“We’re making an investigation,” Mason told him.
Trader slipped a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his stained overalls, cut off a slice and inserted it in his mouth. With calm deliberation, he replaced the tobacco, shut the knife, and shoved it down deep in his pocket. “Yeah,” he said. “When a guy starts asking questions, he’s making an investigation. That don’t mean anything. Are you representing Packard?”
“No, I’m not,” Mason said. “I’m investigating another angle of the case.”
“Which angle?”
Mason said, “An angle which is quite incidental.”
Trader rolled the piece of tobacco about in his mouth through tightly clenched lips, and said, “Uh huh. Thanks for tellin’ me.”
“Did you take Packard to the hospital?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you take him out of the hospital?”
“No. I had a delivery to make. I turned him over to the doctor.”
“You don’t know when he left?”
“No.”
“You don’t know how seriously he was hurt?”
“Sure. He was just banged up a bit. I stuck around until I was sure there was nothing wrong with him.”
“Was he suffering from amnesia — loss of memory?”
“He was punch-groggy, if that’s what you mean.”
“How did the accident happen?” Mason asked.
Trader adjusted the piece of tobacco between his molars, chewed with a barely perceptible motion, his facial muscles bunching into little knots as his jaws clamped shut. His eyes were cold and uncordial. On the wall, a clock clacked off the seconds.
“You’re not going to answer that question?” Mason asked.
“You said it, buddy. I’ve made my report to my insurance company. Go talk with them if you want to.”
“Just who is your insurance company?” Mason asked.
“That’s something else again,” Trader told him,
“Look here,” Mason said, “for reasons which are none of your damned business, I’m trying to get this thing cleaned up in a way which will be satisfactory to all concerned. You haven’t anything to lose by co-operating with me.”
“You go see my insurance company,” Trader said.
“But we don’t know who your insurance company is,” Drake pointed out.
“That’s right, buddy,” Trader said, “you don’t.”
“You were making a delivery out near the scene of the accident?” Mason inquired.
“Yes.”
“To Prescott’s house?”
“I don’t see as it makes any difference,” Trader said.
“It makes a difference as to whether you were really making a turn down Fourteenth Street,” Mason pointed out.
“Yes,” Trader said, “it was to Prescott’s place. I had some stuff to put in his garage.”
“And as soon as the accident occurred, you and some other man lifted Packard from the car and put him in your truck. You took him directly to the hospital, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Who was this other man?”
“I don’t know. Some guy that came out of the house.”
“What house?”
“Prescott’s house.”
“Do you know Prescott?”
“Yes.”
“Know him well?”
“I’ve done some business for him.”
“Know who this man was?”
“I’ve never seen him before.”
“Would you know him if you saw him again?”
“Of course I would.”
“And, when you found out Packard wasn’t seriously injured, you left the hospital, returned to the scene of the accident and made your delivery to Prescott’s house — is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Was anyone home in Prescott’s house?”
“I don’t know. My instructions were to put the stuff in the garage, and I put it in the garage.”
“Who gave you those instructions?”
“Prescott. He gave me a key to the garage.”
“When?”
“Ask Prescott.”
“What were the articles?”
“Ask Prescott.”
“When you made the delivery, the wrecked coupe was still in front of the house?”
“Yes.”
“Did Packard make any statement to you about where he was staying in town, what his business was, or what his plans were?”
Trader clamped his lips together again, and after a moment puckered up the corners enough to send out a thin stream of yellow liquid into the cuspidor which stood by his table.
“Not answering that question?” Mason asked.
Trader shook his head. “He admitted it was his fault,” he said at length. “That’s all I’m telling you guys about the talk I had with him.”
Mason said, “Look here, Trader, you’re not helping us very much. I’m not trying to drum up a damage suit. I’m trying to get information, and it isn’t going to hurt you any to give us that information.”
“I’ve done all the talking I’m going to,” Trader said.
Mason motioned to Paul Drake. “Come on, Paul,” he said, “let’s go.”
“Where to now?” the detective asked, as they crossed the curb to his car.
“Take me out to my car,” Mason said. “I’ll drive it back to the office. In the meantime, you start men finding this chap, Carl Packard.”
“How bad do you want him?” the detective asked.
“So bad it hurts, Paul. On all the other stuff we’re tagging along behind. On this one thing, we’re ahead of the police, or will be, if we can find Packard. What he saw in that window may save the life of an innocent man or woman.”
“Or,” Drake said dryly, switching on the headlights and starting the motor, “may hang a murder around the neck of your client. Have you thought of that, Perry?”
“No,” the lawyer said, his face grim, “and what’s more, I won’t let myself think of it.”
Chapter six
Mason fitted a latchkey to the exit door of his private office and entered, to find Della Street seated at her secretarial desk, telephoning. She said into the transmitter, “Okay, I’ll tell him. He’s coming in the door now,” hung up, smiled and said to Mason, “Well, your lame canary seems to have brought you a mystery after all.”
“I’ll say. Who was on the line?”
“Drake’s secretary. She said to tell you operatives hadn’t been able to contact Jimmy Driscoll, Rita Swaine, or Rosalind Prescott. And, of course, the police are looking for all three, so they must have skipped out.”
“All right,” Mason said, “what did she tell you about the murder?”
“Nothing new. Prescott was found in the upstairs bedroom, shot three times with a .38 caliber revolver. The revolver the police found, where Rita Swaine had hidden it, was also a .38. Drake’s men haven’t been able to find out whether the rifling marks on the bullets are identical. The probabilities are the police haven’t the information themselves yet. Tell me, Chief, if Rita had been mixed up in the killing, why didn’t she say so frankly when she came in here? She must have known it would all come out. Having you working in the dark didn’t help her any.”
Mason crossed the room, sat on the corner of his desk and lit a cigarette. “Do you know what Paul Drake’s men have discovered, Della?”
She nodded. “I was talking with Mabel Foss a few minutes ago. She gave me the latest.”
“Then you’ve probably noticed that the only evidence which connects Rita Swaine with the actual murder is the testimony of Stella Anderson.”
“Otherwise known as ‘Mrs. Snoops,’ ” Della Street commented. “What about her?”
“It isn’t about her,” Mason said slowly, “it’s about the evidence, Della. She says that Rita Swaine was clipping the canary’s claws, that there was a passionate love scene between her and Jimmy Driscoll, that the canary escaped. And about that time there was this automobile accident. Jimmy ran out and helped load the victim into the van which took him to the hospital. Then Jimmy came back and gave Rita a gun which Rita hid. Then, as he was leaving the house, Jimmy ran right smack into the arms of the officers. Thereafter an interval elapsed during which the witness couldn’t see what was going on in the house. Later on she saw Rita return, catch the canary, and finish trimming its claws. Now then, notice that, on this occasion Rita apparently needed plenty of light to determine what she was doing. Before, she’d been able to clip the canary’s claws standing near the middle of the solarium, and without bothering to move the lace curtains. But when she finished the job, she found it necessary not only to come to the window, but to push aside the curtain and stand directly against the window, clipping the claws on the canary’s right foot.”