a nightclub and gambling joint. She’s had a spotted history. Was discharged from the Rockaway Candy Company for insubordination and violation of rules — seems she ate more candy than her wages amounted to. Worked for the Ease-Adjust Shirt Company. The boss’ wife got jealous. Then Irma Radine, who works at the Golden Horn, met her. Irma had worked at the Rockaway Candy Company with Esther. Irma introduced her to Lynk. Lynk fell for her, and Esther went to work on a percentage basis. Coll started getting friendly about three months ago. She fell hard. Lately Coll has been cooling off. He’s supposed to have another flame, but he’s being very secretive about it. No one seems to know just who she is.

“Paul Drake said that was all he had to date, but he was keeping on the job. Does any of that help, Chief? That is — much?”

Mason said, “I’m damned if I know, Della. It’ll all fit in... That Irma Radine knows her pretty well... That’s why she acted so queerly when Tragg was questioning her at the Golden Horn. Think she’s pretty strong for Coll, too. He seems to be a riot with the ladies... We’ll see what we’ll see.” And Mason devoted his attention to the traffic.

At Sindler Coll’s apartment house, Mason said, “You’d better wait here, Della,” and rang the bell opposite Coll’s name.

There was no answer.

After a few minutes, Mason rang the bell marked MANAGER. The buzzer signaled the door was open. Mason entered, crossed the lobby, turned to the left, and rang the bell on the door of the manager’s apartment. Mrs. Farmer opened the door and, as she recognized him, smiled effusively. She had evidently spent some time at a beauty parlor, and her tightly girdled, snappily dressed figure was entirely different from the loose-muscled body which had been wrapped in a kimono the night before.

Mason let her see his surprise. “You look — wonderful!”

Her smile barely missed being a simper. “You’re so nice,” she said coyly.

Mason traded on the prestige of his former association with Tragg.

“Do you know where Coll is?”

“I don’t think he’s in.”

“Neither do I. He doesn’t answer.”

“I don’t think he’s been in all day. He went out around nine o’clock this morning.”

“Alone?”

“No. Some man was with him.”

“You don’t know where he went?”

“No.”

Mason said, “I’d like to take a look in his apartment. You have your passkey?” He made the request sound quite casual, and she didn’t even hesitate.

Coll’s apartment was a typical example of the moderate-priced, furnished, single apartment. The room had nothing about it to reflect the personality of its tenant, nor was there anything in the apartment which would give a clue as to where Coll might have gone.

“Maid service?” Mason asked.

“Yes. He has a daily maid service.”

“And evidently hasn’t been in since the maid cleaned the place up.”

The manager looked at the cleanly polished empty ash trays and nodded.

“Smokes cigarettes?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Mason noticed a telephone on a stand near the door, and casually noted the number. It was Southbrook 2-4304.

Once in the apartment, the manager seemed to realize that the situation might prove embarrassing should Coll return, and that she had carried her co-operation rather far. “Of course,” she said hurriedly, “I presume you just wanted to look in. I wouldn’t want to have you touch anything.”

“Oh, no,” Mason assured her. “Certainly not. I thought perhaps he might have — well, that something might have happened to him.”