The waiter withdrew. Alburg turned to Mason and said, “That’s awfully nice of you, Mr. Mason.”
“Glad to do it,” Mason said. “In fact, I’m curious now. What do you suppose they want?”
“What do they want? What do they want?” Alburg said. “They want that dame, of course, and they want the mink coat. Even if it isn’t hot they’ll take it as evidence. Two weeks from now the cop’s sweetie will be wearing it. What’ll I do with it? I...”
“Here,” Della Street said, “put it over the back of my chair. They’ll think it’s mine.”
Alburg hastily draped the mink coat over the back of Della Street’s chair. “I wouldn’t want to hold out on them,” he muttered, “but I don’t want them finding that mink coat here. You know how that’d look in the paper. ‘Police find a stolen mink coat in the possession of a waitress at Alburg’s restaurant,’ and everyone immediately thinks it was stolen from a customer. I...”
The curtains were pulled back. The waiter said, “Right in here.”
Two plain-clothes men entered the booth. One of them jerked his finger at Alburg and said, “This is the fellow.”
“Hello,” the other one said.
“Sit down, boys, sit down,” Alburg said. “The booths were all crowded and I was just talking with my friend in here, so he said...”
“That’s Mason, the lawyer,” one of the plain-clothes men said.
“That’s right. That’s right. Perry Mason, the lawyer. Now what seems to be the trouble, boys? What can I do for you?”
Mason said, “Miss Street, my secretary, gentlemen.”
The officers grunted an acknowledgment of the introduction. Neither one offered his name. The smaller of the two men did the talking.
The waiter brought two extra chairs, coffee and cigars.
“Anything else I can get for you?” Alburg asked. Anything—?”
“This is okay,” the officer who was doing the talking said. “Tell him to bring in a big pot of coffee. I like lots of cream and sugar. My partner drinks it black. Okay, Alburg, what’s the pitch?”
“What pitch?”
“You know, the waitress.”
“What about her?”
“The one that took a powder,” the officer said. “Come on, don’t waste time stalling around. What the hell’s the idea? You in on this?”
“I don’t get it,” Alburg said. “Why should you come to me? She was working here. You fellows spotted her, and she spotted you, so she ran out.”
The officers exchanged glances. The spokesman said, “What do you mean, spotted us?”
“She did, didn’t she?”
“Hell, no.”
“Then why did she leave?” Alburg asked.
“That’s what we came to see you about.”
“Well, then, how did you know she left?”
“Because somebody tried to make her get in a car that was parked down the alley. She wouldn’t do it. The guy had a gun. He took two shots at her. She started to run, got as far as the street, and was hit by a car that was trying to beat the light. The guy who was in the car that struck her wasn’t to blame. The signal light at the corner was green. The man in the other car, who pulled the gun, backed the length of the alley and drove away fast.”
Morris Alburg ran his hand over the top of his bald head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“So we want to know what about her, what happened. She had her purse with her. It shows her name is Dixie Dayton, and she works here. She’s been identified as a waitress who came running out of the alley. We found a waitress’s apron lying in the alley outside the back door. The dishwasher says she took it on the lam, fast. She grabbed her purse as she went by, but didn’t even stop to take off her apron until she got outside... Now, tell us about her.”
Morris Alburg shook his head. “I just told Mr. Mason all I know about her,” he said. “She came to work. She seemed to need the money. I had her pay check ready. She...”
“What’s her real name?”
“Dixie Dayton — that’s the name she gave me.”
“Sounds phony.”
“It did to me, too,” Alburg said, “but that was her name and that’s the way the check is made out.”
“Social Security number?”
“Oh, sure.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t remember it. It’s on the back of the check.”
“We’ll take a look. What made her run out?”
“Now you’ve got me,” Alburg said.
The police seemed to feel that finishing their coffee was more important than making a check-up.
“Anybody see what frightened her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Find out.”
Alburg got up from his chair, went out into the restaurant.
Della Street smiled inquisitively at the officers. “My, you certainly got on the job fast,” she said.
“Radio,” one of the men explained. “How do you folks get in on this?”
“We don’t,” Mason said. “We just finished eating. We were visiting with Morris. He told us about the waitress taking a powder.”
“How did he find it out?”
“Orders began to stack up, food started getting cold, people started complaining about the service.”
Alburg came back and said, “I can’t get a line on what scared her except it was...”
“What table was she waiting on?”
“She had four tables,” Alburg said. “She had started out with a tray. It had three water glasses and butter. We know that much for certain. More, we don’t know.”
“Three glasses?” Mason asked.
“That’s right.”
“That’s our clue,” the officer said. “Usually people dine alone, in pairs, or four. A crowd of three isn’t usual. That tells the story. She had three people at one of her tables. She started out to take the order and recognized them, or they recognized her.”
Alburg nodded.
“Where are the three?”
“They’re still here. I wish you wouldn’t question them though.”
“Why?”
“Because they got sore. They had to wait for service and they’re mad.”
“That’s all right,” the officer said, “we’re going to question them.”
“Can’t you do it quietly?”
“Oh, to hell with that stuff,” the officer said. “Someone tried to kill this babe. She was frightened by the persons at that table. We’re going to shake them down. They’ll be damned lucky if we don’t take them down to headquarters. Come on, Bill, let’s go.”
The officers finished their coffee, scraped back their chairs.
Alburg followed them out, protesting halfheartedly.
Mason looked at Della Street.
“The poor kid,” Della said.
“Let’s take a look,” Mason said.
“At what?”
“At the three people.”
He led the way, selecting a place from which they could see the table to which Morris Alburg escorted the officers.
The officers didn’t bother to put on an act. It was a shakedown, and everyone in the restaurant knew it was a shakedown.
The party consisted of two men and a girl. The men were past middle age, the girl was in the late twenties.
The officers didn’t even bother to draw up chairs and pretend they were friends. They stood by the table and made the shakedown. They made it complete. They demanded drivers’ licenses, cards, and any other means of identification.
Other diners turned curious heads. Conversation in the restaurant quieted until virtually everyone was staring at the little drama being enacted at the table.
Mason touched Della Street’s arm. “Notice the lone man eating steak,” he said. “Take a good look at him.”
“I don’t get it.”
“He’s sitting at a table all by himself, the chunky individual with the determined look. He has rather heavy eyebrows, coarse black hair, and...”