It was, he noted, a businesslike Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver. On the tang across the handle appeared the number “S65088.”
Mason made a note of the number on the revolver, then replaced it, gently closed the desk, twisted the key in the lock, put the key back in his pocket and, using his handkerchief so that he would leave no fingerprints on the knob of the door, opened the apartment door.
The lawyer took the stairs, two at a time, hurried across to his automobile, jumped in, and drove rapidly away.
He drove half a dozen blocks before he stopped in front of a drugstore, entered a telephone booth, dropped a coin and dialed his office.
“Hello. Gertie,” he said, when he heard her voice on the line. “Get Della Street to come to the phone. Don’t ring her telephone. Get her...”
“I understand,” Gertie interrupted. “Just a minute.”
A few moments later, Mason heard Della Street’s anxious voice. “Hello, chief.”
“Everything’s okay,” Mason said.
“Did you get it?”
“Yes. What’s happening?”
“We still have five minutes to go at this end.”
“It’s okay. Get rid of them at any time now.”
“Okay.”
“Be as casual as possible about it,” Mason said.
“No trouble?” she asked.
“I’m not certain, Della, and I may have to revise my appraisal. She may want the hundred bucks but wants to make the chap with her feel she’s oil the up-and-up.”
“You mean that he’s her boy friend who...”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “But whatever he is, I have a license number. It may be bait for a trap, in which event it’s a more complicated trap than I thought But if it should be the real thing, shell be back sometime within the next day or two and want her hundred bucks. Don’t worry, Della. Everything’s okay.”
Mason hung up and telephoned Paul Drake.
“Paul,” he said, “I have a license number. I want the record of ownership on the automobile. Rush it through for me.”
“What’s the license number?” Drake asked.
Mason read the license number over the telephone, “9Y6370.”
“Where are you now?”
“Hillcrest 67492,” Mason said. “It’s a pay station. Ill be sticking around. Make time on it, Paul, and call me back.”
Mason had a coke at the counter, smoked a cigarette, then as the phone rang, he entered the phone booth.
Drake said, “It’s a Stephen Argyle, living at 938 West Casino Boulevard — that’s a swank neighborhood, Perry.”
“Okay,” Mason told him. “I’m going to gamble an hour’s time.”
“The car’s a Buick sedan,” Drake said. “No data on color. How did you get the license number, Perry?”
“That lead you had this morning. I can’t talk about it now. Della can tell you all about it in ten or fifteen minutes. The parties are in my office now.”
“Okay,” Drake said. “I’ll be sticking around. If there’s anything you want, give me a ring. You have that address all right?”
“I have it,” Mason said.
The lawyer left die drugstore, climbed into his car and drove out to the address on Casino Boulevard.
The house was a huge white stucco affair with red tile roof, porches, awnings, a well-kept lawn, hedges closely and neatly trimmed on each side, a driveway leading to a triple garage in the rear. A black Buick sedan was parked in the driveway.
Mason parked his own car at the curb, walked calmly up the driveway and began examining the Buick.
A fender on the rear had been straightened. There were a few places on the rear of the body where it looked as though the paint had been skillfully matched and rubbed. The tire on the right rear wheel was brand-new.
Mason was looking at the rear bumper when the door opened. A man with broad shoulders, heavy square jaw and belligerent manner said, “What’s the idea?”
Mason looked up and said without smiling, “Mr. Argyle?”
“No.”
“Is he in?”
“What’s that got to do with the way you’re prowling around that car?”
“I’m not prowling. I’m examining it. Are you related to Mr. Argyle?”
“Not me. I work here.”
“Indeed? What capacity?”
“Chauffeur and butler.”
“In that event,” Mason said, taking a card case from his pocket, “you may assume a more respectful attitude, take my card to Mr. Argyle, and tell him that I want to see him about a matter of the gravest importance — to him.”
The chauffeur took the card, looked at it, said, “Very well,” and started up the steps to the house.
Mason followed.
“Just a minute,” the chauffeur said. “You wait here.”
He went inside, closing the door behind him, reappeared after a few moments and said, “Yes, sir. You may come in.”
The interior of the house was steeped in an atmosphere of quiet luxury. The aroma of an expensive cigar came from the room on the right. The chauffeur indicated this door, said, “In there. Mr. Argyle will see you.”
The room was a combined den and library, with guns, books, comfortable leather chairs, hunting prints, photographs and an air of having been lived in. The portable bar in one corner was open, disclosing rows of bottles. A glass of Scotch and soda reposed on a smoking stand near the leather chair in which a man in the early fifties was seated.
He arose as Mason entered the room, said, “Mr. Mason, the lawyer?”
“That’s right.”
The man extended his hand. “I’m Stephen Argyle. I’m very glad to meet you. I have heard about you. Won’t you sit down and join me in a drink?”
He was thin to the point of being bony, with long fingers, high cheekbones, bleached out eyes, thin hair which was well shot with gray. He wore glasses which clamped on the bridge of a high nose with a black ribbon hanging from the side, giving him an expression of austere power.
Mason said, “Thank you. I’ll have a Scotch and soda, please.”
Argyle nodded to the butler, who walked over to the portable bar, dropped ice cubes in a glass, mixed a Scotch and soda, wordlessly handed it to Mason.
“Nice room you have here,” Mason said. “It’s comfortable, has the feeling of being lived in.”
“I spend much of my time here. Would you care for a cigar?”
“I’ll have one of my cigarettes, if you don’t mind.” Mason opened his cigarette case.
As he tapped the cigarette on the side of the cigarette case, he saw that the butler and chauffeur had no intention of leaving.
“You’ll pardon me,” Mason said, striking a match, “if I’m rather abrupt. My time is somewhat limited.”
He lit the cigarette, blew out the match and dropped it in an ash tray.
“Go right ahead,” Argyle said.
Mason glanced at the chauffeur who was standing by the bar.
Argyle made no move to dismiss the man.
“On the afternoon of the third of this month,” Mason said, with complete assurance, “at about five o’clock, your Buick out there was involved in an accident at the intersection of Hickman Avenue and Vermesillo Drive. Who was driving it, you or your chauffeur?”
“That’s a question?” Argyle asked, raising his eyebrows.
“A question about who was driving it,” Mason said. “The part about the accident isn’t a question. It’s an assertion.”
“Really, Mr. Mason, I’m surprised! Surprised beyond words.”
“I take it, then, you weren’t driving it?”
Argyle hesitated for a minute, then said, “No.”
Mason glanced at the chauffeur, whose eyes had suddenly become as intent as those of a cat stalking a bird.
“As a matter of fact,” Argyle said, carefully weighing his words, “you are bringing information which confirms my worst fears. I trust the accident was not serious.”