Erle Gardner - The Case of the Rolling Bones

Drake fed a couple of sticks of chewing gum into his mouth. The expression of his face remained calmly tranquil, but his jaw moved with nervous rapidity.

After a moment, he said, “Milicant didn’t have diabetes, did he, Perry?”

“Not that I know of. I may be able to find out. Why?”

“A peculiar condition of the right foot. Four of the toes had been amputated. The autopsy surgeon figures it was due to gangrene, but found no present indication of a diabetic condition.”

Mason stared thoughtfully at Drake. “He walked with a slight limp,” he said. “It never occurred to me to find out the reason.”

Without changing the rhythm of his rapid gum-chewing, the detective nodded.

“You’re making a search for Leeds?”

“Yes. We’re checking on the airplanes — particularly those that went north.”

Mason said, “I want to talk with Serle.”

“Fat chance you’ll stand,” Drake said gloomily. “They’ve nailed him for conducting a lottery and selling lottery tickets. The police were looking for him at the very moment he was having dinner with Milicant.”

“What was the idea of the conference with Milicant? Do you know, Paul?”

“Apparently in regard to raising bail. After he left Milicant’s apartment, he told friends that he’d arranged to get cash bail and was going to surrender, that he could beat the rap hands down.”

“Then what happened?” Mason asked, interested.

“He hung around a pool room for two or three hours, then put through a call to Conway.”

“What time was that call?” Mason interrupted to ask.

“That’s just it,” Drake said. “We can’t get the exact time. I’ve had men working on it, and so have the police.”

“The police must be working fast,” Mason said.

“You bet they’re working fast,” Drake agreed. “My man got a hot lead, and beat the police to it by only ten minutes.”

“What did he find out, Paul?”

“Well, there are a couple of fellows who heard the conversation. One of them heard some of it, and another guy heard nearly all of it. Serle had told them he was supposed to call Conway around ten-thirty. He put through the call, and asked if everything was okay. Conway evidently told him it was. They talked for two or three minutes, and then Serle hung up. He played a game of pool for about ten minutes, then he called police headquarters, wanted to know what the hell they meant by raiding his joint, said his business was just as legal as any of the banknight schemes, and that he was going to prove it. He said he was coming up and surrender and make bail, and left right after that.

“Now, you can figure what that means. He had left Conway’s apartment shortly after eight o’clock. Evidently Conway had agreed to raise bail for him. But the joker was that Conway didn’t have the dough. He probably told Serle he knew where he could raise the money.

“You can see where it all ties in. Conway was blackmailing Alden Leeds. Leeds was to come up around ten o‘clock — evidently with another twenty grand. With that money in his jeans, Conway was going to bail Serle out.”

Mason, pacing the floor, said, “Paul, we’ve simply got to fix the time of that telephone call.”

“I know it,” Drake said. “If it was as late as ten-thirty, it will prove Milicant, or Conway, was alive after Leeds left.”

Mason said, “Hell, Paul, it must have been either while Leeds was there, or right after he’d left. Conway must have told Serle that the dough was ready. Serle went down and gave himself up on the strength of it.”

“Well,” Drake said, “it’s just one of those things. No one seems to have bothered about the exact time. Apparently, Serle doesn’t have the time element fixed very clearly in his mind. He thought it was nearly nine o‘clock before he left Conway’s apartment. We know it was before eight-thirty. He was down at the pool room by nine o’clock. He said he was to call Conway around ten-thirty. The men who heard the telephone conversation think it was right around ten-thirty, but the point is, they aren’t sure.”

Mason said, “How about checking it the other way, Paul? The police records must show when Serle was booked.”

“They do, but he gave himself up sometime before he was booked. Estimates vary from as little as five minutes to as much as twenty. He was booked at ten-fifty-five.”

Mason said, “I’ve got to talk with Serle.”

Drake said, “The cops hold all the trumps. Remember, they have a felony rap on Serle.”

“What happened to his bail?” Mason asked.

“There wasn’t any bail. It was fixed at five grand. Serle squawked his head off and tried to get it at a thousand, but they sat tight at five. By the time the argument was over, and Serle called for Conway to come down and put up the bail, it was around eleven-thirty. By that time, of course, there was no answer on the phone. Serle thought Conway had given him a double cross, and he was so damn mad he could hardly talk. He kept calling Conway’s place until the cops threw him in the cooler. They won’t let him out now until he’s signed a written statement, and you can figure that statement ain’t going to help us any.”

Mason said, “Look here, Paul. Our only chance is to mix this thing all up, so the D.A. doesn’t know just what to go after, and then grab the facts we want out of the scramble.”

Drake nodded, but without enthusiasm. “It isn’t going to be so easy, Perry,” he said.

The telephone rang. Mason picked it up, said, “Hello,” and Drake’s secretary said, “Mr. Mason, would you mind passing the word on to Mr. Drake that operative number twelve telephoned in to report that Guy T. Serle is out walking the streets?”

“Thanks,” Mason said, “I will. Was there anything else?”

“No, just that,” she said.

Mason hung up the telephone, and said, “Serle’s out. — That was your office on the line.”

“Where did the report originate?” Drake asked.

“Your operative twelve.”

Drake said, “Well, there you are, Perry. They could have thrown the book at him a dozen different ways. He’s out walking the streets. That means he did just what the D.A. wanted him to.”

Mason said, “I want to get in touch with this bird. How can we fix it up so it seems casual?”

“We can’t,” Drake said.

“Sure we can,” Mason insisted. “What are his personal habits? How well do you know them?”

“We’ve covered him up one side and down the other,” Drake said.

Mason looked at his watch, drummed with his fingers, and abruptly inquired, “Does he eat lunch, Paul?”

“I’ll say he does. He’s a great eater, likes his food, and eats plenty of it.”

“Where do you suppose he’ll eat lunch today?”

Drake took a notebook from his pocket, opened it, and thumbed through the pages. “Here we are,” he said. “Complete data on the guy... H’mmmmm... Let me see where he eats... Here it is. Most of the time at the Home Kitchen Cafe down on East Ranchester. It’s only a couple of blocks from where he was running the business.”

“What does he look like?”

Drake read a description from the book. “Around forty, an even six feet, hundred and sixty pounds, gray eyes, long, straight nose, thin features, red hair, thin lips, always wears double-breasted suits.”

“Why should a bird who likes his grub eat at a dump on East Ranchester?” Mason asked.

“Because it’s a swell place to eat, Perry. My operatives looked it up. It’s run by a French couple. Serle kids one of the waitresses quite a bit, and she seems to like him.”

“Got her name?” Mason asked.

Drake turned over the page, ran his forefinger down the notes, and said, “Sure... Here it is... Hazel Stickland.”