Mason pushed his hands down deep into his pockets. “I wish we had a little more on her before we make the contact,” he said.
Drake said, “I can help on that too, Perry. You can prove that Jason Carrel is her boy friend all right.”
Mason’s eyes lit up. “That smug liar,” he said. “He had the crust to get on the witness stand and swear absolutely that there had never been any conversation among the relatives about what it would mean to them financially if they could keep Alden Leeds from marrying or making a will. He adopted the position that he was radiating sweetness and light. He just wanted to help his poor, dear uncle, and that was all he thought about.”
“What did he say about Inez Colton?” Drake asked.
“Swore he didn’t know her.”
Drake grinned and produced a photostatic copy of a traffic ticket.
“All right,” he said. “Let him try this on his piano. Here’s a traffic ticket showing a violation of the parking law — car parked between the hours of two A.M. and four A.M. The license number is that of Jason Carrel’s automobile, and after the citation was issued, a cute little trick showed up at the traffic department and paid the fine. Her name was Inez Colton. She wanted a receipt showing that the fine had been paid in cash. That’s rather unusual. The bail clerk made a notation on the traffic ticket. When I had him look it up, he found the receipt stub showing payment by this Colton baby.”
“This was the night of the murder?” Mason asked, excitedly.
“No, no,” Drake said. “This was two weeks before the murder. I had a tip the car sometimes stood out in front of the apartment house until the small hours of the morning. So I went up and checked through the traffic violations on the off-chance I might find something. I did.”
Mason said gleefully, “Hot dog! Wait until I slap him in the face with that and ask him how it happens that Inez Colton is paying the fines on his traffic citations. He claimed he didn’t know anything about her, had never seen her in his life.”
Mason pocketed the photostatic copy, and said, “Let’s eat, and then go call on Miss Colton, and see what she has to say. Della, you can take a shorthand notebook. Work as inconspicuously as possible, take down every word of the conversation.”
Della Street said, “Gosh, I’m too excited to eat.”
“Let’s us go to the Home Kitchen Café,” Mason said. “We can get a good square meal there.”
“Expense account?” Drake asked.
“Expense account,” Mason said.
At the Home Kitchen Café, they were waited on by the same waitress who had waited on Mason at lunch the day he had interviewed Serle. “Heard anything from Hazel?” the lawyer asked.
“Not a word,” she said. “No one’s heard anything.”
“Come on,” Drake said. “Let’s order.”
Della picked up her menu. The waitress said, “If you like the daily special, I’d recommend it — unless you want a short order.”
“Let’s see,” Della said, studying the menu. “What’s today?”
“Friday,” Drake snorted. “What a gal!”
“Friday,” Della said. “Well, I’ll take the fish special.”
Mason looked at the menu. “The roast lamb, for me,” he said to the waitress.
“Same here,” Drake told her.
“Do you,” Mason asked of Paul Drake, “have a correspondent in Yuma?”
Drake nodded. “There’s an agency there that will take over.”
Mason took a pencil from his pocket, turned the menu over, and wrote on the back of it, “Mrs. J. B. Beems, Border City Hotel, Yuma, Arizona.” He slid it across to the detective, and said, “Don’t repeat this out loud, Paul. Just remember the name and address. I want a damn clever operative put on that party.”
Drake read the name on the menu. “I can,” he said, “get someone on the job down there by telephone, and then can send down a clever woman operative to take over in the morning. She’s sixty-five, white haired, motherly, and could talk blood out of a turnip. — Well, what I mean is, listen blood out of a turnip. You know the type, Perry.”
Mason said, “That would be swell.”
The waitress appeared with large bowls of steaming soup, and Mason, folding the menu so she couldn’t see the name on the back, shoved it down into his pocket.
They ate hurriedly and for the most part in silence.
When they had finished, Drake said, “Gosh, Perry, I don’t know why any man would want to get married when restaurants serve meals like this.”
“You wouldn’t,” Della Street said.
“Ouch!” Drake observed, laughing.
Mason called the waitress, handed her a bill, and said, “Bring the gentleman over there half a dozen packages of gum.”
“What flavor?” she asked.
“Spearmint,” Drake said.
“What brand?”
“I don’t care, just so it’s gum.”
When she had gone, Mason said, “You have to admit, Paul, Leeds makes a good host.”
Drake said, “Well, a two-bit cigar would have been equally acceptable.”
The lawyer shook his head. “You’re going calling on a lady,” he said. “A cigar on top of this dinner would make you feel at peace with the world, generous, kindhearted, and impulsive. I want you to be your own sweet self, nervous, gum-chewy, and deceptive.”
Drake said, “Well, come on then. Let’s go and get it over with.”
“How,” Della Street asked, as they drew up in front of the apartment house, “will you find out what apartment she’s in, Chief?”
Mason said, “Oh, that’s routine to Paul. Just let him worry about it.”
Drake said, “Let’s go,” and led the way up to the entrance of the apartment house.
Mason pressed the button marked “Manager” and, a moment later, an electric buzz announced that the latch was released. The three pushed their way into an ornate little lobby, across from which a mahogany door bore the legend, “Manager.” Drake crossed and rang the bell. A few moments later, a tall, thin woman who had once had fire and charm in her wide brown eyes inquired, “Did you wish an apartment?”
“No,” Drake said. “We’re collecting a bill.”
The cordiality left her face.
“One of your most recent tenants,” Drake went on, “is a girl who’s been here before and ran up a bunch of bills. She’s about twenty-five, good figure, recently used henna on her hair, big, limpid eyes...”
“She hasn’t been here before,” the manager said. “She’s new.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two years.”
Drake frowned and said, “We’re from the Credit Bureau. My memo is that she was here about eighteen months ago under the name of Doraline Sprague.”
“Well, that’s not the one.”
“What name’s she going under now?”
“Her own.”
Drake said impatiently, “Well, let’s have it, if we’re on the wrong track, we want to know it.”
“Helen Reid.”
“What’s her number?”
“Twelve B.”
“What floor?”
“Second floor.”
Mason said, after the manner of one pouring oil on troubled waters, “Why don’t you go and have a frank talk with her, Paul? After all, the bill isn’t large. You don’t want to make a mistake. A lawyer will cost you money, and cause her a lot of trouble. You might make her lose her job.”
Drake hesitated.
“Go ahead. Talk with her, Paul,” Della Street pleaded. “I’m satisfied that’s the only way.”
“What’s the use of talking with her?” Drake said. “She’d lie out of it. We’ve got all the stuff we need. Let her prove she isn’t the one. I think she is.”