“That’s right.”
“And, by the same sign, if anything happens that requires me to represent any of the family, shall I get in touch with them?”
“Wait for them to get in touch with you,” the man said. “They will if the situation requires.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Carter,” Mason said, shaking hands. “Della Street will give you a receipt for the seven hundred and fifty dollars, which, plus the assignment, will act as a retainer.”
“I still don’t see the reason for that bill of sale,” the man protested.
Mason’s smile was enigmatic. “I still don’t see the reason for your visit.”
“All right,” the man said. “I’ll ride along with you. I know your reputation, Mr. Mason; in fact, I’ve looked it up rather carefully.”
“Thank you,” Mason said.
The man left the office after accepting the receipt Della Street handed him.
“Well?” Mason asked as the door closed.
Della Street shook her head. “How I’d like to know what he’s holding back!”
“He’s evidently holding back quite a lot,” Mason said. “He’s hardly the type who should have three eggs and three pieces of homemade venison sausage for breakfast.”
“To say nothing of cereal, toast and several cups of coffee,” Della Street pointed out. “Do you want Paul Drake?” she asked.
Mason nodded.
Della Street rang Drake’s phone and relayed the request from Mason.
“May I ask why the bill of sale to the contents of the workshop?” Della Street asked.
Mason grinned. “If that ten thousand dollars lying on the floor of the workshop was money he’d collected to pay blackmail, I now have a legitimate excuse to hold it and can’t be held for suppressing evidence.”
While Della Street was digesting this information, Paul Drake gave his code knock at the side door of the office.
Della Street let him in.
“Another job for you,” Mason said.
“Good,” Drake said. “I had a bad day at the races. I need a job.”
“Don’t get too hungry on this one,” Mason warned.
“What is it?”
“Nancy Gilman, 6231 Vauxman Avenue. You are to check into her past. She was born in Los Angeles, married a Steve Barlow in San Francisco, has a child named Glamis, rather a young woman by this time — twenty years old. Nancy divorced Steve Barlow, or he divorced her, and she’s now married to Carter Gilman, who is, I believe, a free-lance speculator and makes his living out of investments. Steve Barlow lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. Glamis may visit him from time to time. There’s another daughter, Muriell Gilman.
“Nancy is being blackmailed by a private detective named Vera M. Martel, who describes herself on her cards as V. M. Martel and—”
“Vera, eh?” Drake interrupted.
“You know her?” Mason asked.
“Like a book,” Drake said.
“What about her?”
“She’s around fifty, weighs about one hundred pounds soaking wet, has a long, thin mouth that seems to stretch from ear to ear, a prominent nose and narrow, close-set gimlet eyes. She talks like a house afire, she’s smart as they come, and she’s hell on wheels.”
“Would she stoop to blackmail?”
“She’d blackmail,” Drake said. “It wouldn’t be stooping, it would be on her normal level. You might even say it would be reaching up.”
“How does she keep her license?”
“Blackmail,” Drake said.
“You didn’t understand me. I asked how she kept her license.”
“You didn’t understand me,” Drake said. “She keeps it by blackmail.”
“How come?”
“No one prefers charges against her. Whenever she fleeces anyone she does it so cleverly, so shrewdly and so thoroughly that they wouldn’t think of preferring charges. She looks around carefully before she gets ready to sink her fangs into a victim. She’s like a spider sitting back patiently waiting in a corner of his web. He’s,capable of going for long periods of time without food, then when something gets tangled in his web he comes down, strikes swiftly and drains the victim dry. Vera is the same way.”
“You’re getting positively poetic, Paul,” Mason said. “Nancy Gilman may be a victim and I’ve been retained to see that she gets out of the spider’s web.”
Drake gave a low whistle. “That’s going to be a job,” he said. “When you deal with Vera Martel you’re dealing with dynamite. She’s diabolic-ally clever. She won’t walk into any of your regular traps and if she’s got something on Nancy Gilman you can gamble that she’s got Nancy all tied up so that Nancy wouldn’t dare to give us the slightest co-operation. How did it happen Nancy got nerve enough to come to you?”
“She didn’t,” Mason said. “It’s a long story.”
“Well?” Drake asked, lighting a cigarette. “Are you going to tell it?”
“No,” Mason said. “Get out, and get busy on Nancy Gilman. Find out everything you can about her past and don’t stick me for too big a bill because the traffic may not stand it.”
Drake heaved himself out of the big chair. “On my way,” he said, “but keep your eyes out for Vera, Perry, and let’s hope she doesn’t get her hooks in you. If she finds out you’re on her back trail she’ll dig into your past.”
“I haven’t got any,” Mason said.
Paul Drake winked at Della Street and slipped out into the corridor.
Mason said to Della, “Ring up Muriell Gilman and tell her our investigation so far indicates that her father is physically safe. Tell her we can’t give her any further details and that she is not to let her father know anything about the call.”
Chapter Four
It was about ten minutes before three o’clock that afternoon when the telephone rang and Della Street, answering it, said, “This is Miss Street, Mr. Mason’s confidential secretary... Who?... Can you tell me what it’s about?... Just a minute, I’ll see.”
Della Street placed her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and said excitedly, “Vera M. Martel is on the line and she wants to talk with you concerning a matter which she says is very personal.”
Mason said, “Listen in, Della.”
He picked up the telephone on his desk and said, “Hello. This is Mr. Mason talking.”
The woman’s voice was rather high-pitched. She talked so rapidly that one word seemed to be treading on the heels of the next and made it difficult to understand what she was saying.
“Mr. Mason, I just wanted to warn you that people who butt into business that doesn’t concern them usually find they have made a big mistake.”
“Are you insinuating I’m butting into business that doesn’t concern me?” Mason asked.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’ve been retained by a man who gave the name of Edward Carter. For your information, that was E. Carter Gilman, the husband of Nancy Gilman. Don’t let him pull the wool over your eyes and don’t think that you’re going to step in and wave a magic wand and that the Gilman troubles will be over.
“I happen to know what I’m talking about. I just want to warn you that this is too complicated a matter for a simple solution, Mr. Mason. Carter Gilman is a fool. If he knew what he was stirring up he’d be the first to tell you to pocket the seven hundred and fifty dollars and forget the whole thing. I’m afraid poor Mr. Gilman is just a little stupid. He’s bringing about the very trouble he’s trying to avoid.”
Mason glanced significantly at Della Street who was on the extension phone, her pencil flying over the page of the shorthand book.
The lawyer waited until the pencil came to a pause, signifying Della had caught up with the other woman’s rapid delivery.