Erle Gardner - The Case of the Baited Hook

“Some rain,” the janitor said, and yawned.

Mason crossed over to look at the register which persons entering the building at night must sign. “Anyone for me, Ole?” he asked.

“Not yet,” the janitor said. “Maybe she rain so much they don’t come on schedule.”

“Someone down from Drake’s office a few minutes ago?” Mason asked.

“Yah.”

“Still out?” Mason inquired.

“No. He comes back oop.”

“No one else been in in the meantime?”

“No.”

The janitor missed the floor by six inches with the elevator, and Mason said, “That’s good enough, Ole.”

The sliding doors rolled smoothly back, and Mason stepped out into the semi-darkness of the long corridor. He walked rapidly to where the corridor made a T, but in place of turning left to his own office, turned right toward the oblong of illumination which marked the frosted glass door of the Drake Detective Agency. He pushed open this door and crossed a small waiting room just large enough to accommodate an open bench and two straight-back chairs.

Behind an arch-shaped, grilled window marked “Information,” the night switchboard operator looked up, nodded, and pressed the button which released the catch on the swinging door.

Near a radiator, an undersized man was trying to dry the bottoms of his trousers. A soggy felt hat and a glistening raincoat hung on a rack near the radiator.

“Hello, Curly,” Mason said. “Did you give up?”

“Give up,” the operative asked, looking ruefully down at his wet shoes. “What do you mean, give up?”

“Ole says no one came up.”

“Yeah,” the operative said. “What Ole doesn’t know would fill a book.”

“Then someone came in?”

“Yeah. Two of ’em.”

“How did they get up?”

“The man,” Curly said, “pulled out a key ring, unlocked the door of one of the elevators, switched on the lights, and whisked himself and the woman up here just as neat as a pin. By the time I got up, the cage was there with the door locked and the lights out.”

“Did Ole notice it?” Mason asked, interested.

“No. He was too sleepy. He’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open.”

“Then there’s a man and a woman on this floor?”

“Uh huh.”

“How long ago?”

“They’ve been waiting about five minutes. Gosh, I wish you’d pick clear nights for your shadowing jobs. I felt like a guy trapped in a sunken submarine.”

“Where did you pick them up?”

“They came in a car. The man was driving. He dropped the woman in front of the lobby. Then he drove on and turned the comer. I figured he was parking the car, so I took it easy, tailed him into the building, and up to this floor.”

“How about the automobile?”

“I got the license number and checked on the registration. It’s owned by Robert Peltham of 3212 Oceanic. I checked up on him in the telephone directory. He’s listed as an architect.”

Mason thoughtfully took a cigarette case from his pocket, scraped a match on the side of the radiator, and began smoking. “How about the girl?”

“There’s something funny about her,” Curly said. “I call her a girl. I don’t know. She was a jane. That’s all I know. She’s all bundled up in a big black raincoat. She walks like her shoes were two sizes too big for her feet, and she kept a newspaper over her face.”

“A newspaper?” Mason asked.

“Uh huh. When she got out of the car, she put a newspaper up over her head as though to protect her hat, but I noticed she had the newspaper held over her face when they went up in the elevator. And that’s the last I’ve seen of them.”

“They’re on this floor?”

“The cage is.”

Mason said, “Find out all you can about Peltham.”

“I’m working on it,” Curly said. “Got an operative on the job now. Do you want me to report at your office?”

“No,” Mason said. “I’ll get in touch with you. In about fifteen minutes you’d better come in my office and get a drink of whiskey — unless Paul keeps a bottle in his desk.”

“Thanks a lot, Mr. Mason. I’ll be in.”

Mason said, “I’ll do better than that. I’ll put the bottle on a desk in the entrance room, and leave the door unlocked.”

“Gee, that’ll be swell. Thanks.”

Mason’s heels pounded echoes from the silent walls as he marched down the corridor toward the end of the passage where he had his office.

He saw no one, heard no sound save the pound of his own footfalls. He unlocked the door of the reception office, left it unlatched, and walked on into his private office. He opened the drawer of his desk, found a pint of whiskey, and was just placing it on the desk used by the information clerk when the door opened and a thinnish man in the late thirties said, “Mr. Mason, I presume?”

Mason nodded.

“I’m Peltham.”

Mason raised his eyebrows. “I thought the name was Cragmore,” he said.

“It was,” Peltham observed dryly, “but several things have caused me to change it.”

“May I ask what those things are?” Mason asked.

Peltham smiled, a frosty gesture of the lips. “To begin with,” he said, “I was followed from the time I parked my car. It was cleverly done — but I was followed just the same. I notice that the office of the Drake Detective Agency is on this floor. After you came up in the elevator, you went down to that office and were there for some five minutes. I notice that you are now placing a bottle of whiskey on your desk where it can be picked up. Under the circumstances, Mr. Mason, we’ll abandon our little subterfuge. The name is Peltham, and we won’t bother beating around the bush. You’ve won the first trick rather neatly — but don’t overbid your hand.”

Mason said, “Come in,” and indicated the door to his private office. “You’re alone?” he asked.

“You know I’m not.”

“Who’s the woman,” Mason asked; “—that is, does she enter into the case?”

“We’ll talk about that.”

Mason indicated a chair, slipped out of his raincoat, shook drops from the brim of his hat, and settled back in the big swivel chair behind the desk.

His visitor gravely took out a wallet. “I suppose, Mr. Mason,” he said, extracting two one-thousand-dollar bills, “that when I said I’d pay you two thousand dollars for taking this case, you hardly expected to see the color of my money so soon.”

He didn’t hand Mason the two one-thousand-dollar bills, but held them in his hand as though just ready to place them on the edge of Mason’s desk.

“What,” Mason asked, “is the case?”

“There isn’t any.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“I,” Peltham said, “am in trouble.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly what is it?”

Peltham said, “I don’t want you to bother about that. I have my own ways of handling those tilings. What I want you to do is to protect her.”

“From what?” Mason asked.

“From everything.”

“And who is she?”

Peltham said, “First I want to know whether you’ll accept the employment.”

“I’d have to know more about it,” Mason told him.

“What, for instance?”

“Exactly what you think is going to happen — what you want her protected against.”

Peltham lowered his eyes to study the carpet for several thoughtful seconds.

“She’s here,” Mason said. “Why not bring her in?”

Peltham raised his eyes to Mason. “Understand this, Mr. Mason,” he said. “No one must ever know the identity of this woman.”

“Why?”

“It’s dynamite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply that if it was known this woman had any connection with me, it would raise the very devil all around. It would bring about the very situation I’m trying to avoid.”