Erle Gardner - The Case of the Baited Hook

OLE — A sleepy-eyed janitor

ROBERT PELTHAM — An architect of devious methods

“THE MASKED MISTRESS” — Who holds half the bait

DELLA STREET — Secretary par excellence

GERTIE — Switchboard operator and information clerk

ABIGAIL ESTHER TUMP — Who has imagination and ambition

PAUL DRAKE — Of the Drake Detective Agency

ALBERT TIDINGS — A mistrusted trustee

NADINE TIDINGS — His estranged wife

SERGEANT HOLCOMB — Of the Homicide Squad

BYRL GAILORD — A social climber

CARL MATTERN — Tiding’s secretary

MR. LOFTUS — Senior partner of Loftus & Cale, brokers

MR. GANTEN — Legal adviser to Loftus & Cale

EMERY B. BOLUS — President of the Western Prospecting Company

ADELLE HASTINGS — A penniless heiress

ARTHMONT A. FREEL — Who indulges in genteel blackmail

HAMILTON BERGER — District attorney

and PERRY MASON

Two persons in the city had the number of Perry Mason’s private, unlisted telephone. One was Della Street, Mason’s secretary, and the other Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency.

It was early in March, a blustery night with rain pelting at intervals against the windows. Wind howled around the cornices and fought its way through the narrow openings in the windows to billow the lace curtains of Mason’s apartment into weird shapes which alternately blossomed into white ghosts, collapsed, and dropped limply back against the casements.

Mason fought off the heavy lethargy of that deep sleep which comes during the first part of the night, to grope for the ringing telephone.

The instrument momentarily eluded his sleep-deadened fingers.

Mason’s right hand found the chain which dangled from the light over his bed. At the same time, his left, reaching for the telephone, became entangled with the cord and knocked the instrument to the floor.

Now thoroughly awake, he retrieved the telephone, placed the receiver to his ear, and said, “My gosh, Della, why don’t you go to bed at a decent hour?”

A man’s voice said, “Mr. Mason?”

Surprised, Mason said, “Yes. Who is it?”

The voice said crisply, “You are talking with Cash.”

Mason sat up in bed, bolstering himself against the pillow. “That’s nice,” he said. “How’s Carry?”

For a moment the voice was puzzled. “Carrie?” it asked. “I don’t know to whom you refer.”

“Come, come,” Mason said amiably. “If you’re Cash, you must know Carry.”

“Oh, a pun,” the voice said with the offended dignity of a man who has no sense of humor. “I didn’t understand at first.”

“What,” Mason asked, “do you want?”

“I want to come to your office.”

“And I,” Mason said, “want to stay in bed.”

The man at the other end of the line said, carefully clipping his words, “I have two one-thousand-dollar bills in my wallet, Mr. Mason. If you will come to your office and accept the employment I have to offer, I will give you those two one-thousand-dollar bills as a retainer. I will also arrange for a further payment of ten thousand dollars whenever you are called upon to take any action in my behalf.”

“Murder?” Mason asked.

The voice hesitated for a moment, then said, “No.”

“Let me have your full name.”

“I’m sorry. That’s impossible.”

Mason said irritably, “It only costs ten cents to put through a telephone call and talk big money. Before I go to the office I want to know with whom I’m dealing.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the voice said, “This is John L. Cragmore.”

“Where do you live?”

“5619 Union Drive.”

Mason said, “Okay. It’ll take me twenty minutes to get there. Can you be there by that time?”

“Yes,” the man said, and added courteously, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Mason,” and hung up the telephone.

Mason scrambled out of bed, closed the windows, and picked up the telephone directory. There was no Cragmore listed at the address given on Union Drive.

Mason dialed the number of the Drake Detective Agency. A night operative said in a bored monotone, “Drake Detective Agency.”

“Mason talking,” the lawyer said crisply. “I have an appointment in twenty minutes at my office. The man will probably drive up in a car. Put an operative at each end of the block. Check the license numbers of any cars that park anywhere in the block. Get all the dope you can, and have it ready when I call. I’ll drop in at your place just before I go to my office.”

Mason hung up the telephone, stripped off his pajamas, and hurriedly pulled on his clothes, noticing as he dressed that his wrist watch gave the hour as ten minutes past midnight. He ran a comb through the tangled mass of hair, struggled into a raincoat, gave a hasty look about the apartment, and paused to telephone the night clerk to have the hotel garage deliver his car. He switched off the lights, pulled the door shut, and rang for the elevator.

The Negro elevator boy looked at him curiously. “Rainin’ pow’ful hard, Mista Mason.”

“Cats and dogs?” Mason asked.

The boy flashed white teeth. “No, suh. Ducks and drakes. You goin’ out some place, suh?”

“There is,” Mason announced, “no rest for the wicked.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Meanin’ you’se wicked?” he asked.

“No,” Mason said with a grin, as the elevator slid to a smooth stop at the lobby floor. “My clients are.”

He greeted the night clerk on duty at the desk, said, “You got my message through to the garage man?”

“Yes, Mr. Mason. Your car will be waiting. Pretty wild night.”

Mason nodded absently, tossed his key to the desk, and strode across to the stairway which led to the garage, the skirts of his raincoat kicked about by the long strides of his legs. The clerk watched him curiously, the extent of his interest shown by the manner in which he weighed Mason’s key in his hand before placing it in the proper receptacle.

The lawyer acknowledged the greeting of the garage man, slid in behind the wheel of his big coupe, and sent it roaring up the spiral ramp of the garage. As he left the shelter of the garage, the wind swooped down upon him. Sheeted rain beat solidly on the body of the car, streamed down the windshield. Mason turned on the windshield wiper, shifted cautiously into second, and eased the wheels through the curb-high flood at the gutter.

The headlights reflected back from miniature geysers of water mushrooming up from the pavement ahead. Mason eased the car into high gear and settled down to the chore of driving through the rain-swept, all but deserted streets.

He noticed that there were no cars parked in the block in front of his office building. Over in the parking station, where Mason rented a regular stall, were two of the nondescript cars of the Drake Detective Agency, and no others. He parked and locked his automobile, and stepped out into the storm. Rain beat against his face, cascaded in rivulets from his raincoat, spattered against his ankles. Mason, who detested umbrellas, shoved his hands down deep into the pockets of his raincoat, lowered his head against the force of the storm, and sloshed through the puddles which had collected in the parking place, to push against the swinging door in the lighted lobby of his office building.

Streaks of moisture which seemed fresh indicated that others were there ahead of him. He paused at the elevator, rang the night bell which summoned the janitor, and waited for a full minute before the sleepy-eyed Swede, who had charge of the basement and night elevators, brought a cage up to the lobby floor.