“The boy that’s really dangerous is the guy who’s been whooping it up until two or three o’clock in the morning, and then when he starts home, he’s so drunk he doesn’t realize he’s drunk. About that time he gets a feeling of great superiority and feels that if he can only go through an intersection fast enough, nobody can get halfway across the intersection before he’s all the way through it. It sounds like swell reasoning when you’re drunk, at least that’s what they tell me.”
Tragg chuckled a few times, drove to Mesa Vista, then drove steadily along one of the main streets, turned to the left, then to the right and slowed his car.
“You know where every apartment house in the county is located?” Mason asked.
“Damned near,” Tragg said. “I’ve been on this job a long time. You’d better come up with me.”
Tragg picked up the transmitter, said, “Car XX-Special, out of contact for a short time and parked at the location of the last lead I received on the telephone. Will report in when I get back in circulation.”
The voice on the loud-speaker said, “Car XX-Special, out until report.”
“Come on,” Tragg said to Mason.
The Dormain Apartments had a rather pretentious front and a swinging door to the lobby. A clerk looked up as Mason and Lt. Tragg entered the lobby, looked down, then suddenly did a double take.
Tragg walked over to the desk. “You have a Harper here?” he asked.
“We have two Harpers. Which one did you want?”
“A woman,” Tragg said. “Around thirty; height, five-feet-four; weight, maybe 120 pounds.”
“That would be Loretta Nann Harper. I’ll give her a ring.”
Tragg slid a leather folder on the desk, opened it to show a gold, numbered badge. “Police officers,” he said. “Don’t ring, we’ll go on up. What’s the number?”
“It’s 409. I trust there’s nothing—”
“Just want to interview a witness,” Tragg said. “Forget about it.”
He nodded to Mason and they went to the elevator.
“I repeat,” Mason said, “being a police officer has its advantages.”
“Yeah,” Tragg said. “You ought to follow me around for a while and then you’d change your tune. Think of when you get on the witness stand and some smart lawyer is walking all over you, asking you how the guy was dressed, what color socks he had on, whether he wore a tiepin, how many buttons on his vest, and every time you say you don’t know, the guy sneers at you and says, ‘You’re a police officer, aren’t you? You’re on the public payrolls. As an officer you’re supposed to have a special aptitude for noticing details, aren’t you?’ ”
Mason grinned. “Well, you may have something there.”
“May have is right,” Tragg said. “The guy just throws questions at you and sneers at you and tosses you insults, and the jurors just sit there and grin, getting a great kick out of seeing some lawyer make a monkey out of a dumb cop.”
The elevator, which had been on an upper floor, slid to a stop. Tragg and Mason got in. Tragg pushed the fourth-floor button and they were silent until the cage slid smoothly to a stop.
Tragg oriented himself on the numbers, walked down the corridor, knocked on the door of 409.
There was no answer.
Tragg knocked again.
There was a gentle swishing sound of motion from the other side of the door. The door opened a few inches and was held in position by a chain.
The young woman on the inside bent over slightly so that her body could not be seen, only the eyes, nose and forehead.
“Who is it, please?”
Tragg once more displayed his badge. “Lt. Tragg, Homicide,” he said. “We’d just like to talk with you a minute.”
“I... I’m dressing.”
“Are you decent?”
“Well, yes.”
“Okay, let us in.”
She hesitated a moment, then released the catch of the safety chain and opened the door. “I meant... that is... I’m getting ready to dress to go out. I’ve just had lunch and—”
“Then you haven’t been out yet,” Tragg said.
“Not yet.”
Mason followed Tragg into the apartment. It consisted of a luxuriously furnished sitting room. Through an open bedroom door, sunlight streaming into the room through a fire escape made a barred pattern on an unmade bed. Another partially opened door gave a glimpse of a bathroom, and there was a powder room on the other side of the sitting room.
A swinging door opened into a kitchen, and the aroma of coffee came to their nostrils.
Tragg said, “Nice place you have here.”
“I like it.”
“Live here alone?”
“If it’s any of your business, yes.”
“Lots of room.”
“I hate to be cramped.”
Tragg said, “We’re trying to find a young woman who was at the Ancordia Apartments last night, say around nine-forty-five to ten o’clock. We thought perhaps you could help us.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Can you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you there?”
“I...”
“Well?” Tragg said as she hesitated.
“Is it particularly important, one way or another?”
“Uh-huh.”
“May I ask why?”
Tragg said, “I’d prefer to have you answer my questions first, ma’am. Why did you give the name of Beatrice Cornell when George Ansley let you out in front of the apartment house?”
“Does he say I did that?”
“Did you?” Tragg asked.
“Really, Mister — Lieutenant — I’d like to find out why you’re asking these questions.”
“To get information,” Tragg said. “We’re investigating a crime. Now, you can answer these questions very simply, and then I’ll be in a position to ask you about the automobile accident.”
“What accident?”
“The accident where you were pitched out of the car at Meridith Borden’s place, the accident where you grabbed the other young woman by the ankles and dragged her away from the car, then slid down onto the ground and started calling for help.”
Loretta Harper bit her lip, frowned, said, “Sit down, Lt. Tragg. And this is...?”
“Mr. Mason,” the lawyer said, bowing.
“I... I hope you can keep my name out of this, Lieutenant.”
“Well, you’d better tell us about it. How did it happen you were driving a stolen car?”
“I was driving a stolen car!” she exclaimed with such vehement emphasis on the I that Tragg cocked a quizzical eyebrow.
“Weren’t you?” he asked.
“Heavens, no! Dawn Manning was driving the car, and she was driving like a crazy person.”
“How did it happen you were with her?”
“She forced me to get into the car.”
“How?”
“With a gun.”
“That’s kidnaping.”
“Of course, it is. I was so mad at her I could have killed her.”
“Well, go ahead,” Tragg said. “What happened?”
“She accused me of playing around with her ex-husband.”
“Were you?” Tragg asked.
“She had absolutely no right to say the things she did. She and Frank are divorced and she doesn’t have any control over him. She certainly doesn’t let anyone have any control over her, I can tell you that much. She does exactly as she likes, and—”
“Who’s Frank?” Lt. Tragg asked.