Yes, here it is, 6231 — the same address.”
“And this man gave the name of Edward Carter?”
She nodded.
“And Muriell says her father’s name is Carter Gilman?”
“That’s right.”
“Did this Edward Carter say what he wanted to see me about?”
“Said it would be a consultation on a very confidential, personal matter and he’d like to have at least half an hour.”
“And he has the appointment?”
“That’s right, at eleven thirty. I gave him the appointment. You’ll find it on your appointment card.”
“And what about the daughter?”
“I told her I’d call her back. She seemed terribly upset. I don’t suppose there’s anything anyone can tell her.”
“Get her on the phone,” Mason said. “I’ll talk with her.”
Della Street dialed the number, said, “Miss Muriel Gilman, please. Just a moment, Miss Gilman. Mr. Mason will talk with you personally.”
Mason picked up the phone, said, “Mr. Mason, Miss Gilman. Now what was it about your father?”
“I feel terribly silly,” Muriel said, “but my father was eating breakfast. I stepped out in the kitchen to refill his plate. I’d cooked fried eggs and homemade venison sausage. He’d asked for a second helping. He sometimes eats a very hearty breakfast and then seldom eats any lunch. When I came back with the sausage and egg he was gone.”
“Nowhere in the house?” Mason asked.
“I couldn’t find him anywhere.”
“How many eggs had he eaten?” Mason asked.
“Two, and two big slabs of sausage.”
“Let me ask you,” Mason said, “whether Carter is his first name.”
“Why, yes.”
“What’s his middle name?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Well, actually, Carter is the middle name. His first name is Edward, but he prefers the middle name, so he just signs everything Carter Gilman.”
“I see,” Mason said thoughtfully. “Now, can you tell me just what happened, please?”
“I don’t like to say over the telephone,” Muriell said, “but... Well, when I couldn’t find him anywhere in the house I was very much alarmed. Then, after a while, I partially regained my composure and started cleaning up the dishes. Then I couldn’t find his napkin. Wherever he’d gone he’d taken his napkin with him and so I went out to the workshop.”
“What’s the workshop?” Mason asked.
Muriell laughed nervously. “It’s hard for me to explain, Mr. Mason. I’m so upset and I know it’s hard for you to get a picture over the telephone, but his workshop is where he works at his hobby. He does woodworking and sometimes some modeling in clay. I’m out there now. A chair has been smashed and there’s money all over the floor and a pool of... of blood.”
“All right,” Mason said, “you sit tight. I’m coming right out. I’ll be there just as quick as I can make it— Have you said anything to anyone?”
“No.”
“Don’t say anything,” Mason said. “Don’t touch anything. Stay right there.”
“Daddy’s napkin is here on the floor,” she said, “and—”
“You sit tight,” Mason said, “I’ll be right out. Don’t touch anything. Now this workshop you mention is in a garage building in back of the house?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a driveway into the garage, of course. Is there a vacant stall in the garage where I can leave my car?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be driving my car,” Mason said. “I’ll drive into the garage. You wait for me.”
Mason glanced at Della Street. “You sit on the lid here, Della. I’m going out.”
“What about this eleven-thirty appointment?”
“I’ll be back for it,” Mason said, “but I doubt very much if we’re going to see Edward Carter.”
Mason grabbed his hat, hurried down the corridor, took the elevator to the foyer, walked to the parking lot, jumped into his car and drove out into the congested morning traffic.
It took him twenty-five minutes to reach the address on Vauxman Avenue.
The lawyer turned into the driveway, noticed the big mansion which somehow seemed austerely silent. He drove into the garage and parked the car.
A door opened. A young woman twenty years old with brown hair, warm agate-colored eyes, and a good figure which radiated long-legged grace, stood in the doorway. She tried a wan smile.
“Mr. Mason?” she asked as the lawyer got out of his car.
Mason nodded. “You’re Muriell Gilman?”
“Yes.”
“Is this the workshop?”
“No, this is Nancy’s darkroom — my stepmother’s darkroom.”
“And the sports car?” Mason asked, indicating a car in the middle section of the garage.
“That’s mostly for Glamis and me, but sometimes Nancy uses it. The other car, the club coupe, is a family car.”
“Are the rest of the family up?” Mason asked.
“Not a sound out of them,” Muriell said. “They usually sleep until noon.”
“Let’s take a look,” Mason said.
“If you’ll follow me, please,” Muriell said. “I’d better lead the way.”
She moved back into the darkroom. Mason, following her, noticed the shadowy outlines of photographic enlarging cameras, of a developing sink, of a printing box and filing cabinets.
“If you’ll just stand by that door and hold it open until I open the other door,” she said, “we won’t need to turn on the lights.”
Mason stood by the door waiting.
Muriell crossed to the other door, opened it, and said, “This is Daddy’s workshop.”
Mason looked inside, then took Muriell by the shoulders and gently moved her back beside him so that they stood in the darkroom looking at the interior of the workshop.
There were lathes, saws, sanders and other woodworking machinery. Strung along rafters over the room were bits of rare wood carefully arranged so that all surfaces were exposed to the air. There were other slabs of wood on the workbench. The place was redolent with the odor of cedar, of sandalwood and the aroma of finely powdered sawdust.
The red stain formed a glaring oasis among the hundred-dollar bills carpeting the floor.
“This is the napkin your father was using?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?” Mason asked.
“Well... a napkin was missing, and this is one of our napkins.”
Mason bent and picked up the piece of linen, said, “There are some egg stains here.”
“I’m sure it’s Daddy’s, Mr. Mason. He had eggs and homemade venison sausage for breakfast.”
“How many eggs?”
“Two.”
“How many pieces of sausage?”
“There were two big slabs of sausage.”
“It was put up in the style of a country sausage?”
“That’s right, then frozen and thawed out for cooking.”
“What else did your father have?”
“Cereal, toast and coffee.”
“Any juice?”
“Yes, orange juice.”
Mason inspected the napkin carefully, then thought-fully folded it and slipped it in the side pocket of his coat.
“Then your father said he was still hungry?”
“He asked me if I’d mind cooking him another egg and another piece of sausage.”
“That took a few minutes?”
“Quite a few minutes because the sausage was still so frozen I had to cut it in the center with a meat saw.”
“I see,” Mason said. He moved across the cement floor to study the sinister red spot. While he was making his investigation, Muriell kept talking, telling him about her father, the events of the morning.
The lawyer listened to her carefully, then bent over the red spot. He looked puzzled for a moment, then gently touched his finger to the thick liquid. He rubbed thumb and finger together, smelled and said, “That’s not blood. That’s some kind of red enamel.”