"Found any more bodies?" Tragg asked.

  Mason grinned. "You are always claiming I play a lone hand and don't take the police into my confidence. This time I am going to let you in on the ground floor."

  "Okay, sit down and confide."

  Mason dropped into a seat beside Tragg's desk, lit up a cigarette.

  "This Stephane Claire manslaughter case."

  "Oh, yes. I don't know too much about it. One of the other boys has been handling it. I understand the D.A.'s ready to go ahead. It's a county case."

  "Preliminary is on Friday," Mason said.

  "Well, it is out of my hands."

  "Not necessarily. You are interested in seeing justice done, aren't you?"

  Tragg's smile was somewhat whimsical. "Well, Mason, I am and I am not. The department has its own ideas of what constitutes justice. If we could uncover some evidence which would bolster the D.A's case, that would be justice. If we uncovered some evidence that wouldn't ... well, you know how it is."

  "Suppose you could find evidence that would pin the guilt on some other party?"

  Tragg rubbed his hand across his forehead, up ever his hair, and down to the back of his neck. His fingertips rubbed the base of his skull. "Lovely weather we are having," he said, "– for this time of year."

  Mason said, "All right, here is the dope. Stephane Claire wasn't driving that automobile. A man was. He is registered at the Gateview Hotel right now under the name of Walter Lossten. I am going out to see him. I am going to charge him with driving that car. I think I have enough dope on him so he will admit that he was the driver."

  "Well," Lieutenant Tragg said, "you could subpoena him to appear at the preliminary. If you could make him confess, that would be all there was to it. It is in the D.A.'s hands now."

  "You are not interested?"

  Tragg said, warily, "Oh, I wouldn't say that I wasn't interested. Mason. I am always interested, but you understand I have got a lot of irons in the fire. This is really out of my jurisdiction. There are several unsolved homicides I am working on. I don't think the department would care to have me... well, you know how it is."

  Mason pushed back his chair. "All right, you are always crabbing that I take short cuts on the police and don't give you an opportunity to cooperate."

  Tragg ran his hand over his hair once more, scratched around the base of his ears, seemed somewhat uncomfortable. "That Stephane Claire seems a nice kid," he said.

  "She is."

  "Somehow," Tragg went on, "I can't figure her as a girl who would steal a car, and ... This man is there now at the Gateview?"

  "Yes. What is more, I have a witness there, a Mrs. Warfield. I think she will identify this Lossten as a man by the name of Spinney, and I think the San Francisco police are interested in Spinney."

  Tragg impulsively pushed back his chair. "I may catch hell for this, Mason," he said, "but I am going to give you a play. You understand, after the D.A.'s office charges someone with a crime, it is up to the D.A.'s office to get a conviction, and up to us to help them. They won't take too kindly to the idea of me running around with the lawyer for the defendant trying to get a confession from some other party. You understand that."

  "I can appreciate how a prosecutor might feel," Mason admitted

  "All right, just understand it. I am going to stick my neck out. If you can make a case, I shall do something about it, but it is up to you to make it."

  Mason said, "I have a cab waiting . . ."

  "Cab, hell," Tragg said with a grin, "we can get there in half the time a cab would take. My car is outside."

  Tragg led the way to his coupe, equipped with red light and siren. "Hop in," he said to Mason. "Hold your hat."

  The lieutenant switched the motor into action, warmed it up for a few seconds, then swung away from the curb, and out into traffic. He made a left turn at a corner, waiting for the signal. Then, as he gathered speed and charged down on the next intersection, he kicked on the red light and siren, screamed through a closed traffic signal with gathering momentum, and shifted into high in the middle of the next block.

  Mason settled back in the seat.

  Tragg sent the machine whizzing through the frozen traffic, handling it with the deft skill of an artist. His hands didn't grip the wheel, but caressed it. It seemed that something flowed from his fingertips down through the steering post to guide the car, as though car and driver were one indivisible unit.

  It was less than four minutes from the time he had turned on the siren until he was slowing to a stop in front of the Gateview Hotel.

  "Remember," he said, as he opened the door and got out, "this is your show. I am a spectator."

  "Okay," Mason told him.

  Drake and one of Drake's operatives were waiting in the lobby.

  "Still up there?" Mason asked.

  Drake's face showed relief. "Yes. It seemed like you would never get here."

  "Hello Drake," Tragg said. "I couldn't have come any faster without tearing up the pavement."

  "It seemed like a long time," Drake said, and introduced his operative.

  "Well, let us go on up," Mason said.

  The clerk was looking at them curiously. "Please remember, gentlemen, that the hotel has tried to cooperate. If ..." He looked significantly at Tragg. "We had understood this was purely a private matter."

  "That's all right," Mason said. "Tragg's just the audience. Come on, boys. Let's go."

  The quartet stopped in front of the door from the knob of which hung the usual sign "Don't Disturb." Mason said, "I think this is the man who was driving Homan's car at the time of the accident, Tragg. If you would ask the questions, we might get more than ..."

  "Nothing doing," Tragg interrupted. "I am listening. As far as I am concerned, the case is closed. It is the D.A.'s baby."

  Mason said, "Have it your way, but be sure you listen."

  "What the hell do you think I brought my ears along for? Go ahead."

  Mason knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked again, more loudly.

  Lieutenant Tragg said, "This isn't a runaround, is it, Mason?"

  Mason glanced at Drake.

  Drake shook his head. "He is here – unless, of course ..."

  Mason said, "All right, let us get the manager with a passkey. I think it is a stall myself."

  Tragg took a leather key container from his pocket. "We might save ourselves a trip down to the lobby," he said. "I think one of these will do the work – unofficially, of course."

  He inserted a passkey, manipulated it for a moment without success. He tried the second passkey and the latch clicked smoothly back. Mason pushed open the door, started into the room, then suddenly stopped.

  Drake, looking over his shoulder, said, "Oh-oh!"

  Tragg, who had been holding back, said, "What's the matter in here?" and Mason and Drake stepped quickly to one side, disclosing the body of a man, lying face down on the counterpane of the hotel bed.

  Tragg whirled to Mason indignantly.

  "Dammit, Mason," he said, "if this was a plant..."

  "Don't be silly," Mason interrupted. "I had no idea this man was dead. I wanted you to hear him confess."

  Tragg said grimly, "I am inclined to believe you. And I am the only one in the department who will." He walked over to the bed, circled it, studying the position of the figure. "Don't you guys touch anything," he said irritably. "Better get out there in the corridor and wait."

  Neither Mason nor Drake made any move, but Drake's operative stepped back into the corridor.

  The man lay face down on the bed. His shoes were on. The double-breasted coat seemed to be buttoned. The counterpane had not been drawn back but still covered the bed and one of the pillows. The other pillow lay on the floor. The man was stretched diagonally across the bed, his right arm dangling over the edge. On the fourth finger of the hand was a diamond ring. There was a dark patch at the base of his skull, and a sinister dark trickle which had seeped down his neck across the collar of his coat to stain the bed. There had, however, been but little bleeding.

  Tragg stooped to examine the hole. "Small caliber bullet," he said, as though thinking aloud. "Gun held close. Powder burns. The tattooed type. Used that pillow on the floor to muffle the sound of the shot. Powder stains on it, too."

  "Going to turn him over?" Mason asked.

  Tragg said irritably, "I am not going to touch a damn thing until the coroner gets here. You two get out of here. Go on down to the lobby and wait. And be damned sure you don't leave. There is going to be a stink over this."

  "I tell you I had no idea this man was dead," Mason said. "In fact, I thought ..."

  "The newspaper boys aren't going to think so," Tragg interrupted, "and the Chief isn't going to think so. It looks as though you had made the department a cat's-paw so you wouldn't discover any more bodies."

  "What is the use?" Mason said to Drake. "Let us go."

  "While you are down in the lobby," Tragg said, "telephone headquarters, tell them I am here, tell them to send out the Homicide car. And don't go away, Mason. I want to ask you some questions."

  Mason and Drake picked up Drake's operative in the corridor. Mason said significantly, "Paul, wouldn't it be a good idea for your man to see if he couldn't get chummy with the telephone operator and find out if Lossten had any calls last night?"

  Drake said, "Shucks, Perry, you know he didn't have any calls. He got that room, went immediately to..."

  Mason nudged him with his elbow, and, as the detective ceased talking. Mason went on smoothly, "Well, you know, Paul, he might have done some telephoning, and those telephone calls would be on his bill. After Tragg gets the Homicide Squad here, he will sew everything up, and we won't be able to get any information at all."

  "I get you," Drake said, and then to the operative, "You understand what is required?"

  "Uh-huh. It is not going to be so easy, because the telephone operator who is on now won't be the one who was on last night."

  "Well, see what you can do," Mason said, "and you should better go on down in the elevator a few minutes before we do. We will give you a chance for a head start before we show up. And telephone Tragg's message to headquarters. Don't give out any information to anyone except the police."

  "I won't."

  When the elevator door had closed on Drake's operative. Mason said in a low voice, "Thought we would better get rid of him while we talk. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

  Drake said, "Shucks, Perry, we are in the clear on this."

  "That shows all you know about it."

  "What is wrong with it?"

  "In the first place, the baggage. Did you notice the baggage over in the corner of the room?"

  "No."

  "A suitcase and a hatbox," Mason said. "Mrs. Warfield's. Tragg, of course, thought it was the dead man's baggage. The coroner will open it, and then . . ."

  "Oh-oh!"

  "We have got to tell Tragg what we were doing here. We have been altogether too prominent around the place, what with Mrs. Warfield's disappearance and all that."

  "I suppose so," Drake admitted gloomily, "but he can't..."

  "Well, there was Mrs. Warfield's baggage over in the corner of the room."

  "Why the devil didn't she get it away from there?" Drake asked irritably.

  "Take it easy," Mason said. "We have got to reason this thing out. That Warfield woman certainly played us for a couple of suckers."

  "What do you think happened?"

  "This man followed us to the hotel, went down to her room, told her he had a message from her husband, or else told her that he was Spinney. He told her she was sticking her neck out, playing with the wrong crowd, that you were a private detective,

  and I was a lawyer, and that her husband would have a fit if he found out what she was doing. He told her to grab her baggage and come down to his room."

  "So far so good," Drake said, "but I can't figure the play after that."

  Mason said, "There is only one thing that could have happened."

  "What's that?"

  "She found out Spinney was double-crossing her, that her husband was double-crossing her. And the only way she could have found that out was by having seen Homan's picture with the Photoplay stamp on it. Don't you get it? She knew then that he was in pictures. Get the sketch?"

  Drake pursed his lips, "Damn it, yes."

  "Now, then," Mason went on in a low voice, "look at it from Tragg's viewpoint. He will think I am protecting Mrs. Warfield, that I advised her to beat it, and that the story we handed the hotel manager about her disappearance was merely a runaround."

  Drake's face twisted. "Damn" he said.

  "So watch your step," Mason warned. "And now let us go to the lobby."

  They went down in the elevator. Drake's operative came bustling toward them. "That Mrs. Warfield you wanted. She was in the hotel all the time."

  "What?"

  "The clerk was just telling me," the man said, "that she walked out not over ten minutes after Mr. Mason had paid the bill. The clerk spotted her in the lobby, and asked her to wait a minute. He said the manager wanted to see her, that he had a message for her from her brother-in-law."

  "And what happened?"

  "The natural and obvious thing. The clerk stepped back to call the manager. Mrs. Warfield stuck her chin up in the air, told them she wasn't Mrs. Warfield, that she had no brother-in-law, and if they tried to detain her, she would sue the hotel for damages, and with that she swept out of the lobby."

  Mason and Drake exchanged glances.

  "You know how it was," Drake's man went on. "The manager wasn't going to run out and grab her. Her bill was paid. He just let her walk out."

  "Well," Mason said, "if you think we aren't in a sweet spot now, you just don't know Lieutenant Tragg."

  Drake said with feeling, "I shall never fall for one of those tired-eyed, droop-shouldered women again. Remember that handbag she was carrying, Perry, how it bulged, and seemed to be heavy? Well, she was carrying a gun in that."

  Mason said, "I don't give a damn who killed him, Paul. That's Tragg's headache. My job is to prove that this man was driving the car. When I've done that, I'm finished."

  "Well, can't you have Miss Claire come over and identify him?"

  Mason's laugh was scornful. "Sure, she can identify him, but how are we going to get any corroboration? He can't betray himself by some inadvertent slip of the tongue. He can't confess. Not now. He is dead. Stephane Claire's word won't be any good. If a woman could get out of a negligent homicide charge by simply pointing to a corpse and saying – 'There's the man who was really driving the car.' – well, a good lawyer could always find a likely looking corpse somewhere."

  Drake's forehead furrowed in a frown. He stood staring down at the floor.

  "Our only hope now," Mason went on, "is to find Mrs. Warfield's husband, and make him kick through with evidence that will show Spinney was driving the car, and that this man is Spinney."

  "Some little job," Drake said.

  "Uh-huh. He..."

  "Good morning, Mr. Mason."

  Mason turned. Jacks Sterne was walking toward him with outstretched hand. "How are things looking this morning?"

  Mason took the hand in a perfunctory greeting, turned anxiously toward the elevator, said, "What are you doing here?"

  "Why, you are the one who suggested that I come here. Remember? I was asking you about a good hotel last night ..."

  Mason said, "Get out and get out fast."

  "Why – why, I don't understand."

  "You don't have to," Mason told him. "Get up to your room, pack up, check out."

  "Well, where shall I go?"

  Mason's voice showed his impatience. "Never mind that now. Get out of here and get out right away. Don't stand there arguing. Check out. Go to the Adirondack."

  "But Stephane wouldn't ..."

  "Go to the Adirondack. It's the natural place for you to be. Act as though you had been there all the time."

  "But I ..."

  "Beat it," Mason said. "Get packed and get out!"

  Steme seemed somewhat dazed. "I was on my way to see Stephane, Mr. Mason. I had telephoned her ..."

  Mason grabbed the man's arm, pushed him toward the elevator. "Sterne," he said, "the reason I am not explaining is because I haven't time to explain. Get to your room, get your things packed, get a taxi, go to the Union Depot, wait in the waiting room for half an hour, then call a redcap, get another cab, and go to the Adirondack. Now do you get that?"

  "Why, yes, I get it, but ..."

  An elevator stopped at the lobby floor. Mason all but pushed him in. "All right then," he said, "get started. If I am still here in the lobby when you come down, don't speak to me. Don't look at me."

  "But what will I tell Stephane?"

  Mason turned his back. A moment later the elevator door clanged. Mason rejoined Paul Drake and the operative.

  "Who?" Drake asked.

  "Stephane Claire's boyfriend," Mason said. "Wanted a quiet place to stay, and I suggested this hotel just because it was close to the Adirondack and ..."

  Drake said, "If Tragg finds out he was here, he will darn near pin the killing on Stephane Claire."

  "Are you telling me?" Mason asked, looking anxiously at his wrist watch. "Come on, Paul. Let us go back up and stand in the corridor. I don't want to be talking with Tragg when this drink-of-water checks out."

  "Didn't you tell him not to give you a tumble if ..."

  "I told him," Mason said, "but he is just the sort who would walk up and say, 'Mr. Mason, why didn't you want me to speak to you when I came out?'"

  "You do have the nicest friends, Perry."

  "Don't I," Mason said. "Come on, let's go up."

  It was a good half hour before Tragg sent for Mason.

  Members of the Homicide Squad were still at work, developing latent fingerprints, taking photographs of the body, drawing a scaled map of the room.

  "I hope," Tragg said with the flicker of a smile at the corners of his eyes, "you have got your story ready."

  "I have."

  "If you want any more time to think up a good one, I shall talk with Drake first. You understand the position I am in. The chief will think you used me as a cat's-paw."

 

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