Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, braced his tall, thin form languidly against the door jamb. The film which covered his slightly protruding eyes seemed like a veil drawn between his thoughts and the outer world. During moments of repose, his fish-like mouth hung partially open, giving his face an expression of droll humor. Even an acute observer would have admitted he looked more like a drunken undertaker than a detective.
“My God, Perry,” he said, in drawling protest, “don’t tell me you’re starting on another case.”
Mason nodded.
“I wish,” Drake went on in the same good-natured, drawling voice, “that you’d take a vacation for my health.”
“What’s the matter, Paul? Can’t you take it any more?”
Drake sauntered over to the big leather chair, sat down in it cross-wise, one of the chair’s arms supporting his back, the other catching his legs just back of the knees. “I’ve known you now for five years,” he said reproachfully, “and I never saw you yet when you weren’t in a hurry.”
“Well,” Mason told him crisply, “I’m not going to break the record now, Paul. Some time around noon, out near the corner of Fourteenth Street and Alsace Avenue, a truck owned by the Trader’s Transfer Company smashed a coupe driven by Carl Packard of Altaville, California. It should be a cinch to chase down. Packard was injured, and the truck driver put him in the van and rushed him to a hospital. Find out which hospital, how seriously Packard was hurt, whether he’s insured, whether the truck’s insured, how the truck driver reported the accident, whether the trucking company will admit liability, and how much the case can be settled for by whichever party was in the wrong.”
Drake said, “And you want all of this in a hurry?”
“Yes. I’d like to have the information in an hour.”
“And that’s all you want?”
“No. Here’s another one. Walter Prescott, 1396 Alsace Avenue, suing his wife for divorce. Find out who his girl-friend is.”
“What makes you think he has one?”
“He short-changed his wife out of twelve thousand bucks. He didn’t put it in his business.”
“Any leads?” Drake asked.
“Nothing in particular. He’s an insurance adjuster. The firm name is Prescott & Wray, and they have offices in the Doran Building. Find out where he buys his flowers. Get a look at the delivery addresses at the florist’s. Have an operative bust into Prescott’s office and claim that a young woman driving Prescott’s automobile smashed into him and ripped off a fender and hasn’t settled. Watch what number he calls up when he refutes the story. Put a couple of shadows on him and find where he goes when he isn’t at the office.”
“Suppose he’s wise and doesn’t go?”
“Write him an anonymous letter that his sweetie has another boy-friend who calls on her every afternoon. Start him moving around, then see where he moves to.” Drake pulled a leather-covered notebook from his pocket and wrote names and addresses.
“Here’s something else,” Mason said. “A Stella Anderson has the house next door to the Prescott place. Apparently she’s the neighborhood gossip. Drop in and kid her along. See if she can’t give you a line on Prescott. Find out whether he spends his evenings home or is out a good part of the time and see if she dishes out any dirt on Prescott’s wife.”
“In other words,” Drake said mournfully, “you want everything.”
“That’s it,” Mason told him. “Put some operatives out doing the leg work. You’d better talk with Mrs. Snoops first, and then pull the rough stuff to make Prescott contact his girl-friend. You can write him an anonymous letter and send it special delivery. Put a couple of shadows on him—”
“Who’s the Snoops dame?” Drake asked.
Mason grinned. “I forgot about that. That’s a pet name for the Anderson woman.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. While you’re getting the low-down on the neighborhood gossip from Mrs. Anderson, find out about a necking party which she looked in on next door some time this morning.”
“What do you want me to find out about it?”
“Just get her description of it,” Mason said. “It sounds just a little fishy to me.”
“Don’t people neck in the mornings in that neighborhood?” Drake asked.
“It isn’t that. It’s just the way the thing was described to me. Okay, Paul, on your way.”
“How many men shall I turn loose on this thing?”
“All you need to get results in a hurry.”
“Any limit on expenses?”
“No limit,” Mason said. “This is my party.”
“What’s the idea? Getting benevolent?”
“No. I fell for a lame canary and what I thought was a mystery. This is what comes of it.”
“Sounds like a goofy case,” Drake said, pivoting around in the chair and getting to his feet.
“It is.”
“Okay. You want me to report by telephone?”
“Uh huh. Keep feeding stuff in to me as soon as you get it. If I’m not here, you can talk with Della. I’m going out and see a man.”
“About a dog?” Drake asked, grinning.
“About a canary.”
The detective frowned, “What’s the gag about the canary, Perry?”
“I don’t know. Tell me, Paul, why should a canary have a sore foot?”
“I’ll bite,” Drake countered. “Why should it?”
Mason motioned toward the door. “On your way,” he said. “You’re no help at all.”
The detective heaved an exaggerated sigh. “This,” he announced, “is a relief.”
“What is?” the lawyer asked.
“Because you didn’t want me to shadow the canary,” Drake said. “I was afraid you were going to turn him loose, ask me to get an airplane, a pair of binoculars, and submit a complete report on him from egg to cage.”
He opened the door a few inches and eased himself almost furtively into the corridor, his grin fading through the narrow opening as he silently pulled the door to.
Mason reached for his hat, said, “I’m going down to the pet store, Della.”
“Still worrying about the canary, Chief?”
He nodded. “Why should a canary have a sore foot? Why should a girl carry a canary through the streets and up to a law office?”
“Because her sister wants the canary put in a safe place.”
Mason said slowly, “Looks like her sister intends to be away for a while. And, when you come right down to it, Della, no one has told us where the sister is right now.”
“She said she didn’t know,” Della Street explained.
“That,” Mason told her, “is exactly my point. Damn it, don’t you take all the romance out of life. If I can squeeze a mystery out of this canary, I’m going to do it — even if I have to put him through a clothes wringer.”