Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

The door of Paul Drake’s office opened, and Della Street, thrusting out her head, came running after him down the corridor.

Mason turned and looked down at her with smiling eyes. “Hi, Della,” he said. “What’s the rush?”

“I was waiting for you,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get you.”

“What’s the excitement?”

She looked up and down the corridor, slipped her hand through his arm, said, “Come on into Paul Drake’s office.”

Slowly the smile faded from Mason’s eyes. He walked back the half dozen steps which took him to Drake’s office, and Della Street piloted him past the girl at the switchboard, down the glassed-in partition to Paul Drake’s private office.

Drake looked up as Mason entered, said to Della Street, “See you got him.”

She nodded.

Mason perched a casual hip on the edge of Paul Drake’s desk. “What is the excitement?” he asked.

Drake said, “They found out something about that telephone, Perry.”

“Which one?”

“The one in Hocksley’s flat.”

“You mean the fingerprints on it?”

“No. Something else.”

“What?”

“The thing had been rigged up into an ingenious burglar alarm. There was a small hole in the base which looked as though it might have been a place for a wire. In reality, it was a little lens. A beam of invisible light ran through it, and when anyone stepped across that beam, it worked the alarm. Lifting the telephone receiver disconnected the whole thing. Then you had only to walk over to a switch by the safe, throw that, turn back, and put the telephone receiver back in place. Because it was a dial phone, the thing didn’t interfere with the operation of the telephone.”

Mason said, “Oh-oh.”

Della Street and Paul Drake were watching him anxiously.

“See where that leaves young Gentrie?” Drake asked after a while.

Mason nodded.

“And,” Della Street said, “it all ties in with the message in the tin. Tragg can really go to town on that.”

Mason lit a cigarette. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “that would account for it. The tin itself was a signal. Whenever the can was placed on the shelf, it meant the time had come to rob the safe. If any unforeseen developments necessitated a minor change in plans, that would be noted in code on the inside of the tin top.”

“It was noted,” Drake said, “and the person for whom the message was intended got it all right.”

“And acted on it,” Della Street supplemented with a meaning glance at Mason.

“And,” Drake added, “they’re Junior’s fingerprints on the telephone. Now just suppose, for the sake of the argument, Perry, that message has something to do with the telephone. You could see where that would leave young Gentrie.

“Of course,” Drake went on, “they may never decipher that code. But they have some pretty clever cipher men knocking around these days. Whatever that message is, it’s an even money bet Tragg will have it all worked out within a week or two, perhaps a lot sooner than that.”

Mason lit a cigarette, blew out twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. “Just as a gambling proposition, Paul, what would you say the percentage of chances was?”

“Percentage on what?”

“That the message has anything to do with the telephone.”

“I’d say it was even money,” Drake said.

“Well,” Mason told him, avoiding Della Street’s eyes, “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Anything else new?”

“Yes,” Della said. “Rodney Wenston’s waiting in the office. There’s a woman with him who claims to be the daughter of Karr’s partner. Wenston thinks she’s an impostor, and wants you to trap her.”

“Has she seen Karr?”

“No. Karr arranged with Wenston to answer the phone and handle all calls that came in on that ad. Wenston says that unless she can really produce some evidence, he’s not even going to let her talk with Karr. He said he was against Karr’s putting that ad in the paper. He says it’s certain to attract swindlers. He thought that if Karr wanted to do anything, he should quietly engage a firm of private detectives to find out what had happened to the daughter. Karr got impatient and said he couldn’t wait.”

“Where is this woman now?” Mason asked.

“Waiting in the office with Wenston. He hasn’t let her tell her story. He wants you to be with him the first time she tells it.”

Drake said, “There’s one other thing, Perry.”

“What?”

“Wenston acts the part of the wealthy playboy. He has quite a place down between Culver City and Santa Monica. There’s a hangar and a swell little private landing field. He flies back and forth to San Francisco quite a lot. Guess who he has for a passenger on nearly all of the trips?”

“Karr?” Mason asked.

Drake nodded.

“Anything else?”

“Yes. When Karr’s taking the plane, a big limousine comes to Wenston’s place. The driver opens a locked gate in the fence around the estate, follows the driveway around back of the house to the hangar, then past the hangar out to the far end of the flying field. Wenston has his plane all warmed up. He taxies out there, and turns around; then a door opens, a couple of men get out — that Chinese servant and Johns Blaine, who apparently is a bodyguard. Then Karr gets out and...”

“Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “You say gets out?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You mean he walks?”

“Uh huh. Not very well, but he walks.”

Mason said excitedly, “How did you get that, Paul?”

Drake said, “Talking with a queer old hobo who lives in a scrap house down on the edge of the railroad right of way near where Wenston has his landing field. You know the sort. They squat down on waste land that no one cares anything about and build houses out of flattened-out coal-oil tins, old pieces of corrugated iron, and a few boards here and there.”

Mason nodded.

“This chap’s seen Wenston take off and come back from trips. Occasionally a passenger gets aboard or gets out down at the far end of the landing field. A heavy-set man who’s probably Johns Blaine is always on hand. Also there’s a Chinese. The passenger usually walks the few steps from the plane to the automobile, and gets in. He walks rather slowly, but he walks. From the description, it has to be Karr.”

“Is that hobo on the level?” Mason asked.

“I can’t guarantee him,” Drake said. “I think he’s okay, but he’s a queer cuss. I spotted his shack and thought it might be worth while trying to pump him for information. You told me to get a line on Wenston. I don’t think any amount of money would have bribed the old codger, but I got some old clothes and a roll of blankets and came walking along the railroad. I stopped to pass the time of day with him, and had a bottle of cheap liquor in my blanket roll. We got pretty well plastered. I’ve still got a headache from it. But he loosened up and told me a lot of stuff.”

Mason grinned. “Perhaps I’d better go out and talk with him.”

Drake said, “You! Hell’s bells, Perry, if you’d had to go through what I did, you’d have died. That booze was awful. My head feels like a toy balloon just before it busts.”

Mason slid off of Drake’s desk, said, “Why don’t you get better booze when you want to get plastered, Paul? It’s on the expense account. First time I ever knew you to economize on it.”

Drake said grimly, “Yeah. A nice time I’d have hitting the rails as a hobo, and then pulling a bottle of bonded hooch out of my blanket roll. Here I sit up most of the night finding bodies for you, grab a couple of hours’ sleep, go out and get drunk on cheap rotgut, and this is all the thanks I get.”