"Keep cool," Mason told her, "and don't cry."
"I'm not crying," she said in a harsh, strained voice.
Mason flipped ashes from his cigarette and said, "Okay, Sylvia, I think I know what to do."
"What?"
"I had to destroy those IOU's," he said, "because I didn't want them found on the scene of the crime, and I certainly didn't want them found on me. But you're the only one who knows I destroyed them. Now then, I'm going to step into a stationery store and get a book of blank notes. I can find exactly the same form which Grieb and Duncan kept aboard the ship. Then, using these facsimiles to go by, we'll make duplicate IOU's, duly signed and dated."
"But won't that put my head right back in the noose?" she asked.
"It will if we make them public," he said, "but think of the spot it's going to put Frank Oxman in if he thinks the original IOU's are in the hands of the district attorney. That will brand his IOU's as forgeries and his whole statement as a lie, fabricated out of whole cloth."
She nodded and said, "I see your point. Go get the blanks."
CHAPTER 12
MASON CALLED Paul Drake from a pay station in an isolated side-street restaurant. "Hello, Paul," he said cautiously when he heard the detective's voice on the line. "What's new?"
Drake said, "Seen the papers?"
"Yes."
"How do you figure it?"
"I don't figure it yet. Where's Oxman?"
"He signed that written statement and was released. He went to his hotel. A couple of reporters nailed him there for an interview. Then he sneaked out the back way and went out to Hollywood. He's registered in the Christy Hotel in five-nineteen, under the name of Sydney French."
Mason gave a low whistle. "Think he knows his wife is there?"
"I don't see how he can."
"Then what's his idea?"
"I think he's trying to dodge reporters."
Mason said slowly, "I don't like it, Paul."
"Well, after all," the detective said, "it's a reasonably prominent hotel. It may be just a coincidence they both picked it."
Mason thought for a moment, then said, "Hardly a coincidence, Paul, but it may be that the hotel has associations for them or they may have used it before when they wanted to hide out... Tell me, Paul, what's the latest on Belgrade?"
Drake's voice was bitter. "If I told you what I think of that snake it'd melt the telephone wire."
"Never mind what you think of him; what's he doing, Paul?"
"Hell, I don't know, Perry. I haven't kept tabs on him. They served him with a subpoena to appear before the Federal Grand Jury this afternoon. They also served one on me and they're trying their damnedest to serve one on you. One of the newspapers was trying to keep Belgrade sewed up, but after the subpoena was served it was no dice."
"Where did he spend the night, Paul?"
"How the devil should I know?... Who cares where he spent the night?"
"I do."
"Why?"
"Because," Mason said, "he's going to be wanting some clean clothes, a bath, a shirt, socks, change of underwear, and, if he's going before the Federal Grand Jury and have his picture taken for the newspapers, he'll probably want to put on his best suit."
"So what?"
"So," Mason went on, "I thought perhaps we could drop around to his house and find him there."
"Now listen, Perry, if we go around there and start making a beef, it won't do us a damn bit of good and the first thing he'll do will be to get on the line and tell the detectives where they can find you. I feel the same way you do about him, but..."
"Forget it," Mason interrupted. "I'm working on an entirely different theory. What does he look like, Paul?"
"You mean a physical description?"
"Yes."
"He's around fifty, weighs about a hundred and ninety pounds, is five feet six-and-a-half inches, wears a short mustache, and has a little scar on the top of his right ear where a bullet nicked him, and..."
"What kind of a suit was he wearing?"
"He wears a blue serge suit when he's on duty," Drake said. "Figures it's less conspicuous and blends well in the dark. Most of the men who do shadow work wear dark clothes."
"What's his residence address, Paul?"
"A little bungalow just off Washington Boulevard on Fifth Avenue. It's pretty well out."
"How far from Washington?"
"Only a couple of blocks, as I remember the place. I drove out to see him two or three days ago."
"Tell you what you do, Paul," Mason said. "Climb in your car and meet me out at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Washington. I'm in Hollywood, driving a rented car. We should get there just about the same time."
"Now wait a minute, Perry. You're in bad enough on this thing already. For God's sake, don't go messing around..."
"Better start right now," Mason said, and hung up the receiver.
The lawyer beat Paul Drake to the rendezvous by more than five minutes. Drake drove up, parked his car, and came across to the lawyer and renewed his protestations. "I don't think this is going to get us anywhere, Perry," he said.
"Well," Mason told him, "I want you to know more about Belgrade. He's the only one of your men who was on the ship when the murder was discovered. I'm particularly anxious to know whether his report of what happened out there is accurate."
"He's a double-crosser, or he'd never have betrayed you," Drake commented bitterly. "I'll see he never gets another detective-agency job as long as he lives."
"Forget it," the lawyer told him. "It was a chance for a clean-up and he fell for it. Aside from that one slip, he may be okay."
They walked in silence for a block, then Drake said, "There's the house over there, the one which sits back from the street."
"Does his wife know you?"
"Yes."
"But she doesn't know me?"
"I don't think so. Not unless she's seen your picture somewhere."
Mason said, "That'll be swell. Now, what I want to do is to get into that house, so don't make any explanations, don't perform any introductions. When his wife comes to the door, put on an act and we both go in, see?"
"Maybe we both go out," Drake said.
"What sort of woman is she?"
"A blonde. She does things with her eyes."
"Think she's on the up-and-up?"
"Not this baby. I've seen her only once, but I wouldn't trust her around the block. She has one of those baby stares veneered on a face that's hard as cement, if you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean," Mason told him. "The last time I saw an expression like that was on the face of a nineteen-year-old blackmailer." He chuckled and added, "While she was waiting in the outer office, I asked Della Street what she looked like, and Della said she looked like a synthetic virgin."
"That's the type," Drake said. "Only this dame is in the late thirties."