“Now tell me why you need Paul Drake,” Della said.
Mason said, “I need a lot of facts dug out before Tragg closes the case with a lot of half truths.”
“Do you think Shore was telling you only half truths?”
Mason thoughtfully regarded the steaming surface of the coffee in his cup. “He was telling us the truth as he sees it. But he was seeing only a part of the picture. There’s nothing so deadly as a case built on circumstantial evidence composed of half truths.”
The cook slid hot, thick platters across the counter. Generous slices of ham, the golden yellow of fried eggs, and the rich brown of French-fried potatoes furnished a tempting visual background for the odors which came drifting up.
“We eat,” Mason said, “and do our thinking afterwards.”
“Your cheeseburgers are coming right along,” the man promised, picking up the toasted buns, putting the fillings in them, spreading them thickly with white, chopped onions. “Do you want mustard?”
“Lots of it,” Mason said.
They ate silently, concentrating on their food.
Della Street pushed her coffee cup across the counter for a refill.
“Why did Matilda Shore try to keep Lieutenant Tragg from knowing someone had poisoned her?”
“Quite evidently because there’s some connection between that and the poisoned kitten.”
“Was it an attempt on her life?”
“Looks that way.”
“Any ideas?” Della asked.
“It depends on the time element. Apparently the stout was kept in an icebox.”
“What makes you think it was?”
“Wouldn’t go flat so quickly after it was opened and poisoned. Probably she keeps several bottles in an icebox.”
“How did the poisoner make certain she was going to take the poisoned drink if she keeps several bottles on hand?”
“Probably by poisoning the nearest one — or perhaps by poisoning several.”
Mason shoved a five-dollar bill across the counter and looked at his wrist watch.
The attendant at the lunch counter made change. “More coffee, yes?”
“About half a cup,” Mason said. “That’s all I have time for.” He pushed back twenty-five cents out of the change, scooped the rest into his pocket, said, “Mighty good grub. We’ll be back again sometime.”
“In a hurry?” the attendant asked.
“Uh huh.”
He peered at them shrewdly through the upper part of his spectacles. “If anybody’d ask me,” he said, “looks as though you two was headed for Yuma on a marryin’ party.”
“Nobody asked you!” Della Street said, smiling.
Mason took another twenty-five cent piece from his pocket, slipped it under his plate.
“What’s that for?” the man asked.
“The idea,” Mason said, grinning. “Come on, Della. Let’s go.”
They raced through the streets to the building where Mason had his office. Paul Drake’s detective agency was on the same floor as the lawyer’s office but nearer the elevator. Mason opened the lighted door, looked in on the man who ran the office at night.
“The boss in yet?”
“Hello, Mr. Mason — no, he is taking this week off. I thought you knew.”
“If he should drop in, don’t mention me,” Mason grinned. “Just forget you saw me.”
They walked down the long, vacant corridor, their steps echoing hollowly against the walls. Dark doors on each side lettered with the names of business firms seemed like silent sentinels of dead business. The air in the hallway was musty and stale. Mason opened the door of his private office, switched on the lights. Della Street paused as he held the door open.
“That’s the elevator coming up again,” she said. “I’ll bet this is Paul Drake.”
Mason disappeared into the law library and closed the door. He could hear the steady rhythm of the approaching steps.
“It’s Paul, all right,” Della Street whispered from the other side of the door. “Nothing ever seems to change the tempo of that walk. He’s not stopping at his office.”
There was a soft knock on the door into the corridor. Della Street opened it a crack. Drake pushed it open the rest of the way, stalked in, slammed the door behind him. He looked at Della with slightly protruding eyes which held no hint of expression. Then he smiled sardonically. Tall, somewhat stooped, he had the manner of a professional undertaker making a midnight round of the mortuary.
“Hello, kid,” he said.
“Hello, Paul.” Della’s voice was uncertain.
“That was a good act. I didn’t know you had it in you.” He crossed swiftly to the door concealing Perry Mason and flung it open. “Come out of there, you cheap shyster! I’ll teach you to try the badger game on me.”
Mason came out, grinning. “I had a hunch you didn’t fall for it, but I didn’t say anything.”
There was a wail from Della Street. “You played up and led me on and pretended you thought I was serious, and all the time you were laughing at me!”
“Shucks, Della, I was admiring you. I wasn’t laughing at you.” His slow drawl was expressive, pungent. “I just know you too well.”
“Why did you come, then?” she demanded, pointing at him.
Paul Drake’s head drew in like a turtle’s, then lunged forward and snapped at the tinted red fingernail a few inches away from his face.
“I figured Perry needed me, and I guess I’ve had enough vacation. I was bored stiff,” he confessed, with his peculiar husky chuckle.
“Get this woman off my neck, Perry, and let’s get to work.”
He squirmed his way into his favorite, crossways position in the big, overstuffed leather chair. “What’s the excitement?”
For ten minutes Mason talked rapidly. Drake listened with his eyes closed.
“That’s the picture,” Mason wound up.
“Okay. What do I do?”
“Find out everything you can about Leech. Find out anything you can about all the members of the family, particularly what they’ve done since the hue and cry over Franklin’s disappearance died down.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. This man who telephoned Helen Kendal seems to have identified himself unmistakably as Franklin Shore, but in a case of this sort, you can’t overlook the possibility of an impostor. Now, this man Leech has either been in contact with Franklin Shore or else trying to slip over a fast one. Here’s a number,” Mason went on, opening up his notebook and tearing out a sheet of paper.
“Car license?” Drake asked.
“No. Laundry mark. Laundry mark on a handkerchief that was tied around some personal stuff that seems to have belonged to Shore. It was on the seat of the car beside Leech. Leech evidently brought them along to show that he actually was acting as intermediary for Shore.”
“Why the intermediary?”
“You’ve got me. Maybe Shore didn’t want to come back until he’d tossed his hat in the door first.”
“Would it have been kicked out?”
“Hard.”
Drake gave a low whistle. “Like that, eh?”
Mason nodded.
“Tragg know you’ve got this laundry mark?” Drake asked.
“I don’t think so. I fumbled around and pretended to be interested in the watch. That laundry mark struck me as being peculiar, Paul. I haven’t seen laundry marks inked on the hems of handkerchiefs for some time. Most laundries don’t do it any more. We should be able to trace Franklin Shore from that laundry mark.”
“Anything else?”
“That Castle Gate Hotel seems to be...”
“I know the dump,” Drake interrupted. “Bunch of promoters hang out there. Slick stock men. Phony mining-company stuff. Get-rich-quick oil businesses and that sort of thing. They don’t promote their rackets from the hotel, but use the Castle Gate as a place to hibernate when things go sour. If they start hitting the jackpot, they move into swanky hotels and apartments and put on the dog. If the police don’t get anything on them and the racket pays off, they move into the big-time. If the police do get something on them, they go to San Quentin. But when a racket doesn’t pay off, and the police haven’t anything on them, they sneak back to the Castle Gate to make contacts with each other and lie low until the beef has passed.”