“No. The outside of the gun had been wiped clean of fingerprints, but apparently the person who had been handling it forgot to remove the fingerprint on the inside.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Some other stuff,” Drake said, “but I don’t know what it is. The police are suspicious about the whole setup. They’re particularly suspicious about Lucille Barton. She was out with a girl friend named Anita Jordon. Anita knows Lucille, and she knew Hartwell Pitkin. She gives Lucille an alibi, but for some reason she isn’t too happy about it. Police have an idea she’s going to weaken on her alibi before they get done with her.”
“A lot of commotion,” Mason said, “over the mere finding of a body under circumstances which would indicate suicide.”
“The trouble is,” Drake said, “that when they went through the pockets they found around five thousand dollars in nice crisp currency. There was a package of hundred-dollar bills which still had the sticker from the bank wrapped around them, and the initials of a cashier. The police traced that money and found it had been drawn out a few days ago by a Mr. Dudley Gates. Dudley Gates is a business associate of the Stephen Argyle who employed Pitkin as his chauffeur. He’s also a friend of this Ross P. Hollister, who seems to have bought the gun and then gone out on a business trip and neglected to communicate with any of his friends telling them where he’d be. Dudley Gates apparently accompanied Hollister.”
Mason pinched out his cigarette, drummed nervously on the edge of the desk.
“That’s probably all right, Paul. I happen to know something about Ross Hollister. He’s a sharpshooter who handles oil leases and investments of that sort. He’s on a business trip and he’ll communicate with his friends by mail. His girl friend doesn’t have a telephone so he usually drops her a line as soon as he gets located, or sends her a telegram and lets her know where his is.”
Drake said, “Well, I got a little stuff on Hollister. He lives at Santa del Barra, divorced, decree not final for a couple of months yet. Has a nice place there, a housekeeper comes in by the day. She comes early to get breakfast, goes home at four-thirty. Hollister was there Monday when she left at four-thirty, but was expecting to leave at six that night. She hasn’t seen him since. His business trips usually take about ten days. She never hears from him while he’s gone. That oil lease business is secretive.”
“And Dudley Gates is with Hollister?”
“That’s right. Argyle, Gates and Hollister are partners of a sort. Hollister is the big shot. The other two guys are yes men.”
“It’s all tied in with that damn apartment of Lucille Barton’s,” Mason said.
Drake said, “Well, that’s the general situation. Of course, finding all that money on a corpse is bound to attract attention, and naturally police are going to wonder about the cash transaction between Dudley Gates and Hartwell Pitkin.”
“And police are interviewing Stephen Argyle?”
“Yes, they got Argyle up out of bed early this morning and started talking with him. Argyle says the last time he saw his chauffeur was out here in front of your office. He says he had driven to your office to see you and left his car outside. Then when he realized you weren’t in the office, and weren’t apt to come in within the next few minutes, he went down and told the chauffeur to take the car and drive it back to the house, put it in the garage, and then Pitkin could have the night off.”
“Well?” Mason asked.
“Apparently Pitkin did just that. He must have driven the car out to the house and put it in the garage. It was there this morning when Argyle went out to look for it after the police had got him out of bed. By the police time schedule that would have put Pitkin back in Lucille’s garage at just about the time the witness heard the car doing all the backfiring. The man must have been talked into entering that garage — and he was killed as soon as he walked in.”
Drake got up out of the chair. “Keep that photograph of the fingerprint if you want, Perry. I’ll let you know about new developments.”
“Thanks, Paul.”
Drake said, “So long, Della.”
“So long, Paul.”
The detective left the office. Mason glanced at Della Street, said, “Hand me that ink pad from the rubber stamp outfit, will you, Della?”
She wordlessly placed it on the desk. Mason pressed his right index finger on the pad, then on a blank sheet of paper.
Della Street came to look over his shoulder and compare his fingerprint with the photograph of the fingerprint police had found on the gun which had been responsible for the death of Hartwell Pitkin.
“Good Lord, chief,” Della Street gasped, her fingers digging into his arm.
“Take it easy, Della,” Mason said. He pushed back his chair, walked over to the washstand, carefully soaped his hands, and removed all traces of the ink. “And I thought the guy who was masterminding this business was crude!”
Della Street picked up the inked impression of Mason’s fingerprint, struck a match, burned the paper, and then crumpled the ashes in the ash tray.
“Where does all this leave you, chief?” she asked.
“Right behind the eight ball,” Mason told her thoughtfully. “But that doesn’t mean I have to stay there.”
Chapter 16
Mason had just finished drying his hands when Gertie, the receptionist, announced that Daniel Caffee and the representative of his insurance company, Frank P. Ingle, were waiting to see Mason.
Mason hesitated, then said to Della Street, “Have Gertie show them in, Della.”
Frank P. Ingle, a grizzled, gray-eyed shrewd individual, shook hands with Mason, turned to Caffee and said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Caffee, I’ll do the talking.”
“Not at all,” Caffee said.
“I take it you’re willing to talk this over, Mr. Mason,” Ingle said, seating himself and smiling cordially.
“Certainly. Go ahead and talk.”
“Perhaps you’d better start the talk, Mr. Mason.”
Mason said, “Money talks, gentlemen.”
“I know, I know,” Ingle said hastily, “but the question is, Mr. Mason, how are we going to work out any standard for...”
Ingle smiled. “Well, of course, Mr. Mason, one can understand that you want these things, but we, of course, have a duty to our stockholders. It is, of course, unfortunate that the accident happened, but we must look at it as practical businessmen. How about the earning capacity of this boy? If you had been the one who had been the victim of this accident, while the pain and suffering would not have been any more intense, nevertheless our liability would have been greater because you have a greater earning capacity.
“As a practical man, as a practicing attorney, Mr. Mason, you will recognize that the monetary limit of our responsibility is the loss of earning capacity, plus some reasonable amount which will compensate for pain and suffering. Now I would say that with a young, vigorous boy of this kind, fifteen hundred would be a very adequate compensation for pain and suffering. Statistics show that within ninety days at the outside he’ll be back at work with his earning capacity unimpaired. Even if we were to consider he could make three hundred dollars a month, let us say, from that amount he would have to pay room and board which are furnished him in the hospital, and...”
Mason interrupted, “I’ve heard all that line before.”
“Doubtless you have,” Ingle said.
Mason said, “I don’t want to hear it again.”
“Surely, Mr. Mason, you’re not going to be arbitrary.”
Mason met Caffee’s eyes, “I’m going to be arbitrary.”