The man hesitated a moment, then said, “After all, I guess I have to be fair with you, Mr. Mason, and put my cards on the table. The blackmailer is a private detective named Vera Martel. Her middle initial is M. Her business cards and stationery simply state the name as ‘V.M. Martel, Investigator.’ There is nothing on her stationery or on her business cards to indicate that she’s a woman. She has offices both here and in Las Vegas, Nevada. She seems to specialize in divorce business.
“That is to say, most of the clients who consult her are interested in divorce cases, one way or another.”
“Just what do you want me to do?” Mason asked.
The man took an envelope from his coat pocket, said, “I prefer to handle things of this nature on a strictly cash basis, Mr. Mason. I have here seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
He reached a well-manicured hand into the envelope, took out a five-hundred-dollar bill, two one-hundred-dollar bills and a fifty-dollar bill. “You’ll want some money for expenses. You’ll need a private detective agency and also a retainer,” the man said.
Mason didn’t move to pick up the money. “You’ll be staying here in the city for some time?”
“Long enough for this matter to terminate, I hope.”
“And if I want to reach you I can simply call the Gilman residence?”
“Heavens! Don’t call me there!”
“How can I get in touch with you, then?”
“I... I’d better call you. I certainly wouldn’t like to have the folks I’m visiting think that I... well, even as an intimate friend of the family... I don’t want to seem to be interfering in their affairs.”
“I see. You expect to be visiting there for some time?”
“Yes. However, don’t try to get in touch with me there. I’ll call you.”
Mason studied the man, looked at the slightly chunky figure, the bushy eyebrows, the patient, thoughtful brown eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses, the long wisp of hair which was coiled around the bald spot on the top of the man’s head.
“You’re there during the day?” Mason asked.
The man became impatient. “I tell you, Mr. Mason, I’ll get in touch with you. Please don’t try to get in touch with me.”
“I’m just trying to find out something about the arrangement there,” Mason said, “before I can tell whether or not I’m going to take the case.”
“I see. Well, I can explain it very simply, Mr. Mason. I’m an old friend, a very old friend, of Mr. Gilman. Mr. Gilman was married rather happily. He has one daughter, Muriell. She is twenty years of age. She’s living there in the house.
“Mr. Gilman’s first wife was killed in an automobile accident and he married again. Nancy, his present wife, had a daughter by a prior marriage. Her name is Glamis — Glamis Barlow. She’s the same age as Gilman’s daughter — twenty. They’re a delightful family.
“I am very fond of the entire family. The two daughters are exemplary. They are as different in tastes and background as can be, but in loyalty and affection they are as alike as two yolks in an egg.
“One is rather demure but smart as chain lightning; that’s Muriell Gilman. The other is verbally daring, quick at repartee, but intensely devoted to her friends and exceedingly loyal. That’s Glamis Barlow.
“I certainly wouldn’t want anything to happen that would blight their lives. They are, to use a trite expression, on the threshold of happiness.”
“You’re very fond of these girls?”
“I love them. They are devoted daughters, estimable young women. Despite differences of complexion and mannerisms they are duplicate and intensely devoted daughters.”
“But it is Mrs. Gilman who is being blackmailed?”
“I believe so, but it could very well have something to do with either one or the other daughter.”
“What does Mr. Gilman do?” Mason asked.
“Investments. He buys property, develops it, sells it — has rather a shrewd eye for real estate. He also manages investment pools.”
“You’ve known him for a long time?”
“A very long time.”
“And what about his present wife?”
“She’s an artist — that is, she has artistic tendencies. She likes to paint and she’s very much interested in photography. Right at the moment she’s experimenting with portrait work. She takes photographic portraits and prints them very lightly on enlarging paper. Then she colors the portrait. The photograph is little more than an outline and by the time she gets done she has a very interesting oil painting.”
“She does this commercially?”
“Heavens no. It’s just a fad. She’s... well, I think she’s rather well fixed.”
“They set a good table?” Mason asked casually.
“Very good — although I don’t see what that has to do with it.”
“They sound like a family that appreciates the good things of life.”
“They do.”
“I like to eat, myself,” Mason said, “but I’ve reached a point where I have to watch my calories — not enough outdoor exercise.”
“I know,” his visitor said. “People are supposed to keep from putting on too much weight. I’m supposed to watch mine, too.”
“I like a good breakfast,” Mason said.
“So do I.”
“Quite frequently I pass up lunch.”
“I do, too.”
“But you do have trouble with your weight?” Mason asked.
“Oh, yes. I have to watch myself.”
“What’s a typical breakfast?” Mason asked.
“Oh, toast and soft-boiled eggs, perhaps, sometimes a fried egg. What’s the reason for this, Mr. Mason?”
“Just trying to get the picture,” Mason said breezily. “What’s Gilman’s first name, by the way?”
“Carter.”
“Oh,” Mason said, “the same as your last name. You’re not any relation, are you?”
“No.”
“Can you describe Mr. Gilman?”
“Why, he’s... he’s about my age. He’s... well, when you come right down to it, it’s rather hard to give a physical description of a person — a friend... let’s see... but you mustn’t ever try to reach him.”
Mason’s visitor leaned back and closed his eyes. “I’m trying to visualize him,” he said.
“Oh, well, never mind,” Mason said. “I think I have the picture pretty well. I was just trying to make sure that you weren’t being officious and butting into something that would cause hard feelings. But I guess it’s all right. By the way, does Mr. Gilman know that you’re calling on me?”
“No. He has no idea. I’m doing this on my own.”
“And you want me to check into Mrs. Gilman’s past and find out what it is that would lay her open to black mail?”
The man nodded.
“That’s rather a difficult and an expensive way of going at it,” Mason said. “Wouldn’t it be a little better to try and check on this Martel woman and see if we couldn’t find out what she’s working on?”
Carter’s shake of the head was emphatic. “I want you to start working on Nancy Gilman,” he said. “Go back to the Year One. Find out everything you can about her.”
“Well, what do we have to start on?” Mason asked. “Where was she born, how old is she?”
“She’s thirty-nine. She was born in Los Angeles. I don’t know too much about her marriage to Steve Barlow. I gathered that it was just an average marriage. She was young at the time and—”
“He died?” Mason asked.
“No, they were divorced.”
“Where were they married?”
“In San Francisco. Barlow worked in San Francisco. He was in the insurance business, I believe.”
“Has he remarried, do you know?”
“I don’t know. I rather think he has.”