Mason said calmly, “In the first place, Della didn’t get any money. In the second place, she didn’t say she was Carlotta Lawley. She said she had a travelers’ check she wanted to cash. Get this, Tragg. A travelers’ check is different from any other check. There isn’t any such thing as a valid travelers’ check issued without any funds. The checks are paid for when they’re purchased, and the money remains on deposit.”
“And I suppose it’s quite all right for her to go around signing Carlotta Lawley’s name,” Tragg said.
Mason casually took the folded paper, which Carlotta Lawley had signed, from his pocket. He handed it to Tragg.
Tragg read it, and for a moment, there was a grim tightening of the line of his lips. Then an expression of triumph glittered in his eyes. He folded the document and pushed it down into his pocket. “All right, Mason,” he said, “the swap is satisfactory.”
“What swap?”
“You’ve got Della Street out of it at the expense of getting yourself in.”
“In what way?”
“This document shows on its face that it’s either a forgery or else you had a contact with Carlotta Lawley this morning.”
“I had that contact,” Mason said. “The document was signed then.”
“You realize what that means?”
“What?”
“You’ve been aiding and abetting in the commission of a felony.”
“I don’t think she committed any felony.”
“Well, she’s a fugitive from justice.”
“I wasn’t so advised.”
Tragg strove to keep his temper. “Well, you’re advised of it now. I want her.”
“For what?”
“I think she’s committed a felony.”
“What?”
“Murder.”
“That,” Mason said, “is different.”
“All right. Now, I’m going to ask you where she is.”
Mason said, quite calmly, “I don’t think she’s guilty, but, in view of your statement, I have no recourse except to tell you that last night while you were talking with Mildreth Faulkner, I heard a car drive up. I went out to the curb. It was Carlotta Lawley. I realized that the condition of her health made it imperative that she get immediate rest, that the strain of a long questioning might prove fatal. I instructed her to go to the Clearmount Hotel, register as Mrs. Charles X. Dunkurk of San Diego and wait for me, getting as much rest as she could in the meantime.”
Lieutenant Tragg’s eyes showed surprised incredulity which gave place to hot anger. “Dammit, Mason,” he said, “is this a story you’re making up out of whole cloth in order to put me off on a false trail? If it is, I’ll swear out a warrant for you myself and drag you down to headquarters.”
“You won’t drag me anywhere,” Mason said ominously.
“Where is she now?” Tragg asked. “Still at the hotel?”
Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’ve told you all I know. When I entered this office, so far as I knew, Mrs. Dunkurk was still in the Clearmount Hotel.”
A uniformed figure came hurrying through the door of the flower shop. A messenger boy walked rapidly to the office, jerked the door open, and said, “Is Mr. Peavis here?”
“Here,” Peavis said with a grin.
The boy handed him some folded documents which Peavis in turn handed to the process server. The process server said, “Mr. Mason, I hand you herewith a subpoena duces tecum ordering you to appear in court at the time set for the restraining order, and order to show cause in the case of Peavis versus Faulkner Flower Shops, Inc. You’ll note that by this subpoena you are ordered to bring into court any stock certificate in your possession or under your control, covering stock in the defendant corporation issued to one Carlotta Faulkner who subsequently became Mrs. Robert Lawley.”
The anger left Tragg’s face. He smiled, and the smile broadened into a grin. He looked across at Peavis approvingly, then at Mason. “And what a sweet fix that leaves you in, Counselor!”
He strode over to the telephone, dialed a number, and said, “This is Lieutenant Tragg of Homicide. I want some action. Get through to Sergeant Mahoney. Tell him to sew up the Clearmount Hotel. Do it fast. Get a couple of radio cars on the job first. There’s a Mrs. Dunkurk of San Diego registered there. I want her, and want her bad.”
He slammed up the telephone, said to the cashier, “That’s all, Miss Norton. You can return to work.”
He gave Mason one quick glance. For a moment, the triumph in his eyes changed to sympathy. “Tough luck,” he said, “but you asked for it.” Then he pushed open the door of the glass-enclosed office and all but ran down the long length of the store.
Chapter 11
Lieutenant Tragg and Detective Copeland sat in the back room of the drugstore. Bill Copeland was reading one of the True Detective magazines he had filched from the newsstand. An old-timer, Copeland took everything in stride. He frequently said, “I’ve seen ’em come, and I’ve seen ’em go. I’ve been publicly praised for catching ’em, and given hell for letting ’em slip through my fingers. It’s all in the day’s work, and you can’t work yourself into a stew over it. You gotta take ’em as they come.”
Lieutenant Tragg was nervous. At frequent intervals he peered through the square of colored glass which enabled the prescription clerk to look out into the brightly illuminated store. Tragg carefully studied every customer, and between times nervously paced the floor or stared at the doors as though he could entice his prey simply by visual concentration.
The drug clerk, putting up an order of capsules, said, “No need to worry, Lieutenant. I know him personally. If he comes in, it’ll be for a prescription. You’ll have all the time in the world.”
Bill Copeland looked up from his magazine, surveyed Tragg with the expression of interrupted contentment with which a grazing cow studies a moving object. He seemed utterly incapable of understanding Tragg’s nervousness.
For the second time within five minutes, Tragg consulted his wrist watch. “Well, I can’t waste time waiting here. After all, it’s just a hunch.”
Copeland marked his place in the magazine with the nail of a stubby, thick forefinger. He said, “I’ll handle ’m, Lieutenant. Keep in touch with a phone, and you’ll know it within thirty seconds of the time I get him.”
Tragg said wearily, “I guess I’ll have to do that. I did want to...” He broke off as a man in a pinstriped, double-breasted blue suit walked quickly into the store, shook his head at the young woman who moved up from the cigar counter to wait on him, and said, in a voice plainly audible to those in the back room, “I want the prescription clerk.”
Tragg said to the clerk, “Take a look at this, will you?”
The clerk looked over Tragg’s shoulder, then gently pushed him aside in order to get a better view.
“That’s your man,” he said simply.
Tragg released a long-drawn sigh. Copeland started to close the magazine, then thought better of it, and laid it face down on a corner of the table used for filling prescriptions, leaving it spread open at the page he had been reading.
Tragg gave his orders quickly. “I’ll slip out the side door. Give him his prescription right away. Don’t keep him waiting. As soon as he starts for the door, Bill, you come out from behind here and start following. You have your car outside. I have mine. Between us he shouldn’t get away, but don’t take any chances. As soon as we get an idea where he’s headed, I’ll move on ahead. If he sees you, or starts acting as though he was suspicious, toot your horn twice. At your signal, I’ll swing in front, and we’ll grab him for the pinch.”