“Oh, my God!” Caffee exclaimed, and collapsed into a chair. His face seemed suddenly to be made of bread dough. His lips trembled.
“Well?” Mason demanded.
“You’ve got me,” Caffee said pathetically. “Why in the world did I ever do it?”
Della Street dropped into a chair, opened a shorthand book, balanced it on her knee, and started taking notes.
“You admit it?” Mason asked.
“Yes,” Caffee said, “I admit it. You’ve caught me. You’ve caught me dead to rights. I supposed at the time there was just property damage... Tell me... was anyone hint, Mr. Mason?”
“Two people were hurt,” Mason said. “The woman who was driving the car was shaken up. The son sustained a broken hip. He was slammed against the lamppost when the door of the car jerked itself open and spilled him out. It’s a wonder he didn’t crack his head and die.”
Daniel Caffee put long, bony hands to his head, moaned.
“Well,” Mason said, “what about it?”
“You’ve caught me,” Caffee repeated in abject contrition. “I suppose I’ll have to take my medicine. Mr. Mason, I give you my word, I didn’t know anyone had been hint. I kept hoping it was just a question of property damage and I was trying to find some way of paying off... I was a coward. I’d had a few drinks too many. You see, I’d met an old friend and we’d stopped in a cocktail lounge. Ordinarily I never drink if I’m going to drive. My wife was expecting me and I — well, I was late and I was trying to make time. I was going fast. I hit that intersection and honestly I didn’t see that other car until it was right on top of me. I thought I could give my car the gun and get by. I pushed the throttle down to the floor boards. My car has a marvelous pickup. It shot ahead and all but missed that other car, but that other car couldn’t seem to stop. It seemed to me to keep right on coming. It hit the rear end of my car and I guess my rear bumper snagged the front wheel and jerked the other car around and into the ornamental lighting pole.
“At first I thought I’d stop. Then I looked in the rearview mirror and, just as you say, I saw that everyone was running toward the other car. The street was clear ahead, and I knew that there were no traffic signals for half a dozen blocks, so I just kept the car rolling. I felt sure that no one had seen me well enough to recognize the car, and my car had suffered relatively little damage. If it hadn’t been for those drinks I’d never have even considered any such crazy idea.”
“What time was this?” Mason asked.
“I guess it must have been shortly after five o’clock, Mr. Mason.”
“Where?”
“Right there at the intersection of Hickman Avenue and Vermesillo Drive. I was traveling east on Vermesillo Drive and, as I say, I was hurrying right along.”
Mason glanced at Della Street’s busy pen.
“And the date?”
“The third of the month. Mr. Mason, I know that I’m in bad, but let’s do what we can to square it. I’m covered by insurance. I’ll get in touch with the insurance company and I know that they’ll make a generous settlement. In addition to that, I’ll make your clients a check for ten thousand dollars on my personal account. I suppose technically I’m guilty of hit-and-run and I’ll have to take my medicine there. And I do hope we can handle this without my wife finding out about it.”
“Your wife’s home now?”
“No, I’m expecting her in about thirty minutes.”
Mason narrowed his eyes, thinking the situation over.
He said, “Write out a brief statement of what you’ve just told me. Sign it and make a check for ten thousand dollars, payable to Robert L. Finchley.
“The hit-and-run angle you’ll have to handle with the police. I suppose under the circumstances, and in view of the payment, you may get probation. Now, while you’re writing out that statement and the check, do you have a telephone I can use?”
“Yes, sir, right over there on the table.”
Mason walked over to the telephone, asked for an outside line, gave the number of Drake’s office.
When he had Drake on the phone he said, “Paul, that Argyle thing was a false alarm. Call off your men.”
“The hell it’s a false alarm,” Drake said indignantly. “One of my men has a signed statement from the doorman at the Broadway Athletic Club. He says Argyle showed up in a taxicab about seven o’clock. He seemed all upset and nervous. He told the doorman he was going to report his car as having been stolen, and gave the guy a hundred bucks to swear Argyle had been there ever since noon. The doorman would have stayed put if my man hadn’t pulled everything in the quiver and told the guy he was going to the pen for compounding a felony.”
Mason remained silent.
“You there?” Drake asked.
“I’m here.”
“Argyle’s wife left him about six months ago. He’s a speculator in oil leases. He has two associates, Dudley Gates and Ross P. Hollister. Hollister lives in Santa del Barra and has the dough. Since Argyle’s wife left him Argyle has been living alone in his big house, only the chauffeur with him and a maid who comes in by die day. Argyle is well thought of at the club. He’s considered to have made a nice nest egg in that new oil field up north. He’d been drinking and was still a little woozy when he slipped the doorman at the club the hundred bucks. Now what more do you want than that, Perry? He’s your man.”
“He can’t be!”
“I take it you’re where you can’t talk without someone hearing you?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, don’t let him flimflam you, whoever he may be,” Drake said. “He’s giving you a run-around. Argyle’s the man you want.”
“He’s giving me a written confession and his personal check for ten thousand bucks,” Mason said in a low voice, and hung up the telephone just as he heard Paul Drake’s gasp of astonishment.
Chapter 8
Mason, driving his car rapidly along Beachnut Street, said to Della Street, “All right, Della, I’m going to take you down to the Ketterling Hotel. You’ll be able to get a taxi there. Go see Paul Drake, tell him about these new developments, then go to my office and wait for me to call you.
“I’m going back to talk with Argyle, then I’m going to that South Gondola Street address.”
“You be careful. I think that whole thing is a trap.”
“I know,” Mason said, “but someone is playing games and I want to find out who.”
Mason drove rapidly and in silence to the Ketterling Hotel.
Della said, “Now, as I understand it, I’m to contact Paul Drake, fill him in with what’s happened, and then go to the office and wait?”
“Right.”
“I’ll be there,” she told him, jumping out of the car. “Good luck to you.”
He grinned. “That’s the trouble, we’re shot with luck. We have two guilty drivers and only one smashup.”
He drove to Argyle’s house at 938 West Casino Boulevard. The big Buick was no longer in the driveway. Nor did Mason get any answer when he rang the bell on the front door.
He returned to his car and, driving more rapidly now, went at once to South Gondola Street, where he took the precaution of parking his car a couple of blocks from Lucille Barton’s address. Then, having walked to the apartment house, he circled around to the rear, to inspect the garages.
Without much difficulty he found the garage bearing the number “208.” The doors were closed, but not locked. The interior was dark and gloomy.
Mason opened the door far enough to enable him to see that there was no automobile in the garage.
Having satisfied himself on that point, Mason crossed the street and walked down to the corner to a cigar store where there was a public telephone.