Unintelligible words sounded thickly from behind the soggy towels.
Mason said, "Hell, we're not getting anywhere doing this. Let's see who this bird is." He calmly proceeded to go through the man's pockets. The man tried to push Mason away, then clutched his fingers for Mason's throat. Mason said, "Not had enough yet, eh?" and jabbed his fist into the pit of the other's stomach. As the struggle ceased he pulled objects from the man's pockets and handed them to Della Street. He discovered and passed over a wallet, a key container, a knife, a watch, a blackjack, a package of cigarettes, a cigarette lighter, fountain pen, pencil, and then a single key which had not been clipped into the leather key container. "Look 'em over, Della," he said, "and let's see who this bird is."
The man had fallen back on the couch now and lay perfectly motionless, only the hoarse sound of his sputtering breath, coming from behind the towels, showed that he was still alive. Della Street said, "He tried to murder me. I can tell the difference between someone just trying to smother my cries and someone really trying to kill me."
"All right," Mason said, "let's see who he is. Something tells me when we find out how this bird fits into the picture, we'll know a lot more than we do now."
Della laughed nervously as she opened the wallet. "My hand's shaking," she said. "Gosh, Chief, I was sc-c-ared."
Mason said, "We'll settle his hash. He's the one who knocked the bishop on the head. We can send him up for having that blackjack in his possession."
"Here's a driving license," she said, "made out to Peter Sacks. The address is 691 Ripley Building."
"Okay," Mason said, "what else?"
"Here are some business cards," she said, "State-Wide Detective Agency, Incorporated. Here's a license made out to Peter Sacks as a private detective."
Mason whistled.
"There are some papers in the wallet. Do you want those?"
"Everything."
"Here's a hundred dollars in twenties. Here's a wireless addressed to Bishop William Mallory, Steamship Monterey It reads: CHARLES W. SEATON KILLED SIX MONTHS AGO IN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT. I AM SETTLING HIS ESTATE. WRITING YOU IMPORTANT LETTER CARE OF MATSON COMPANY, SAN FRANCISCO. [Signed] JASPER PELTON, ATTORNEY."
"Now we're getting some place," Mason said. "What else, Della?"
"Here's a letter," she said, "from Jasper Pelton, an attorney in Bridgeville, Idaho. It's addressed to Bishop William Mallory, passenger on Steamship Monterey, care of Matson Navigation Company, San Francisco."
"Go ahead and read it," Mason said.
"My dear Bishop [she read], as the attorney settling the estate of Charles W. Seaton, I have received the radiogram which you sent Mr. Seaton, asking him to communicate with you immediately upon your arrival in San Francisco.
"Mrs. Seaton died some two years ago, leaving surviving her Charles W. Seaton and a daughter, Janice. Some six months ago Mr. Seaton was fatally injured in an auto wreck. He died within twenty-four hours after the injuries were received. At his bedside at the time of his death was his daughter, Janice, who is a trained nurse. I am mentioning this to you in detail because, during a lucid interval just before his death, Mr. Seaton very apparently tried to give us some message to be conveyed to you. He said several times, 'Bishop Mallory. Tell him... promise... don't want... read in newspaper...'
"I am giving you this verbatim because I took down as many of the words as we could understand. Unfortunately, Seaton was too weak to articulate clearly and most of his words were merely a rattle which could not be understood. He apparently sensed this and made several desperate attempts to get his message across, but died without being able to do so.
"At the time, I searched diligently throughout the United States for a Bishop Mallory, thinking that perhaps he might be able to shed some light upon what Mr. Seaton had been trying to tell us. I located a Bishop Mallory in New York and one in Kentucky. Neither of them remembered a Mr. Seaton, although they stated it might well have been possible Mr. Seaton had been in touch with them and they had forgotten about him, inasmuch as bishops come in contact with so many people.
"Mr. Seaton at one time had been in the possession of considerable property, but his financial affairs had become hopelessly involved within the last two years and, after deducting the claims which have been presented and allowed from the inventory value of the estate, it is doubtful if there will be much property to turn over to the daughter who is now, I believe, somewhere in Los Angeles. I do not have her present address, but will endeavor to get in touch with her through friends of hers and ask her to communicate with you. If you happen to be in Los Angeles you might locate her through the fact that she is a registered nurse.
"I am giving you this detailed information because I was a personal friend of Mr. Seaton, as well as a member of a fraternal organization in which he was active. I would like very much indeed to be able to send Janice something substantial from the estate, and if you know of any tangible or potential assets I would be glad to have you communicate with Miss Janice Seaton or with me."
"That all of it?" Mason asked.
"That's all of it except the signature. It's an awful scrawl."
"Well," Mason said, "we're commencing to get somewhere. Those are the papers that he..." He broke off as a voice from the door said, "What's coming off here?"
Mason whirled to face a dignified elderly gentleman whose close-cropped white mustache contrasted with the rich red of a florid complexion. The eyes were cold, steely and steady. From all appearances, the man might have been a banker, but there was an ominous menace in his eyes.
Mason said, "Where do you fit into the picture?"
"I'm Victor Stockton," the man said. "Does that mean anything to you?"
"No," Mason told him.
"You don't mean anything to me either."
Sacks, on the couch, had struggled to a sitting position at the sound of Stockton's voice. He pulled the bloody towels from his face. The frosty, gray eyes shifted from Mason to Sacks. "What did he do to you, Pete?" Stockton asked.
Sacks tried to say something, but his swollen lips and broken nose made the words inaudible.
Stockton turned back to Mason. "This man's my partner," he said. "I'm working with him on this case. I don't know who you are, but I'm going to find out."
Mason, his hands at his side, said, "Your friend Mr. Sacks broke into Bishop Mallory's room in the Regal Hotel and stole some papers. Were you in partnership with him on that deal?"
Stockton's eyes remained cold, nor did they so much as falter, but a film seemed to have been drawn over them. "Got any proof?" he asked.
Mason said, "You're damned right I've got proof."
Sacks made a lunge and tried to grab the letter from Della Street's hand. Mason caught his shoulder and pushed him back. Stockton started forward, his hand clawing at his hip.
Mason felt Della Street's body pressed against him, felt his right arm pulled slightly back. She pushed the cold butt of the .38 Mason had knocked from the detective's hand into his fingers. Mason moved his right hand forward. Stockton glimpsed the gun and froze into immobility. Mason said to Della Street, "Take down that phone and ask for police headquarters. Tell them..."