“They’re on. Four men are out right now, and two more are on their way.”
Mason nodded to Della Street, said, “Get your hat and a notebook, Della. We’ll leave Paul here to handle this end of the business. You and I are going to chase a red herring.”
Into the phone he said, “That’s fine, Paul, you stay on the job. I’m going out to take a look at Mr. Daniel Caffee.”
“Okay, Perry, I’ll get all the dope on Argyle. However, he’ll know that we’re investigating him. I can’t have my men contact these club members without some of them getting in touch with Argyle and telling him what’s going on.”
“That’s all right,” Mason said. “That’s the way I want it. Let’s let him know we’re on the job.”
Mason hung up the phone, said, “Come on, Della, let’s go.”
Chapter 7
Driving along Beachnut Street, Della Street said, “Why do you suppose a girl would pull a trick like that?”
“Probably to get a hundred bucks,” Mason said. “But, hang it, Della, there’s something about that girl which impresses me.”
“She’s a golddigger.”
“I know she’s a gold-digger. She took down the license number, intending to use it for blackmail. Then for some reason she didn’t. She saw die ad in the paper offering a hundred dollars. She couldn’t resist the temptation of cleaning up a hundred dollars where her action would be entirely within the law. Somehow or other the girl gives me the impression of telling the truth, and yet — well, hang it, Della, I’ve already seen Argyle’s automobile. It has dents on the back end; it’s been in a collision, the right rear wheel is brand-new, and...”
“And, of course,” Della Street said, “his story about the car having been stolen could have been true.”
“Just about one chance in a hundred, Della. Well, we’ll soon find out. Here’s 1017.”
Mason brought his car to a stop in front of a good-looking apartment house, quite obviously of the better class.
“What do we do?” Della Street asked. “Barge on in?”
“No,” Mason told her. “We look around a bit first. There’s a private garage down here in the basement. There’ll be someone in charge. Let’s park the car and take a look.”
Mason found a parking place for his car, then he and Della Street walked down the sharply inclined ramp to the garage.
The man in charge was parking cars.
Mason looked around the place, said to his secretary, “Keep looking for a big black Packard, Della. You take the left side, I’ll take the right. Let’s go.”
The man finished parking the car, called out, “Hey, you!”
Mason turned and waved his hand reassuringly.
Della said, “Here’s a Packard over here on the left.”
Mason took a quick look at the license number, said, “That’s the one, Della. Okay, let’s give it a once-over.”
The man who ran the garage was walking toward them now. “What do you folks want?” he called.
Mason, moving toward the rear of the Packard, said, “You talk with him, Della. Tell him we understand the car is for sale.”
The light was dim there in the back of the garage, but Mason could see that a new fender assembly had been put on the back of the car, that there was still a dent in the trunk and that the left rear tire bore marks of a deep gouge.
Mason heard Della Street explain that they understood the car was for sale and then heard the garage man insisting that they’d have to talk with Mr. Caffee about it.
Mason completed his hurried inspection, handed the garage man ten dollars and said, “Mr. Caffee is the one who offered the car to a friend of mine. I wanted to get the low-down on it.”
“Yes, sir,” the garage attendant said, instantly mollified.
“Now, as I understand it,” Mason said, “the car was in some sort of a wreck.”
“Oh no, sir, not a wreck. The car’s in wonderful shape. Just a minor traffic collision that made it necessary to put on a new fender. That is, the old fender could have been fixed up but Mr. Caffee’s very particular about the car, keeps it running like a watch.”
“I see,” Mason said. “When was this accident?”
“Oh, not very long ago — a couple of days. Mr. Caffee just got the car back. He has some sort of a pull with the car agency here. I don’t think the agency did the installation for him, though. I know he got the fender through them. Anyhow, the car wasn’t hurt a bit. It was just a little sideswipe. The rear bumper got most of the damage. It was torn loose from its supports, but that’s all been fixed up now.”
“I see,” Mason said. “Well, thanks a lot. I suppose Caffee is in now?”
“Oh yes, sir. Sure. When his car’s here, he’s here. He always drives when he goes out.”
“Married?”
“Yes. His wife has her own little coupe. She doesn’t like the big car. Mr. Caffee says he likes weight and power and speed — he’s that sort.”
“I see,” Mason said. “What’s the number of his apartment, by the way?”
“22-B.”
“Could you describe him to me?” Mason asked. “I always like to know the sort of chap I’m doing business with.”
“Why yes, sir. He’s — oh, I should say he was around fifty-five, rather slender, a quiet sort of man who always dresses in good taste, smokes cigars, wears double-breasted gray suits, nearly always gray. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in any other color.”
“Okay, thanks,” Mason said. “We’ll go see him. The car looks to me like a pretty good buy.”
“I didn’t have any idea he intended to sell it. He’s only had it a few months, and I know he likes it very much.”
“Can we take an elevator here?”
“Yes, sir. You can ring and the elevator comes right down here. As visitors, you’re supposed, of course, to stop by the desk and be announced.”
“I know,” Mason said, “but that’s a useless formality, under the circumstances. What floor is Apartment 22-B on?”
“The fifth floor.”
Mason said to Della Street, “Come on, Della. We’ll at least make Mr. Caffee an offer.”
The garage attendant pushed the buzzer which brought the elevator down to the basement.
Mason closed the door, punched the button for the fifth floor.
“Well?” Della Street asked.
Mason shook his head. “I’m going around in circles. This whole business is completely cockeyed.”
The elevator lurched to a stop at the fifth floor.
Mason pushed a mother-of-pearl button by the side of the door numbered 22-B, and within a few seconds the door was opened by a man with thin gray hair who was in the late fifties. He was attired in a double-breasted gray suit and was smoking a cigar.
“Mr. Caffee?” Mason asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Mason shoved a card at Caffee, said, “I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer. I want to talk with you about your automobile.”
“What about it?”
Mason pushed forward.
Caffee instinctively fell back. Mason and Della Street walked into the apartment.
“What about my automobile?” Caffee asked.
“I want to know about the accident you had on the third.”
Caffee stood rigid for a moment, then his lip began to quiver, the cigar almost fell from his mouth. Caffee clutched at it hurriedly, cleared his throat, said, “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” Mason charged, his manner radiating positive assurance. “Your automobile smashed into a Ford coupe at the intersection of Hickman Avenue and Vermesillo Drive. I suppose you’d had a few drinks, were afraid to stay and take the rap, and decided you could escape undetected. A look in the rearview mirror showed you that all eyes were focused on the car that was crashing into the lamppost You were going fast and you kept on going fast.”