Erle Gardner - The Case of the Rolling Bones

“At six-twenty-nine, John Milicant comes in. He’s accompanied by a tall, thin chap around forty that my operative identifies as Guy T. Serle. You remember he’s the one who took over the Conway Appliance Company. They’re smoking cigars. Serle seems sore as hell about something. After we got the dope later on, we found out how he could be sore.”

“What was the dope?” Mason asked.

“Police raided the Conway Appliance Company about five o’clock this afternoon. They confiscated a lot of equipment, picked up a couple of underlings, and there’s a felony warrant out for Serle.”

“Think he knew it when he was with Milicant?” Mason asked.

“He acted like it.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “go on.”

“Well, Serle went in at six-twenty-nine and out at six-thirty-eight. At six-fifty-seven, a blonde baby, who impressed the operative on duty as being a million dollars’ worth of pulchritude, went in, and five minutes later came out. From the description, I figure she’s Marcia Whittaker, although the operative didn’t know Marcia Whittaker.

“At seven-forty-one, Serle comes in again. At eight-ten, a restaurant a couple of doors down the street sent up two dinners. The operative checked back and found that the order had been telephoned in to the restaurant right around five minutes to eight. Evidently, Serle and Conway had a little more stuff to talk over, and grabbed a quick dinner while they were doing it.”

“Why quick?” Mason asked.

“Because Serle was out again at eight-twenty-three. A waiter called for the dishes at ten-forty. Well, now, here’s where we pulled our boner. At ten-five a man went in who was a stranger to all the operatives. He was an oldish man, thin, white haired, and straight as a ramrod. He was dressed in blue serge, didn’t wear an overcoat, had black patent leather shoes, and was smoking a cigar.”

“How long did he stay?” Mason asked.

“Eleven minutes. He was out at ten-sixteen.”

“How did you pull a boner, Paul?”

Drake said, “Because I figure this guy was Alden Leeds.”

“You didn’t tell Phyllis Leeds that, did you?” Mason asked apprehensively.

“Hell, no,” Drake said. “It’s bad enough to pull a boner, without telling a client about it.”

Mason nodded thoughtfully.

Della Street said, “I don’t see how you could have done things any differently, Paul.”

“I couldn’t,” Drake admitted, “unless I’d been up on my toes and played a hunch. You see reports were relayed to me. By the time I got this guy’s description, he’d left. But good detective work consists of a lot of luck and a lot of hunch playing. I might have anticipated Leeds would drop in, and been ready for him. I muffed that play.

“Well, that’s practically all. At ten-twenty-one, the blonde girl came back again. This time she was carrying an overnight bag. It looked as though she’d dropped in, fixed things up with Milicant, and was back for a longer visit after Milicant had got rid of all the business.”

“How long did she stay?” Mason asked.

“That’s just it,” Drake said. “She went in, and then came right back out at ten-thirty-two.”

“Did she leave the bag?”

“No, she evidently hadn’t even taken her hat off, just popped in and popped out again. I have a hunch something had happened, and Milicant wasn’t as glad to see her as she thought he was going to be.”

“Meaning what?” Mason asked.

“Meaning the sister,” Drake said. “The girl was in first at six-fifty-seven and was out by two minutes past seven. She came out looking happy. The next time the blonde shows up, the situation is radically different, and she comes out with her shoulders squared, her chin up in the air, and walks to the corner where she grabs a taxi.”

“Anything happen after that?” Mason asked.

“Not a thing,” Drake said.

Mason said, “Hell, Paul, I don’t see how you do any business in this office. You can’t pace the floor.”

Drake started to say something when one of the telephones rang. He answered it, received evidently a routine report because he looked at his watch, made a note, said, “Okay, stay on the job and keep reporting,” and hung up.

Before he could turn to say anything to the lawyer, another phone rang, and Drake picked up the receiver, said, “Okay, this is Drake talking. Put them on.” He turned to Mason, and said, “Seattle calling.” A few moments later he said, “Yes, this is Paul Drake. Go ahead and tell me what you’ve found.” Then for five minutes, beyond an occasional “Yes... Okay... Go on from there,” he said nothing, but scribbled notes on a sheet of paper. He said, “Make a complete report by way of confirmation and send it on by airmail,” hung up, and turned to Mason again.

“That was my Seattle correspondent,” he said. “They dug up old passenger lists of the steamship lines. Records show that Alden Leeds sailed for Dawson City via Skagway in 1906. In the latter part of 1906, he was reported in partnership with a man named Bill Hogarty in the Tanana country. Next winter it was reported Leeds was killed in a snowslide.”

“Killed!” Mason exclaimed.

“That’s the way the report runs. Shortly after that, Bill Hogarty came out. He’d struck it rich. Hogarty got as far as Seattle and vanished. Our correspondent wants to know if he’s to try and pick up the Hogarty trail.”

“Go to it, Paul,” Mason said. “Start from there.”

“Where do I stop?” Drake asked.

“Don’t stop,” Mason said. “Keep going,” then, turning to Della Street, “Come on, Della. Let’s go to an office where we can pace the floor.”

“Going to be there for a while?” Drake asked.

“Probably not,” Mason said. “With you on the job, I don’t see why we should lose a lot of sleep.”

Back in his office, Mason paced the floor, puffing away at his cigarette, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, his chin lowered, eyes fixed moodily on the carpet. All of the playboy spontaneity which had characterized him throughout the evening with Della Street had vanished.

Della Street sat in the big leather chair, her heels pulled up, her arms clasping her knees and holding her skirts tightly against her legs. Her eyes followed Perry Mason with solicitous concern.

The telephone sounded startlingly loud against the midnight silence of the office building.

“It must be Paul Drake,” Della Street said.

“No, Paul Drake would come in here — unless something important has happened, and he doesn’t dare to leave his own telephone.”

He scooped up the receiver and said, “Hello.”

A feminine voice said, “Mr. Perry Mason, the attorney?”

“Yes speaking. Who is this talking?”

“Long distance. San Francisco is calling you.”

Mason frowned at the telephone and said, “And how did you know that my office hours were from six P.M. until two A.M.?”

The long distance operator ignored the sally. Her voice was crisp and businesslike. “I tried your apartment, Mr. Mason, and then called the office. Just a moment, please... Go ahead. We’re ready with your call to Mr. Mason.”

A woman’s voice, sounding thin and frightened, said, “Mr. Mason, this is Miss Whittaker. Do you remember me, Marcia Whittaker?”

“Certainly,” Mason said. “Where are you now?”

“San Francisco.”

“How did you get there? You were here around ten o’clock, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I came up on a late plane. I’m calling from the airport now.”

“All right,” Mason said, “what is it?”

Her voice showed traces of hysteria. “I can’t do it,” she sobbed. “I can’t run away from it. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“Run away from what?” Mason asked.