“There’s no one here,” he said.
Mrs. Gentrie got to her feet. “Why, good heavens, it’s well after three o’clock. Of course, he does stay out rather late at times, but I never knew him to be as late as this.”
Mason said, “However, because he has his own private exit and entrance, he could come and go very easily without you hearing him, couldn’t he?”
She said, “Yes, I suppose so.”
Mason swung the door tentatively back and forth. “These hinges,” he said, “seem to have been freshly oiled.”
“Well, I declare to goodness,” Mrs. Gentrie observed, examining the hinges. “They certainly have!”
“You didn’t oil them?”
She shook her head.
“Could they have been oiled for some time without you noticing it?”
“Rebecca does the dusting and cleaning up in here. She certainly should have noticed — but she didn’t say anything. Hester cleans and dusts the outside. She might not have noticed. She isn’t particularly perceptive.”
Mason said, “Steele was in an admirable position then to leave this room, cross the kitchen, go down the cellar stairs, cross through the garage, and go over to the flat next door.”
“Why... why, I guess he could have if he’d wanted to.”
Mason went on, “There’s a door leading from the cellar into the garage, then a door from the garage leading into the yard, and a few feet beyond that a side door to Hocksley’s flat. Is that right?”
She nodded and said, “But I can’t understand... Surely, Mr. Mason...”
Mason said, “Let’s just step inside this room for a moment. I want to look around a bit.”
“I’m afraid he wouldn’t like it if he should come in.”
“I think I can take the responsibility for that,” Mason said. “It’s rather important to find out why Mr. Steele isn’t in now, why the hinges on his door have been oiled.”
“You mean that he...”
“I’m not making any accusations just yet. If we’re going to clear Junior, we must find out exactly what happened the night of the shooting.”
They entered Steele’s room, and Mason started a keen-eyed search.
Mrs. Gentrie said, “I thought I heard him come in about half-past two or three o’clock this afternoon. He seemed to be in very much of a hurry, rushing around. I’m quite sure it must have been Mr. Steele. He didn’t say anything to us, however. Usually he looks in on us just to pass the time of day when he comes home in the afternoon that way.”
“Does he come home frequently during the middle of the afternoon?”
“Sometimes. Very seldom during the morning, but occasionally he comes in the afternoon.”
Mason opened a closet door, looked inside at the array of clothes. “Do you know how he was dressed?” he asked.
Mrs. Gentrie indicated a light gray checked suit. “Why, that’s the suit he was wearing this morning.”
“Is it indeed?”
“Yes, he must have come and changed to a heavier suit. I notice his tweed is missing.”
Mason moved over to the light checked suit and calmly started going through the pockets.
“Oh,” Mrs. Gentrie said, “I... do you think it’s all right to do that?”
Mason said, “I think we’ve got to find out everything we can about him.”
“I know, but isn’t that rather — well...”
Mason said, “I think it will be all right.” He glanced significantly at Della Street and said, “Get Mrs. Gentrie to show you where he keeps his linen, Della.”
Della, distracting Mrs. Gentrie’s attention, said, “I suppose in this drawer...” She stopped at the expression on Mason’s face as the lawyer pulled a telegram from a side pocket of the coat Steele had discarded.
“Well, well, what’s this?” Mason said.
“Really,” Mrs. Gentrie protested as Mason unfolded the yellow oblong of paper. “I’d prefer that you didn’t read that.”
Mason, however, already had the telegram opened and was reading the message. “Well,” he said, “this is something. It’s a telegram sent to Steele at the office of the architect and says, ‘Man named Carr Luceman accidentally shot self when cat knocked gun off table. Luceman’s address thirteen-o-nine Delington Avenue, San Francisco. Grab plane investigate.’ And it’s signed K. Anamata.”
Mrs. Gentrie, visibly perturbed, said, “I wish, Mr. Mason, you could handle this without prying into Mr. Steele’s business.”
Mason said, “Don’t you see, Mrs. Gentrie? Steele got this room for a purpose. He must have made a habit of opening this door at night after you folks had retired, quietly sneaking down the cellar stairs, going through the garage door, and across to the flat next door. If he didn’t go inside the flat, he at least snooped around the windows and got a line on what was going on inside the place.”
“Why... why, I can’t believe it.”
“And,” Mason went on, with a significant glance at Della Street, “he’s very apt to be over there right now.”
“But why should he want to spy on the people over there?”
Mason said, “He’s evidently in the employ of some Japanese. I understand Lieutenant Tragg thinks some of the people over in that flat could tell something about the smuggling of arms into China.”
“You mean Mr. Hocksley?”
Mason said, “There’s evidence indicating that Hocksley has been engaged in Chinese gun-running for years.”
“Well, good heavens!”
“And Steele evidently secured this room because it gave him such an excellent opportunity to keep an eye on what was going on next door.”
“Well, I’ll declare! Why, then he must have been — he must — why, Mr. Mason, that would make him...”
“Exactly,” Mason said.
“Then don’t you think we’d better communicate with the police, Mr. Mason?”
“Not yet,” Mason said. “Just keep quiet so we don’t disturb anyone. We’ll do a little investigating on our own.”
Mason led the way to the cellar door, opened it silently, tiptoed down the cellar stairs. Mrs. Gentrie clicked a light switch which flooded the cellar with brilliance.
Mason inched his way over toward the shelf where the preserves were kept, keeping his eyes, however, on the garage door. “Now, as I understand it, this is the door which was painted. Your husband painted it the evening of the murder... Where is he, by the way?”
She said, “I made him go to bed. He couldn’t have done any good by sitting up, and he’s going to have a hard time at the store waiting on all of the customers without Junior to help him. That’s one thing about my husband. No matter what happens, he can sleep like a log. I don’t think he ever actually worries about anything. I don’t mean by that he isn’t concerned over the situation. He simply doesn’t worry about it. If he knew he was going to be executed tomorrow, I don’t think he’d lose a minute’s sleep. He’d simply say, ‘Well, if it’s going to be that way and there’s nothing I can do about it, there’s no reason for losing any sleep over it.’ ”
Mason turned then, casually, so he could look at the shelf on which he had placed the can. Apparently, the can had not been disturbed. He noticed that Della Street was also looking at it. She turned, caught his eye, then looked hastily away.
Mason said, “Now, is there any chance that your son could have got his fingers in that paint in some other way than off the garage door? Your husband must have brought this paint home when he came from the hardware store.”
“That’s right, but he didn’t mix it until after Junior had gone out.”
“Now, this door, I take it,” Mason said, “is not kept locked.”
“No. It isn’t. But the outer door to the garage is. There’s a spring lock on that, and Mr. Hocksley has the keys to it. I believe he has three or four duplicate keys.”