“Through the car,” Drake said. “I went to the garage where he kept his car, found he’d had some work done on it recently, got the mechanic who did the work, took him out to the wrecked car, showed it to him, and he identified it absolutely, pointed out some of the work he’d done on it. We’re out there now. I’m telephoning from that drug store.”
“Any explanation of how this car happens to be registered in the name of Carl Packard?”
“No, but it’s Braun’s car, all right, but the manufacturer’s serial numbers on it don’t agree with the serial numbers on that registration certificate.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, the mechanic just pointed that out to me. When he’d worked on the car it had different license plates on it and had been registered to Jason Braun. The present license numbers agree with the registration certificate to Carl Packard, and the make and model of car is the same. The rest of it is all haywire.”
Mason frowned thoughtfully. “Well, Paul, we’re getting somewhere now. We can start tracing the registrations and that other car should give us a lead. Keep working on it. I’ll give you a ring after a while.”
He hung up the telephone and said to Wray, “Well, getting back to this partnership business, I’m wondering if—”
“I beg your pardon,” Wray interrupted, “but you mentioned the name of Jason Braun over the telephone. He’s not in any trouble, is he?”
Mason kept expression from his face, picked up his cigarette from where he had laid it on the desk when he answered the telephone, and asked casually, “Know him?”
“Why, yes,” Wray said. “I know him rather well.”
“How long since you’ve seen him?” Mason inquired.
“Yesterday.”
“Morning or afternoon?”
“Morning. Tell me, is anything wrong?”
“He was missing from his apartment,” Mason said, “and his landlady notified the police.”
Wray boomed into heavy laughter. “That,” he proclaimed, “is a good one! Jason Braun missing! Good Lord, he’s been right around town all the time. I’ve seen him two or three times during the past two weeks, and he was here in the office yesterday morning.”
“What’s his line?” Mason inquired, sitting back in the chair and crossing his long legs in front of him. Insurance?”
“Not exactly,” Wray said.
Mason showed that he was waiting for Wray to answer the question in greater detail. The insurance adjuster fidgeted uneasily and said, “Well, after all, Mr. Mason, since you’re representing Mrs. Prescott, I feel you’re one of the family and I know I can trust your discretion. Braun represents the insurance underwriters.”
“A salesman of some sort?” Mason asked.
“No, not a salesman. He investigates fires to determine whether they’re of incendiary origin. If they are, he knows what to do. He’s highly specialized.”
“Something in the nature of a detective?” Mason inquired.
“Yes.”
“What was his business with you yesterday?” Mason wanted to know.
“Oh, he didn’t have any particular business,” Wray said. “He dropped in for a social chat. As a matter of fact, he’s my wife’s cousin.”
“Any idea where I could get in touch with him now?” Mason asked.
“Through the Board of Underwriters,” Wray said. “But, look here, Mason, I’d a lot rather you didn’t let them know I’d tipped you off to what he’s doing. It’s highly confidential, you know.”
“The other insurance adjusters don’t know about it?”
“Good Lord, no!”
“How about your partner, did he know about it?”
“No, he’d never met Braun. You see, Jason kept his identity pretty well masked because so many times he had to pose as a fire-bug in order to trap the people he was after. And, incidentally, that’s why this business about his disappearance is a joke. I happen to know that right now he’s working on a big case. There have been no less than twelve fires in the last six months which can be traced back to one gang of fire-bugs — no proof, you understand, but the underwriters are morally certain.”
Mason said, “Look here, Wray, I’m going to ask you to do me a favor, something which will be of the greatest benefit to Mrs. Prescott. I want you to get in touch with Jason Braun for me. I want you to arrange for a confidential meeting at the earliest possible moment. I want to see him before he sees anyone else. Do you think you can do it?”
“Why, sure,” Wray said. “Why, I can get Claire — that’s the wife — to locate him within an hour.”
“Remember,” Mason said, “he left this apartment two weeks ago and hasn’t been heard from since. He had an engagement with a girl friend and stood her up on that engagement. Confidentially, there’s some evidence to indicate he may be suffering from an impaired memory. Circumstances which I won’t discuss now indicate that—”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing like that,” Wray said. “He’s working on a case, that’s all. Claire will know about it. Why, I was talking with him myself yesterday morning and he was perfectly normal.”
“He recognized you then?”
Wray said, “Of course he recognized me. My God, Mason, I don’t know what you’re after, but whatever it is, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Jason’s all right. Naturally, he’s secretive in his methods, that’s all.”
“Well,” Mason told him, “please don’t misunderstand me. It’s of absolutely vital importance that I talk with Jason Braun. I want to talk with him before the police do.”
“The police?”
“Yes. He may be a witness either for or against Mrs. Prescott.”
“Well, he won’t be a witness against her,” Wray said. “You can depend on that, because Jason Braun will tell the truth, and the truth won’t hurt Rosalind Prescott. I don’t know who killed Walter, but you can gamble she didn’t. If Jason Braun knows anything, he’ll tell the truth. No one can influence him one way or the other.”
“And you think you can arrange for me to interview him before anyone else does?”
“I’m absolutely certain of it,” Wray said.
Mason got to his feet, took out a card and said, “My telephone number’s on the card. When you ring up, ask for Miss Street. That’s my secretary. Tell her who you are and she’ll put you on my line if I’m there, or if I’m out she’ll see that your message gets to me and I’ll call you back within a very few minutes.”
Wray came around the desk to shake Mason’s hand. “Tickled to death to do anything I can, Mr. Mason,” he said. “And, incidentally, if Mrs. Prescott is in need of any cash to cover — well frankly, to cover her retainer to you, I can arrange to advance that cash. You see, the money will come in on that insurance policy within a few days and she’ll be entitled to that. So I’d be only too glad to make an advance against it.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Mason told him, “but it is particularly important that I locate Braun. If you can arrange for a confidential interview with him, both Mrs. Prescott and myself will keenly appreciate it.”
Frederick Carpenter, first vice-president of the Second Fidelity Savings & Loan, turned watery blue eyes on Perry Mason, listened to the lawyer’s statement of his errand with an expressionless countenance, cautiously rubbed the palm of his hand over his bald head and said, “I see no reason, Mr. Mason, why the bank should anticipate the legal procedure incident to probate. When Mrs. Prescott is appointed executrix or administratrix, she can file a certified copy of the letters of administration with us and we will then be very glad to turn over any money in Mr. Prescott’s account.”
“Will you tell me the amount of that money?”
“I see no reason for doing so.”