Erle Gardner - Case of the Silent Partner

Mason said, “I had an appointment for one o’clock with an Esther Dilmeyer. She’s a witness in a case. I don’t know exactly what it is. I’ve never met her. She rang up about ten minutes ago, and could barely talk over the telephone. She said she’d been poisoned. Someone had sent her poisoned candy. She certainly sounded about ready to pass out. Evidently the telephone either slipped from her hands and fell, or she keeled over while she was talking to me. Then the receiver was hung up before I could trace the call.”

“You don’t know where she is?”

Mason said, “I’m coming to that. Della Street, my secretary, did some fast thinking and some good detective work. I won’t take time to tell you about it, but the result is that she got a lead into the Golden Horn. That’s a nightclub. Esther Dilmeyer is known there, and was there this evening, but apparently the under-lings don’t know her address. Lynk, who runs the place, does, but he’s out. That’s the story in a nutshell. What do you say?”

“Sounds like quite a bit of smoke,” Lieutenant Tragg said. “There may be some fire. But we haven’t a heck of a lot to go on.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t tell you,” Mason said. “If someone finds her body tomorrow morning, and...”

“Wait a minute,” Tragg interrupted. “Hold your horses. Where are you now?”

“At the office.”

“Want to take a run around to the Golden Horn?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be by for you in about five minutes,” Tragg said. “If you can be waiting down on the sidewalk, it’ll save that much time.”

“Think we can do anything by telephone?”

“I doubt it,” Tragg said. “It won’t take over a few minutes to get there. Be all ready to jump in when you hear the siren, because I’ll cut her loose.”

Mason said, “I’ll be down there,” hung up the telephone, ran to the coat closet, and grabbed his hat and coat. “Okay, Della,” he said, “you hold down the office. I may call in a little later.”

It took a minute or two for the elevator to get up to Mason’s floor. The night watchman dropped him to the street level, and Mason had less than a minute to wait at the curb before he heard the scream of a siren, saw the blood-red glare of a spotlight, and then Lieutenant Tragg was skidding a police sedan in close to the curb.

Mason jerked the door open and jumped in. Tragg accelerated the car into such swift speed that Mason’s head was jerked back as the machine lurched forward.

Lieutenant Tragg said nothing, but concentrated on driving traffic. He was about Mason’s age. His features stood out in sharply etched lines. His forehead was high, his eyes keen and thoughtful, an entirely different type from Sergeant Holcomb. Mason, studying the profile as the car screamed through the streets, realized that this man could be a very dangerous antagonist indeed.

“Hang on,” Tragg warned as the car screamed in a turn.

He was, Mason saw, enjoying the excitement of tearing through traffic with siren screaming and motor roaring, but, with it all, the man was as cool and detached as a surgeon performing a delicate operation. His face showed complete concentration and an entire lack of nervousness.

Tragg slid to a stop in front of the Golden Horn. The two men debouched from the car and ran across the sidewalk. A big doorman, resplendent with uniform, barred their way. “What’s it all about?” he asked, his drawl a contemptuous challenge to their haste.

Tragg promptly shouldered him to one side. The doorman hesitated a moment as though debating whether to try to detain the officer, then dashed for a speaking tube built into the wall. He whistled three times sharply.

Tragg led the way into the nightclub.

“The hat-check girl knows something,” Mason said.

Tragg moved over to the counter, showed her his star. “Esther Dilmeyer,” he said. “Where can we find her?”

“Gosh, Mister, I don’t know. Someone was asking over the telephone awhile back.”

“You know her?”

“Yes.”

“Does she work here?”

“Well, in a way. She hangs out here.”

“Gets a commission on business she develops?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Who would?”

“Mr. Magard or Mr. Lynk.”

“Where are they?”

“Mr. Lynk is out tonight, and I don’t know where Magard is. I tried to locate him after the young woman telephoned, but I couldn’t find him.”

“This place supposed to run without anyone in charge?”

“Ordinarily, one or the other of them is here. Tonight it just happens they’re both out.”

“Who else would know? The cashier? Some of the waiters?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve made inquiries. I tell you who I think would.”

“Who?”

“Sindler Coll.”

“Who’s he?”

“Her boy friend.”

“Living with her?” The hat-check girl shifted her eyes. “Come on, sister. Don’t be coy. You heard what I said.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Where do we find Coll?”

“I think the cashier has his address. He cashes a check here once in a while.” Lieutenant Tragg said, “Thanks. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, sister, as well as a pretty one. Come on, Mason.”

They skirted the dance floor, and pushed past the crowded couples moving slowly to the rhythm of the music. Tragg asked directions from a waiter, and walked on to find the cashier in a cage between the dining room and the nightclub.

Tragg showed her his star. “You know a Sindler Coll?”

She stared at him, hesitating, apparently debating on a course of action.

“Come on,” Tragg said. “Look alive. Do you know him?”

“Y-y-y-yes.”

“Where can we find him?”

“I don’t know. What’s he done?”

“Nothing, so far as I know.”

“What do you want him for?”

“Listen, sister, I haven’t got time to give you a bunch of history. I want Coll, and I want him fast. What’s his address?”

“He’s at the Everglade Apartments.”

“What apartment?”

“Just a minute.”

She opened a drawer and took out an address book. Her fingers trembled nervously as she turned the pages.

“Don’t happen to have the address of Esther Dilmeyer in there, do you?”

“No. The hat-check girl was asking a few minutes ago. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Tragg said, “just give us Coll’s address, and make it snappy.”

“It’s on the second floor, Everglade Apartments, 209.”

“Got a telephone?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t his number here.”

“You know him when you see him, do you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“He hasn’t been in here tonight?”

“No.”

“Would you have seen him if he had been?”

“Yes.”

“Do you usually see the customers that come in here?”

“Well... Not all of them, but...”

“I see. Coll’s someone in particular, eh?”

“Well, he drops in once in a while,” she said, her cheeks showing color beneath the patches of rouge.

Tragg said to Mason, “Well, we’ll try Coll at the Everglade Apartments... Listen, sister, who’s running this place?”

“Two men, partners, Clint Magard and Harvey J. Lynk.”

“Know where either of them are?”

“No. Lynk has a little cabin somewhere. He goes there for relaxation.”

“Relaxation, eh?” Lieutenant Tragg said, glancing at Mason. “Where is it?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s up in Lilac Canyon somewhere... And Mr. Magard isn’t in right at present.”

“You don’t know where Magard is?”

“No. He should be in any minute.”

“When he comes in, have him call police headquarters and ask for Sergeant Mahoney. Have him tell the sergeant all he knows about Esther Dilmeyer — don’t forget. I’ll call back in a little while. What number do I call?”