Paul Drake studiously avoided Mason’s eyes, said, “I’ve been trying to call you, Perry. Della thought you might be in early this morning so I decided to wait. It’s about this man, Hartwell L. Pitkin, you wanted me to look up.”
“Oh, yes,” Mason said. “I saw the papers this morning. Seems he committed suicide in the garage of Lucille Barton’s apartment house.”
“That’s what the papers said, Perry.”
“Strange coincidence, isn’t it, Paul.”
“Certainly is. She’d been married to him years ago.”
“To Argyle’s chauffeur, Paul? Good heavens, you mean that...”
“That’s right,” Drake interposed, still refusing to meet Mason’s eyes.
“What other details do you have, Paul?”
Drake said, “Sometimes, Perry, you get so damn smart that you have us all running around in circles and meeting ourselves coming back.”
“I don’t get it,” Mason said.
“There are lots of goofy things about the case. The police received a report from Lucille Barton. She was hysterical. She’d opened the garage door to put her car away for the night and found the body. She had a girl friend who was going to spend the night with her. They didn’t touch anything but left the car right there with the motor running and beat it to the telephone in the apartment house. They notified the police.”
“I see,” Mason said.
“Hartwell L. Pitkin had been shot with a .38 caliber revolver,” Drake went on, methodically. “The gun was found by his right hand.”
“So I saw in the paper, Paul. No question but what it’s suicide?”
“The police are investigating.”
“What do they think?”
“They aren’t taking me into their confidence.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Now then,” Drake said, “I have some other information for you.”
“What?”
“That gun you wanted to know about, the Smith and Wesson .38 number S65088.”
“Oh yes, what about it, Paul?”
“Well, that gun was sold, just as I told you, to a jobber who in turn sold it to the Rushing Creek Mercantile Company.
“A chap by the name of Roscoe R. Hansom is the proprietor of the Rushing Creek Mercantile Company. The revolver was sold about a month ago to a man who signed the gun register as Ross P. Hollister.”
Mason said, “That’s interesting.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Drake went on.
“No?” Mason asked, settling himself back in his swivel chair. “What’s the other half, Paul?”
Drake said, “I got that information last night. You remember you were in a hurry, and I had a man from Santa del Barra drive up to Rushing Creek. He managed to get Hansom out of bed and talked him into going down to the store and looking at the records. Of course you were in a hurry to get the information, and — well, that’s the way it is. When you want things in a hurry, you want them.”
“Right you are,” Mason said, grinning. “No use dilly-dallying around. So you got the information. Thanks a lot, Paul. That’s good work.”
“And,” Drake went on, “naturally the fact that we were in such a hurry for the information impressed Mr. Hansom.”
“Well, naturally,” Mason said. “However, I fail to see what connection that has with the matter. If he wants to live out in the country and go to bed with the cows and chickens he’ll have to realize that we can’t gear ourselves to his schedule.”
“Oh, sure, sure,” Drake said, “but I just thought you should know.”
“Why, Paul?”
“Because,” Drake said, “when the body of Hartwell L. Pitkin was found, the gun with which he had either shot himself, or had been shot, was lying by his right hand. Someone who had a nice little emery wheel had ground every number off the gun, the number on the tang, the number on the inside of the cylinder mechanism, the numbers that are on the little concealed places, everywhere.”
“Well, well,” Mason said, his voice showing relief. “Then they couldn’t trace the gun, Paul?”
Drake kept his eyes averted. “But the guy who had filed off the numbers didn’t know too much about guns. On that model of gun, the Smith and Wesson, the number of the gun is also stamped on the inside of the wooden grip. You have to take a screw driver and remove one of the wooden grips to see it.”
“Go on,” Mason said.
“The police did that. They found the number. It was S65088.
“Of course, the police got busy and started tracing the number. When they got Roscoe Hansom out of bed for the second time to find out about the sale of the gun, naturally Hansom wanted to know if it had become a habit, and...”
“The devil!” Mason said, straightening himself abruptly in his swivel chair, and frowning.
“Exactly,” Drake said. “Of course, Hansom didn’t know the name of my operative from Santa del Barra, but he has a pretty good description and putting two and two together, the police are apt to make four at any moment. When they do, you’re going to have some explaining to do.
“Now, then,” Drake went on, still avoiding Mason’s eyes, “there are two or three other things you should know about.”
“Okay, Paul,” Mason said, his voice sharp with anxiety, “let’s hear them. Spill em fast. I may have to start moving.”
Drake said, “Naturally, the police wondered why no one had heard the sound of the shot. Quite evidently the shot had been fired there in the garage. The nature and extent of the hemorrhage shows the man dropped almost immediately when the shot entered his brain.”
“Go ahead, Paul.”
“They made inquiry around and found that one of the automobiles was doing a lot of skipping, backfiring, and banging. It caused some annoyance on the part of the occupant of the building across the alley. He looked out of the window. It was beginning to get dark, but he saw a man and a woman standing in front of the garage at 208. The man was a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with a light topcoat. The woman was wearing a plaid coat, had a dark hat. They were opening the door of the garage. They had some conversation and then the motor was shut off and they walked away and left the car there. The car had been making a terrific noise from a series of backfires, and police think the shot must have been fired at about that time. If that’s true, of course, that would make it murder. A man would hardly have committed suicide in the presence of two witnesses; and if he had, and the witnesses didn’t report it — well, you can see the police reasoning.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said.
“Now then,” Drake went on, “when the police answered Lucille Barton’s call, they found she was wearing a plaid coat and a black hat. On the strength of those garments, the witness now makes an identification of Lucille Barton as being the woman he saw. Lucille denies that she was anywhere near the garage at that time.”
“What time?”
“Somewhere around six o’clock. The witness isn’t positive as to the time.”
“What about the man?” Mason asked.
Drake said, “So far, they have only a general description of the man, but when police fingerprinted the gun they found a print on the inside of the gun where someone had probably been holding it while he tried to remove the numbers, or it could have been in ejecting shells. They think it’s the print of a man’s right index finger. It’s a pretty good print.”
“I see,” Mason said.
Drake said, “By pulling a lot of wires with the newspaper boys I was able to get a photographic copy of that print.”
He reached in his pocket, pulled out a wallet, took out a small photograph of a fingerprint, handed it to Mason, and said, “That’s enlarged about three times, Perry.”
“Any other fingerprints?”