“How long ago?” Mason asked.
“A little over a year ago.”
“How long was she there?”
“Three months.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“Yes, sir, the district attorney’s office knows it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they asked me and I told them.”
“When?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“Thank you,” Mason said. “Have they subpoenaed you as a witness?”
“Not me, but the proprietor of the café. Would you like to talk with him?”
“Definitely not,” Mason said. “Thanks for the information. Good-by.”
As he hung up he met Paul Drake’s dismayed eyes.
“Well, there you are,” Mason said. “That’s that! I know now why the two women went to the Lorenzo Hotel, and also how Mrs. Winters knew where the garbage pails were kept. She worked there for three months about a year ago!”
“She did?” Drake exclaimed. “I see. But what about the gun?”
“According to Folsom, she raised the cover and looked inside. Now then, the gun was found under quite a layer of garbage. Suppose she is lying all along the line? Suppose, as I suggested a few minutes ago, she didn’t leave the gun behind on the apartment sideboard? Suppose someone else had the gun? Suppose this person phoned her and said that he or she had killed Hines and tossed the gun into that garbage can? Now, who could have killed Hines and then been able to count on the cooperation of Adelle Winters?”
“Eva Martell,” Drake replied promptly.
Mason paused to give that consideration. “You may have something there, Paul. But I’d be more inclined to say it was— Just when was the noontime garbage put in there, Paul?”
“We’ve checked up on that for you. It was at two-ten that the kitchen man came out with a big tubful of garbage, which he dumped into the middle garbage can. The police have been checking up on him — trying to get him to say he might be mistaken about the hour, that it might have been some time after two-twenty. But the man insists that it was exactly ten minutes past two; he’s sure, because he kept looking at the clock — he had a date at three and he was trying to get cleaned up and out of there and change his clothes in time to keep that date. And here’s a strange thing: he can’t swear to it, but he thinks the pail was about two-thirds full of garbage when he finished dumping in his tubful.
“Get what that means, Perry? The gun must have been in there before two-ten, and the last lot of garbage put in must have covered it up. The man was in a hurry, so he just raised the lid and dumped the stuff in. And five or ten minutes later, when Adelle Winters looked inside, the gun wasn’t visible because it was covered over.”
Mason exclaimed, “Paul, if we can show that the gun was actually in the garbage pail at two-ten, we’ve got an alibi! Because Adelle Winters didn’t reach the hotel until two-fifteen. How about the time of death? What did you learn about that?”
“Autopsy surgeon says some time between one o’clock and three o’clock in the afternoon. Can’t get any closer than that.”
“Well,” Mason went on, “Eva Martell was in that apartment until five minutes of two. They went out of the apartment house at eleven minutes past. Which gives a period of sixteen minutes between their leaving the apartment itself and their departure from the building.”
By this time Drake was excited, too. “Let’s look at it now from the other angle. Who do we know of who could have walked into that apartment naturally — gone in quietly without rousing comment? In the first place, Helen Reedley; she has a key to the apartment. Next, Carlotta Tipton; she could have tapped on the door and Hines would have let her in. Then, of course, there was the maid... ”
“And,” Mason said, “I’m inclined to add Arthur Clovis to that list. I imagine that he had a key to the apartment, and that that’s one of the things that get him all churned up whenever the subject is mentioned. I don’t suppose there’s any way of finding out for sure, is there, Paul?”
“Not unless we could think up some way of frisking him, and that would be dangerous. Anyhow, if he ever had a key he’s probably ditched it by now,” Paul Drake added.
“Well,” Mason went on, “how about Helen Reedley? We don’t know where she was, around the time the murder was committed. She says she was looking for Hines in the restaurant, that she missed him there and tried telephoning. Suppose she talked with Carlotta, and suppose Carlotta told her that Hines was up in the other apartment?... No, Carlotta’s not likely to have done that... But when you come right down to it, Paul, there are a lot of people who can’t account for their time between say one-forty-five and two-fifteen.”
Drake nodded.
“Not that that simplifies my problem much.” Mason sounded grim. “The police are going to get after me in the matter of concealing Eva Martell after I knew she was perhaps implicated in the murder. And they’ll get after Mae Bagley for making a false statement, for failing to keep a register, and for being an accessory... Tell you what you do, Paul. Get a likely looking operative to put on some bib overalls, take a satchel, go around to various apartments in the building where Arthur Clovis lives, knock on the doors and announce loudly that he’s in the key-manufacturing business and that he’s trying to get old keys for use as blanks. Have him say he’ll pay five cents apiece for old keys.”
“But you can’t make a new key from an old one, Perry — you know that yourself!”
“That’s just the point,” Mason said. “Clovis is the dreamy type. He hasn’t very much executive ability. Put yourself in his shoes. Someone who looks like a key man comes to the door and says he’s collecting old keys. He has a satchel open that is half full of keys. He offers five cents apiece. Now suppose Clovis has a key that is burning a hole in his pocket. Here’s a chance to get rid of it. He isn’t going to stop to question the other chap’s statement. He’ll toss the key into the satchel, take his nickel, and think he’s done a good job!”
“What will the fellow have in the satchel?” Drake asked. “I can’t scare up that many keys... ”
“Get some iron washers,” Mason told him; “something the fellow can rattle around inside it.”
“Okay, Perry, I’ll try it. It may work.”
“You’ll have to get busy,” Mason said, looking at his watch. “Time is running out damn fast.”
“I can make a stab at it within an hour by using the telephone, and—”
“And that’s twice too long,” Mason interrupted. “Have a man with a satchel up there inside of thirty minutes.”
Drake groaned. “If I’d said thirty minutes in the first place, you’d have cut it to fifteen. Let me get out of here, Della, and get to work before he thinks of something else.”
Drake had lost his drawl. His long legs moved in swift strides as he crossed the office and jerked the door open.
When he had gone, Mason looked at his watch, then glanced across at Della Street. “No need to wait, Della.”
“I’ll stay on the job,” she said. “You may get an idea.”
“Wish I could get one! Hang it, Della — there’s something in the case, some central point that’s eluding me.” He resumed his pacing of the floor.
“How about calls, Chief?” Della asked. “I hear the telephone in the other office buzzing.”
“Let’s see who it is,” Mason said. “If it’s a client, tell him I’m not in.”
Della Street went out to the switchboard and returned in a moment to say, “It’s Cora Felton. She says she has to talk with you, that it’s very important. I’ve put her on this line.”