“I want to,” Mason grinned. “Is it good?”
“I haven’t had time to get all of it,” Della Street said, “but it’s one that’s going to knock you for a loop.”
“What’s the name again?” Mason asked.
“Carlotta Boone.”
“What sort, Della?”
“Brunette, slender, shrewdly calculating, probably a gold-digger, reticent about herself. She resents me, wants to talk with you, says she came to give information and get a hundred dollars, and doesn’t want a run-around.”
Mason grinned, said, “Well, let’s get her in, Della, listen to her story, give her the hundred bucks, and send Lucille’s keys back. Maybe this kid shares the apartment with Lucille. Anyway, bring her in.”
Della Street said, “Just don’t jump to conclusions, chief. The talk I’ve had with her indicates it may be something entirely different.”
“Oh well, get her in,” Mason said, “and we’ll find out what it’s all about.”
Della Street picked up the telephone, said, “Send Carlotta Boone in, Gertie.”
Then Della went to the door of the private office to open it and usher the visitor across the threshold.
She had black lacquered eyes which were for the most part utterly devoid of expression but glistened with vigilance. Her hair was a deep glossy black. She was about two inches taller than the average woman and about ten pounds lighter, and there was a peculiar, wary tension about her.
“Well, how do you do, Miss Boone?” Mason said. “I understand you came to collect a hundred dollars.”
“That’s right.”
“How did you happen to get the information?” Mason asked. “How did you know so much about where the number was written down?” He winked at Della Street.
“You mean the license number?”
“Yes.”
“Because I’m the one who wrote it down.”
“Oh, I see,” Mason said. “And then you placed it in the desk?”
“I placed it in my purse,” she said. “How do we fix it up about paying the hundred dollars? Of course, I understand that you can’t afford simply to dish out a hundred bucks to every girl who comes in here with a plausible story and a license number.”
Mason, grinning amiably, said, “Certainly not. However, I think we’ve pretty well established our point in the present case.”
Della Street coughed warningly.
Mason glanced at her, frowned, then became cautiously on guard.
Carlotta Boone settled herself in the chair, took pains to cross her legs so that she showed a good expanse of stocking. Her legs, while thin, were well streamlined.
She said, “I suppose I can trust you.”
“I suppose you’ll have to,” Mason said.
She had started to reach into her purse. Now she stopped and regarded Mason with an appraisal that indicated her inherent suspicion. “How do I know you’re not going to double-cross me?”
Mason said, “After all, young lady, I’ve been in business some time. And before I pay you the money I want all the details of the story.”
“Oh, all right,” she said wearily, “here’s your number.”
She pulled a slip of paper from her purse and handed it to Mason.
Mason glanced at the number, then frowned, looked at it again and said, “I’m sorry, Miss Boone, but I think it’s only fair to tell you in advance that this is the wrong license number.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I already have the information I wanted. I have not only the license number of the automobile, but I have inspected the automobile, and have talked to the owner. Quite obviously this is the wrong number.”
“It’s not the wrong number,” she said with firm determination. “What are you trying to do? Talk me out of the hundred dollars? Don’t think I’m that easy.”
Mason frowned.
She said angrily and defiantly, “I was with my boy friend. We’d been out for a rendezvous at one of the cocktail bars. We’d done a little dancing. He was driving me home. We had a flat tire. I got out and was standing around looking ornamental and giving a little help here and there. He got the tire changed. We were just finishing with it, when there was a terrific crash at the intersection. I saw this big black sedan roaring and swerving down Vermesillo Drive. Behind it there was a Ford coupe that was skidding all over the road. It smashed into a telephone post just as I looked up. A woman and a man were in it. The man seemed to be pinned between the door and the post. The woman who was driving had bumped her head. I thought there might be an opportunity for — well, frankly, Mr. Mason, I thought I could make some money. I saw the big black car was going to make a run for it. I pulled out my notebook and jotted down the license number. All right, I didn’t give it to the police, I waited for a reward to be offered. I kept looking at the ads.”
Mason, frowning, regarded her.
“And why not?” she went on defiantly. “You’ll get plenty out of this case. You aren’t working for nothing. Why should I? I need money a lot more than you do, Mr. Perry Mason!”
Mason turned to Della Street. “Get Drake on the phone,” he said.
A moment later, when Paul Drake was on the phone, Mason said wearily, “Paul, here’s another license number for you — 49X176.”
“What about it?” Drake asked.
Mason said, “Find out who owns the car, the address and the type of car.”
Mason hung up the phone, said to Carlotta Boone, “This is a new development. It’s an unexpected development. I thought we had the license number we wanted.”
“I can readily understand,” she said, “that with an ad such as you have placed in the paper you must have been deluged with girls who were willing to tell a good story and give a license number in return for a hundred dollars. However, I’m giving you the straight goods. The question is, do you want it or don’t you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
She said, “You’re not kidding me. The man who was driving that sedan is in a jam. He’s mixed up in a hit-and-run case. If I wanted to, I could go to him and shake him down for ten times what I can get out of you.”
“Why don’t you do it, then?”
“Because it’s too risky. It’s blackmail. You could do it as a lawyer. I can’t.”
“So what do you want?”
She said, “I put myself in your hands. I want you to investigate that license number. When you’re convinced that that’s the car, you can give me the hundred dollars.”
“All right,” Mason said. “What’s your address? How do I get in touch with you?”
“You can’t, and you don’t,” she said. “I’ll get in touch with you, and of course I don’t want my name mentioned. The boy friend I was with is married. He’d have a fit if he knew I had come to you. But, after all, a girl has to live!”
“And when will you get in touch with me?” Mason asked.
“Sometime before noon tomorrow. You should know by then. Good night.”
With complete assurance, she arose from the chair, marched to the exit door, jerked it open and walked out.
Mason looked at Della Street, scratched his head, and said, “If you’d like to go in for a slight understatement, Della, this is what might be called a complicating factor.”
“You don’t suppose that that’s some ruse this man has worked out to throw you off the trail, do you?” she asked.
“Probably,” Mason said, “but it’s not going to throw me off the trail. Ill now go out and chase after the red herring, but Paul Drake is going to keep after the real quarry.”
The telephone rang. Drake said, “Your man is Daniel Caffee. The car’s a Packard sedan; the address is 1017 Beachnut Street. What about him?”
Mason said, “You getting your men on the Argyle job?”