Phyllis Leeds sat across from Mason in the big leather chair, her eyes darkened by apprehension and fear of what was to follow. Mason said, “There’s no way of breaking it gently, Miss Leeds, so brace yourself.”
“About Uncle Alden?” she asked.
“Not directly,” Mason said. “It’s about John Milicant. He was found in his apartment about an hour ago by a maid. He’d been murdered.”
“Murdered?”
Mason nodded. “A carving knife stuck in the back, a little above the left shoulder. The blade forward and downward.”
“Good Heavens!” she exclaimed.
“Paul Drake had operatives on the job all last night,” Mason went on. “We know everyone who entered the apartment house where Milicant had his apartment — everyone, that is, that went to the sixth floor. Among those persons was a Marcia Whittaker, whom John Milicant intended to marry, and a man who answers the description of your Uncle Alden.”
“Uncle Alden!” she exclaimed. “That’s impossible!”
Mason said, “So far we’re working on incomplete data. I’m telling you what we have.”
“But there’s some mistake. It couldn’t have been Uncle Alden.”
“All right,” Mason said, “we’ll assume that it wasn’t your Uncle Alden.”
“The way you say it sounds as though you thought it was he.”
Mason said quietly, “I think it was,” and then went on, “The last person to enter that apartment was Marcia Whittaker. She says she found the apartment locked, that she pounded on the door and got no answer. She waited around in the corridor for four or five minutes, calling John’s name and tapping on the door. When he didn’t answer, she finally left. She went back to her own flat, and, as I get the story, called police headquarters around five o’clock this morning, telling them she thought something was wrong and asking them to make an investigation. They made a very routine investigation. They keep the names of persons injured in automobile accidents and persons taken to the emergency hospitals. They checked through those lists and found no record of a Louie Conway — which was the name under which Marcia knew John Milicant. They naturally reached the conclusion that it was a stand-up and paid no further attention to it.”
“Do you mean that John Milicant was Louie Conway... the one Uncle Alden made the check to? Did...”
As her voice trailed off into silence, Mason said, “Yes.”
“I can’t believe it... Are you certain?”
“Marcia Whittaker says he was, and it looks like it. Have you heard anything from Ned Barkler?”
“No. He packed up and left, bag and baggage.”
“He told me he was going,” Mason said. “Tell me, do you know anything at all about a Bill Hogarty?”
She frowned. “Bill Hogarty,” she repeated.
“Yes,” Mason said, watching her closely.
“I’ve heard the name,” she said, after a while. “I think I heard Ned Barkler and Uncle Alden talking about him once.”
“Do you know what was said?”
“No. I remember now. They were talking in low tones when I came into the room. Barkler had his back turned to me. I heard him say, ‘You got Hogarty’s...’ and then Uncle Alden frowned at him. He looked up and saw me, and quit talking.”
“Do you know how long ago that was?”
“No, I don’t. To tell you the truth, it didn’t impress me much at the time. I thought... ” She broke off and laughed nervously. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Mason, I thought I’d interrupted a smutty story. Have you told Emily? We must notify her.”
Mason shook his head. “The police haven’t been able to locate her.”
“But where is she?” Phyllis Leeds asked.
“That,” Mason said, “is what the police are interested in right now. She was at her brother’s apartment about six o’clock last night.”
“You mean the Conway apartment?”
“Yes.”
“But I can’t believe she knew that John was Conway.”
“I don’t think she knew it,” Mason said, “—until yesterday afternoon. But when she found it out, she knew enough about Conway to know where to find him.”
“How did she find out?”
“I told her.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
“Putting two and two together,” Mason said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to bother you with details or worry you. Look here, Miss Leeds. I have some information of the greatest value to your Uncle Alden. If he gets in touch with you, tell him that. Tell him to talk with me before he does a single thing or makes any statement to anyone. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“All right,” Mason said. “Go on home, sit tight, and don’t worry. I’m not going to burden you with a lot of details. I’m doing everything I can do — but I’m working in the dark.”
She rose obediently. “My head’s spinning like a top,” she said. “Why should Uncle Alden have given John Milicant twenty thousand dollars? Why should he have gone to see him? Why should...”
“Forget it,” Mason interrupted. “Things will move fast from now on. Answers will be uncovered faster than you can think up questions. Go home, sit tight, and see that your Uncle Alden gets in touch with me. And if the police question you, make Ned Barkler’s departure seem as casual as possible.”
She walked slowly toward the door, then turned to flash him a quick smile. “With you on the job, I feel that I don’t have to worry.”
“That’s the spirit,” Mason told her. “I’ll be on the job pretty much from now on.”
Drake entered the office less than ten minutes after Phyllis Leeds had departed. “Perry,” he asked suspiciously, “why did you want me to keep on the job last night and this morning and see if there were any unusual activities at Milicant’s apartment?”
Mason met the detective’s stare steadily. “Want me to tell you, Paul?” he asked.
“No,” Drake said hastily. “Lord knows why I asked that question in the first place. It’s just been sticking in my mind, that’s all.”
“Better get it out of your mind,” Mason said. “What else do you know?”
“The police figure robbery was one of the motives for Milicant’s murder. He always carried a wallet, and it was usually well filled. The wallet is gone. Someone certainly went through the apartment looking for something they may or may not have found. The place is a wreck.”
“Anything else?” Mason asked. “How about time of death? Have they fixed that?”
“Tentatively at around ten-thirty, somewhere between ten and ten-forty-five.”
Mason frowned. “Why the exactness?” he asked. “Good Lord, Paul, I could cite you cases by the dozen where the autopsy surgeons have missed the time of death by from twelve to twenty-four hours. Look at the New York case where the man killed the model.”
“I know,” Drake agreed, “but that’s where they figure on body temperature, rigor mortis, and things like that. This case is different. There’s no question on earth as to when he ate his dinner. Serle says they were discussing a business deal, and that he ordered up the dinner but can’t remember what time it was.
“He thinks it was around eight-thirty, and that he didn’t leave until around nine. But our men have clocked him in and clocked him out. What’s more, the waiter over at the restaurant remembers the occasion perfectly. The dinner was delivered at eight-ten. It consisted of broiled lamb chops, green peas, and baked potato. Once the autopsy surgeon knows when a meal was eaten, if death occurs before the food has left the stomach, he can fix the time of death very accurately.”
Mason hooked his thumbs through the armholes of his vest and started pacing the floor, his head thrust forward, eyes moodily contemplating the carpet. “That,” he said, “dumps it right in Marcia Whittaker’s lap.”
Drake nodded.
“Or,” Mason added, “on the shoulders of the old man.”
Drake said, “By the way, Perry, there’s no question about the identity of the old man. The police dug up a photograph of Leeds and showed it to my operatives. They identify it as being the photograph of the man who went up to that apartment.”
Drake fed a couple of sticks of chewing gum into his mouth. The expression of his face remained calmly tranquil, but his jaw moved with nervous rapidity.
After a moment, he said, “Milicant didn’t have diabetes, did he, Perry?”
“Not that I know of. I may be able to find out. Why?”
“A peculiar condition of the right foot. Four of the toes had been amputated. The autopsy surgeon figures it was due to gangrene, but found no present indication of a diabetic condition.”
Mason stared thoughtfully at Drake. “He walked with a slight limp,” he said. “It never occurred to me to find out the reason.”
Without changing the rhythm of his rapid gum-chewing, the detective nodded.
“You’re making a search for Leeds?”
“Yes. We’re checking on the airplanes — particularly those that went north.”
Mason said, “I want to talk with Serle.”
“Fat chance you’ll stand,” Drake said gloomily. “They’ve nailed him for conducting a lottery and selling lottery tickets. The police were looking for him at the very moment he was having dinner with Milicant.”
“What was the idea of the conference with Milicant? Do you know, Paul?”
“Apparently in regard to raising bail. After he left Milicant’s apartment, he told friends that he’d arranged to get cash bail and was going to surrender, that he could beat the rap hands down.”
“Then what happened?” Mason asked, interested.
“He hung around a pool room for two or three hours, then put through a call to Conway.”
“What time was that call?” Mason interrupted to ask.
“That’s just it,” Drake said. “We can’t get the exact time. I’ve had men working on it, and so have the police.”
“The police must be working fast,” Mason said.
“You bet they’re working fast,” Drake agreed. “My man got a hot lead, and beat the police to it by only ten minutes.”
“What did he find out, Paul?”
“Well, there are a couple of fellows who heard the conversation. One of them heard some of it, and another guy heard nearly all of it. Serle had told them he was supposed to call Conway around ten-thirty. He put through the call, and asked if everything was okay. Conway evidently told him it was. They talked for two or three minutes, and then Serle hung up. He played a game of pool for about ten minutes, then he called police headquarters, wanted to know what the hell they meant by raiding his joint, said his business was just as legal as any of the banknight schemes, and that he was going to prove it. He said he was coming up and surrender and make bail, and left right after that.
“Now, you can figure what that means. He had left Conway’s apartment shortly after eight o’clock. Evidently Conway had agreed to raise bail for him. But the joker was that Conway didn’t have the dough. He probably told Serle he knew where he could raise the money.
“You can see where it all ties in. Conway was blackmailing Alden Leeds. Leeds was to come up around ten o‘clock — evidently with another twenty grand. With that money in his jeans, Conway was going to bail Serle out.”
Mason, pacing the floor, said, “Paul, we’ve simply got to fix the time of that telephone call.”
“I know it,” Drake said. “If it was as late as ten-thirty, it will prove Milicant, or Conway, was alive after Leeds left.”
Mason said, “Hell, Paul, it must have been either while Leeds was there, or right after he’d left. Conway must have told Serle that the dough was ready. Serle went down and gave himself up on the strength of it.”
“Well,” Drake said, “it’s just one of those things. No one seems to have bothered about the exact time. Apparently, Serle doesn’t have the time element fixed very clearly in his mind. He thought it was nearly nine o‘clock before he left Conway’s apartment. We know it was before eight-thirty. He was down at the pool room by nine o’clock. He said he was to call Conway around ten-thirty. The men who heard the telephone conversation think it was right around ten-thirty, but the point is, they aren’t sure.”
Mason said, “How about checking it the other way, Paul? The police records must show when Serle was booked.”
“They do, but he gave himself up sometime before he was booked. Estimates vary from as little as five minutes to as much as twenty. He was booked at ten-fifty-five.”
Mason said, “I’ve got to talk with Serle.”
Drake said, “The cops hold all the trumps. Remember, they have a felony rap on Serle.”
“What happened to his bail?” Mason asked.
“There wasn’t any bail. It was fixed at five grand. Serle squawked his head off and tried to get it at a thousand, but they sat tight at five. By the time the argument was over, and Serle called for Conway to come down and put up the bail, it was around eleven-thirty. By that time, of course, there was no answer on the phone. Serle thought Conway had given him a double cross, and he was so damn mad he could hardly talk. He kept calling Conway’s place until the cops threw him in the cooler. They won’t let him out now until he’s signed a written statement, and you can figure that statement ain’t going to help us any.”
Mason said, “Look here, Paul. Our only chance is to mix this thing all up, so the D.A. doesn’t know just what to go after, and then grab the facts we want out of the scramble.”
Drake nodded, but without enthusiasm. “It isn’t going to be so easy, Perry,” he said.
The telephone rang. Mason picked it up, said, “Hello,” and Drake’s secretary said, “Mr. Mason, would you mind passing the word on to Mr. Drake that operative number twelve telephoned in to report that Guy T. Serle is out walking the streets?”
“Thanks,” Mason said, “I will. Was there anything else?”
“No, just that,” she said.
Mason hung up the telephone, and said, “Serle’s out. — That was your office on the line.”
“Where did the report originate?” Drake asked.
“Your operative twelve.”
Drake said, “Well, there you are, Perry. They could have thrown the book at him a dozen different ways. He’s out walking the streets. That means he did just what the D.A. wanted him to.”
Mason said, “I want to get in touch with this bird. How can we fix it up so it seems casual?”
“We can’t,” Drake said.
“Sure we can,” Mason insisted. “What are his personal habits? How well do you know them?”
“We’ve covered him up one side and down the other,” Drake said.
Mason looked at his watch, drummed with his fingers, and abruptly inquired, “Does he eat lunch, Paul?”
“I’ll say he does. He’s a great eater, likes his food, and eats plenty of it.”
“Where do you suppose he’ll eat lunch today?”
Drake took a notebook from his pocket, opened it, and thumbed through the pages. “Here we are,” he said. “Complete data on the guy... H’mmmmm... Let me see where he eats... Here it is. Most of the time at the Home Kitchen Cafe down on East Ranchester. It’s only a couple of blocks from where he was running the business.”
“What does he look like?”
Drake read a description from the book. “Around forty, an even six feet, hundred and sixty pounds, gray eyes, long, straight nose, thin features, red hair, thin lips, always wears double-breasted suits.”
“Why should a bird who likes his grub eat at a dump on East Ranchester?” Mason asked.
“Because it’s a swell place to eat, Perry. My operatives looked it up. It’s run by a French couple. Serle kids one of the waitresses quite a bit, and she seems to like him.”
“Got her name?” Mason asked.
Drake turned over the page, ran his forefinger down the notes, and said, “Sure... Here it is... Hazel Stickland.”
“Does she figure in it?” Mason asked.
“I don’t think so. I told my men to collect everything they could on the bird, and they went to town.”
Mason said, “Think I’ll drop in there for lunch.”
“You might land him that way,” Drake said, “but it wouldn’t fool him any.”
“I’m not so certain I care about fooling him, Paul. He... ”
The door from the outer office opened, and Della Street came breezing in. “Hi, Paul,” she said, by way of greeting. “How’s the sleep?”
Drake groaned. “Not worth mentioning, and I’m headed back to put my nose to the grindstone... So long.”
When he had gone, Mason said to Della Street, “What did the handwriting expert say?”
“He’ll try and get us a preliminary report just as soon as possible. It’s not a report that he’d swear to, but it’ll be something you can bank on just the same. What was in the envelope, Chief, and why did you rush it over to the expert?”
Mason said, “An omelet that I can’t unscramble. Photostatic copies of hotel registers back in October of 1907, the Regina Hotel at Dawson, the Golden North Hotel at Skagway, a hotel at White Horse, and one in Seattle.”
“What do they show?”
“The signatures of Bill Hogarty.”
“What else?” she asked.
“There was a letter written by Leeds to John Milicant, dated thirty days ago, stating that he had never heard of Mr. B. C. Hogar, and that if Mr. Hogar presumed to give him a reference, it was an indication that Hogar would stand investigation. There was an old yellowed newspaper clipping from a Dawson paper telling about the finding of a body in the Tanana district. The body showed evidence of violence. The clipping doesn’t state specifically what was found. It goes on to say that the body had been tentatively identified as that of an Alden Leeds who had been in partnership with a Bill Hogarty and was reputed to have struck it rich, that Hogarty had left the Klondike district in the fall of 1907 after coming upstream from the Tanana district. He had been traced as far as Seattle where he had married a girl who had been employed in the ‘M and N Dance Hall’ at Dawson. At this late date — the article was dated 1912 — the police had been unable to find any further trace of either party.”
Della Street frowned. “What does that add up to, Chief?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “There were a lot of other things, photographs, location notices, things which had evidently been collected with the greatest care.”
“And who’s B. C. Hogar?” she asked.
Mason smiled and said, “He might be Bill Hogarty under another name.”
“Then the first initial would be ‘W,’” she said. “Bill is a nickname for William.”
Mason nodded. “And, on the other hand,” he went on, “it might be that someone who suspected rather strongly that Alden Leeds was in reality Bill Hogarty, wanted him to sign the name, ‘Bill Hogarty,’ for the purpose of checking handwriting, but naturally he was afraid to let the cat out of the bag, so he wrote a letter asking information about a B. C. Hogar, and Leeds, without suspecting what was in the wind, answered the letter in such a way that he wrote the name not only once but twice.”
The telephone rang. Mason looked at his wrist watch and said, “I’ll bet Stive has a golf engagement this afternoon and broke his neck to get an opinion in just before twelve.”
He lifted the receiver, said, “Hello,” and Gertrude Lade, at the switchboard, asked, “Do you want to talk with Mr. Stive, the handwriting expert?”
“Put him on,” Mason said.
A moment later, Milton Stive said, “Hello, Mason. I can’t give you a lot of reasons backing up my conclusion as yet, but the letter dated last month was written by the same person who signed the hotel registers ‘Bill Hogarty.’”
“You’re certain?” Mason asked.
“A good handwriting expert offers only his opinion,” Stive said, “but in this instance it’s virtually a mathematical certainty. There are, of course, certain allowances to be made for the lapse of time. There has evidently been an interval of thirty-two years in the signatures. A man’s handwriting naturally changes, particularly when the thirty-two years’ lapse carries over the period of greatest physical efficiency. We naturally would expect to find the curves more angular, the style a little more cramped, but, making proper allowances for that, the similarity between the capital ‘B’ in the ‘Bill’ and a comparison of the word ‘Hogar’ and ‘Hogarty’ remove any possible doubt. I have photographed one of the Hogarty signatures, and have photographed the name ‘Hogar,’ on an exactly identical scale. I have then superimposed the two photographs, and there is more than a similarity. There is a virtual identity.”
Mason shot Della Street a swift wink. “When can you give me a complete written opinion, Stive?” he asked.
Stive cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “not before Monday evening at the earliest. It would require a great deal of work. In addition to that, it would be necessary to make certain photographs and...”
Mason interrupted with a laugh. “Oh, go ahead and shoot your golf, you big bluff, and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
Mason hung up the receiver, said to Della Street, “I’m going out and try to locate Serle, Della. I think he’ll eat at the Home Kitchen Cafe. Stick around the office, keep in touch with developments, and eat after I get back.”
“Okay, Chief. How about the outer office?”
“Close it up,” Mason said. “Give Phyllis Leeds a ring after a while just to let her know we’re on the job. Don’t tell her anything that she couldn’t read in the newspapers. Ask her if she knew John Milicant had a crippled foot, and see if she knows how it happened.”