The clerk looked through the register, and shook his head.
"Funny," Mason said slowly. "I was told he'd be here. My name's Perry Mason. I m going into the diningroom and get something to eat. If he should register, please have me paged. But don't tell him that I'm looking for him."
He stepped into the diningroom and ordered a sandwich and a bottle of beer. When the sandwich was brought to him, he accepted the check, and insisted on tipping the waitress a halfdollar. He ate the sandwich leisurely, drank the bottle of beer, sauntered to the door of the diningroom and stood there looking into the lobby.
Sergeant Holcomb was standing in a corner of the lobby behind a potted palm.
Mason stepped back into the diningroom and walked directly to the public telephone near the cashier's desk. He dropped a nickel and asked for police headquarters.
"I want to speak to Sergeant Holcomb," he said.
"Sergeant Holcomb isn't in."
"Is there anyone who can take a message for him?"
"What about?"
"About some developments in connection with a case I'm working on."
"Who is this talking?"
"Perry Mason, the lawyer."
"What's the message?"
"Ask him to come to the Maryland Hotel as soon as he gets in. Tell him I'm waiting for him there."
He hung up the receiver.
He dropped another nickel and called the district attorney's office.
"Perry Mason, the lawyer," he said. "I want to talk to Hamilton Burger on a matter of considerable importance… No, I won't talk with anyone else. I want to talk with Mr. Burger personally. Tell him Mr. Mason is on the line."
After a few seconds he heard Burger's voice, calm, suave, yet wary.
"What is it, Mason?"
"I'm down at the Maryland Hotel, Burger. I was told to come here by someone who gave me a tip over the telephone and wouldn't leave his name. I was told that Harry McLane was here, and was ready to talk. I've inquired at the desk, and McLane isn't registered here. I have an idea he may be coming in almost any minute. The voice of my informant sounded as though he knew what he was talking about.
"Now, McLane worked for Basset. It, incidentally, happens that he's a client of mine on another matter…"
"Yes," Burger said, "I know all about that matter, Mason. You don't need to explain it."
"That simplifies things," Mason said. "You can appreciate the fact that McLane might give some important information if he wanted to."
"'If he wanted to' is good," the district attorney said. "What do you want me to do?"
"I'm in rather a peculiar position in this thing," Mason explained. "In a way, I'm acting as attorney for McLane. Therefore, if he's going to talk, I'd like to have some representative of your office here when he talks. I've called Sergeant Holcomb at the Homicide Squad, but can't get him."
There was a moment of silence. Then Burger said, "You're at the Maryland Hotel now?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been there?"
"Oh, quite a little while. I waited around for McLane, and he didn't show up. I had a meal in the diningroom and put in a call for Sergeant Holcomb."
"Well," Burger said slowly. "I'll send a man down, if you think it isn't a wildgoose chase. But understand one thing—from the minute my man arrives, my office is going to be in charge."
"Okay by me," Mason said.
"Thank you for calling," Burger said, and hung up.
Mason slipped the receiver back into place, lit a cigarette, opened the door from the diningroom and walked into the lobby, taking care not to look in the direction of the corner where Sergeant Holcomb was standing, one foot on the rim of the tub which held the potted palm, his elbow resting on his bent knee, a cigarette between his fingers.
Mason walked to the desk and said, "McLane hasn't registered yet?"
"No."
Mason took a chair, sprawled out his legs, made himself comfortable and puffed placidly on his cigarette.
When the cigarette was threequarters finished, he went to the desk again and said, "Say, I hate to keep bothering you, but this man McLane may have registered under another name. He's a young fellow about twentyfour or twentyfive, with celluloidrimmed glasses. He has a few pimples on his face, dresses well, has light reddish hair, and freckles on the backs of his hands. I'm wondering if…"
The clerk said, "Just a minute. I'll get the house detective."
He pressed a button, and, a moment later, a paunchy man with hard, intolerant eyes stepped from an office and looked Mason over in uncordial appraisal.
"This is Mr. Muldoon, our house officer," the clerk said.
"I'm looking for a man whose real name is Harry McLane," Mason said, "but who may have registered under another name. He's about twentyfour or twentyfive, with a mottled complexion. He has light reddish hair and freckles on the backs of his hands. He's slender, welldressed. The last time I saw him, he had on a dark blue suit; with a white stripe, and he wore a very light gray hat. I'm wondering if you'd remember him."
"What do you want him for?"
"I want to talk with him."
"But you don't know what name he's registered under?"
"No."
"How do you know he's here?"
"I was advised that he's here."
"Who advised you?"
"Really," Mason said, "I don't know as that's any of your business."
"You've got a crust," Muldoon told him, "coming in here and insinuating to me that one of our guests is a crook."
"I didn't insinuate any such thing."
"You insinuated he was registered under another name."
"A man might do that for lots of reasons."
"Well, suppose you come clean," the house detective said. "You're holding something back. Who are you? Why do you want…?"
There was the sound of steps behind them. Muldoon looked up, stared for a moment with surprise, then let his lips break away from his teeth in a grin.
"Sergeant Holcomb!" he said. "I ain't seen you for a month of Sundays."
Perry Mason whirled with a quick start of feigned surprise.
"I've been trying to call you," he said.
"From where?" asked Sergeant Holcomb.
"From here—from the hotel."
"What did you want with me?"
"I wanted to tell you about a tip that was given me, a tip that I think is hot."
"What was it?"
"That Harry McLane was at this hotel, and he wanted to talk."
"Well, have you seen him?"
"They say he isn't registered here."
"What's the excitement about with the house dick?"
"He described a guy," Muldoon said, "and wanted to find out if he was here in the hotel, registered under another name."
Sergeant Holcomb's eyes stared steadily at Muldoon.
"Is he?"
"Yes, I think so."
"What's the name?"
"George Purdey. He's in 904. He came in about an hour and a half ago. He looked phoney, which is why I spotted him."
Sergeant Holcomb turned to Perry Mason.
"How long have you been here, Mason?"
"Quite a little while," Mason said.
"What have you been doing?"
"Been waiting for McLane to show up. I thought I'd got here ahead of him. I was told he was going to register at this hotel, and that he'd be willing to talk."
"You said you were calling me?"
"Yes, I wanted to have some officer present when he talked—that is, if he was going to talk."
"What was he going to talk about?"
"Something about that Basset case. I don't know just what it was."