“He’s located Glamis’ boy friend, Hartley Elliott,” Della Street said, “and has been calling frantically. He says he’s sitting on the lid and that you’ll have to get out there just as fast as you can.”
“What’s the address?” Mason asked.
“The Rossiter Apartments on Blendon Street.”
“What’s the number, Della?”
“7211. The apartment is 6-B, and Paul seems terribly concerned.”
“If he calls in again,” Mason said, “tell him I’m on my way. Also, tell him that Tragg and a uniformed officer have just descended on the Gilman family at their home on Vauxman Avenue, and it looks as though the party is going to get rough.”
“I’ll tell him. Did you have a chance to get anything worth while before Tragg moved in on you?” Della Street asked.
“There’s something peculiar about the case,” Mason said. “I can’t put my finger on it yet — I had a chance to ask questions and get some negative answers. I’m not certain the negatives mean anything. I’ll be on my way to join Paul. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything new.”
Mason hung up the telephone, jumped in his car and drove to the Rossiter Apartments, went at once to Apartment 6-B and knocked on the door.
Paul Drake opened the door.
There was no mistaking the expression of relief on Paul Drake’s face when he saw Mason in the doorway.
Drake said, “Come in and take over, Perry.”
A tall, slim-waisted man, about twenty-eight years old, with high cheekbones, steady gray eyes, a determined jaw and the build of an athlete was standing by the window.
“This is Mr. Mason, Elliott,” Paul Drake said.
Elliott eyed the attorney appraisingly, bowed, and after a moment moved slowly forward so that when he shook hands with Mason the lawyer had covered two thirds of the distance.
“Mr. Elliott,” Paul Drake went on, lowering his left eyelid in a wink that only Mason could see, “is friendly with Glamis Barlow. In fact, they’ve been keeping company and Elliott spent the night out there Tuesday night. That was it, wasn’t it, Elliott — Tuesday?”
“You know it was,” Elliott said coldly. “It was yesterday morning. Are you trying to trap me in some way? I didn’t spend the night there. I spent the morning there.”
“Just trying to keep the date straight,” Drake said cheerfully.
Mason stood by Hartley Elliott, who didn’t ask either Mason or Drake to sit down.
Elliott folded his arms across his chest. “The date was the thirteenth,” he said stiffly.
Drake said, “By way of explanation, Perry, Hartley Elliott and Glamis got home early and it was rather a warm night. They went up on the porch for a while, then he came in and had a drink with Glamis. When he went out to start his car he found that he had inadvertently left the ignition on. The car wouldn’t start. To make a long story short, he stayed all night.”
“I see,” Mason said.
“Now, before we go any further,” Elliott said coldly, “let me state that I prefer to do my own talking. I don’t know just what the situation is, but I don’t care to have any private detective putting words in my mouth and I don’t know that I care to talk with any lawyer until after I’ve seen my own attorney. I’m willing to listen, but that’s all.”
“You seem rather truculent,” Mason said. “Is something wrong?”
“How do I know?” Elliott said. “I’m minding my own business and in comes a private detective asking a lot of questions about Glamis, about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing, and then he telephones the office of an attorney and leaves word for the attorney to join him. I’ve indicated to Mr. Drake a couple of times that he doesn’t need to stay here on my account but he’s been persistent in questioning me and persistent in waiting for you. I finally agreed that I would wait for you because Drake said you would explain everything.
“Now, as far as I’m concerned, you can start explaining.”
Mason said, “I’d like to know a little more about just what happened yesterday morning and—”
“I think you heard me,” Elliott said. “I want you to start explaining.”
Mason glanced at Paul Drake, then said abruptly, “All right, I’ll start explaining because we may not have much time. If you stayed in that house yesterday morning, you may not have very much time left for informal conversation.
“Do you know a person named Vera M. Martel?”
“I told you to start explaining,” Elliott said. “I don’t care to answer any more questions until there’s been a little explaining.”
“All right,” Mason said. “Vera M. Martel was found dead in her automobile on a canyon road in the mountains. At first, the police thought it was a highway accident, then they didn’t like the looks of things and thought perhaps the car had been deliberately run over a cliff with a body in it. So they performed an autopsy and, so far, they’ve found petechial hemorrhages of the eyeball and a broken hyoid bone, which are all strongly indicative of manual strangulation.
“They also found some peculiar bits of sawdust in her shoes. Microscopic examination showed the sawdust didn’t come from ordinary lumber but from a very rare type of lumber, and the police think they have traced that rare type of lumber to the workshop of Carter Gilman.
“At the moment, Carter Gilman is in jail, being held for suspicion of first-degree murder, the police are at the Gilman residence at Vauxman Avenue and we’re trying to get something out of you that may help before the police get here.”
Elliott glanced from Mason to Drake, then moved over to a chair and sat down suddenly as though his knees had buckled.
“Want any more?” Mason asked.
Elliott seemed to be fighting to control himself. “Won’t you... please sit down?” he asked.
Mason nodded to Paul Drake and drew up a chair.
“Now,” Mason said, “time is short. Do you know Vera Martel, or did you know her during her lifetime?”
“Martel... Martel,” Elliott said. “Why, yes. I have heard someone mention the name but I can’t remember who. I think someone asked me if... No, I’m sorry, I can’t remember.”
“The police may use means to refresh your memory,” Mason told him.
“I... Tell me, Mr. Mason, do the police think this person was killed in Gilman’s workshop?”
“That’s what they think,” Mason said.
“And do they have any idea as to the exact time of death?”
“The police,” Mason told him, “aren’t confiding in me — and you don’t seem to be doing such a good job yourself.”
Elliott wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, said suddenly, “All right. I’ll come clean.”
“It might be advisable,” Mason said.
“Yesterday morning about eight thirty I got up,” Elliott said. “I can’t sleep much after seven o’clock. I’d been lying there in bed and trying to remain quiet because I knew both Glamis and her mother were late sleepers.”
“Go on,” Mason said.
“However, I could hear someone moving around downstairs and I got the aroma of coffee. It was the aroma of coffee that did it. I tried to fight back the desire for coffee but I couldn’t do it. I just had to have a cup of coffee. I knew that Glamis wasn’t up. I thought her stepsister, Muriell, was downstairs because I thought I’d heard her voice. I got up and started to dress.”
“All right,” Mason said, “go on. What happened?”
“I walked over to the window. It was a window that was on the corner just above the dining room. I looked out of the window — I guess it would be the west window — and was standing there just idly looking out at the yard and the driveway. That big garage building which holds the cars and has the two rooms, the workshop and the darkroom, is just beyond.”