“Perhaps the D.A. took it for evidence,” Mason said.
“No. One of the newspaper boys did a little snooping for me and finds out that the district attorney overlooked that angle of the case entirely.”
“I wonder,” Mason said thoughtfully, “if the whole thing may not have been a stall. I’m wondering if Trader actually did return to Prescott’s house and deliver stuff to the garage.”
“Yes. Mrs. Weyman saw him back the van up to the garage.”
“How about Weyman? Was he home at the time?”
“He was home, but indisposed,” Drake grinned.
Mason looked at his wrist watch. “What else do you have on Rosa Hendrix, anything?”
“Not a thing,” Drake said cheerfully. “Rosa Hendrix is a nice girl, but I have my suspicions about Diana Morgan. That girl seems to know her way around and she has an independent income from some place.”
“How about Wray?” Mason asked. “Does he play around with the redhead after office hours?”
“Apparently not. Wray is quite a mixer, fond of clubs, lodges, smokers and all that sort of stuff. His gregarious instinct seems to have for its ultimate goal the making of contracts and the landing of business for the firm of Prescott & Wray.”
“Any idea who’s putting up the money?” Mason asked.
“Not for Diana Morgan,” Drake said, “but I have a line on Rosa Hendrix.”
“What sort of a line?”
“In case you’re interested,” Drake said, “she has a luncheon engagement tomorrow with Jimmy Driscoll.”
Mason stared at him with thought-slitted eyes.
“Listen, Paul,” he said, “what sort of baggage does that woman have?”
“Rosa Hendrix,” Drake said, “has a cheap, split-leather suitcase with a pasteboard backing, a steamer trunk, and—”
“No, I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about her other identity — Diana Morgan.”
“The sort of baggage that would go well with a three-hundred-and-ninety-five dollar apartment,” Drake said. “Hat boxes, suitcases, trunks, finest of leather—”
“How are they marked?”
“Simply with the initials ‘D.M.’ You’ll have a chance to see the stuff tonight, Perry. She’ll be moving out on that trip to Reno.”
“Do you think she actually intends to go to Reno?”
“Diana Morgan does,” Drake said, grinning, “but Rosa Hendrix will be on the job tomorrow — don’t forget Rosa’s luncheon engagement with Jimmy Driscoll.”
“I won’t,” Mason promised him. “Do you happen to know what time tonight she intends to move the baggage, Paul?”
“ ‘Happen’ is not the word to describe the manner in which I attain my knowledge,” Drake said, twisting his fish-mouth into a droll grin. “It takes elbow-grease, concentration, perspicacity, and perspiration, a rare combination of intuitive—”
“Yes, I know,” Mason interrupted, matching Ms grin. “I’ll find all that in the expense account when I get it. But, please tell me, Mr. Worldly-Wise Man, what time she intends to move the baggage.”
“She told the porter to be up at her apartment at ten-thirty; that a transfer man would be waiting outside the apartment house at that time.”
Mason said, “And do you happen to know, Mr. Human Wonder, whether the transfer man who will move the baggage of Miss Diana Morgan is Mr. Harry Trader of the Trader’s Transfer Company?”
The grin left Paul Drake’s face. His round, slightly protruding eyes showed a flash of surprise back of the glassy film which covered them. He slid around in the chair, got to Ms feet and said, “By God, Perry, I don’t. And I’m going to find out. You hit the nail on the finger with that crack.”
“Let me know as soon as you get the dope,” Mason called out as Drake jerked open the exit door and pounded down the corridor toward the office.
Mason turned to Della Street. “Della, how about your baggage?”
“I have my things nearly all packed.”
“I’m not talking about your things,” he told her. “How about your baggage?”
“You mean my suitcases, trunks and things?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” she said, “I’ll get by. I’ve borrowed a couple of trunks and—”
“I have an idea which beats that all to pieces,” Mason interrupted. “Why not let Rita Swaine pay for your baggage? I have a scheme by which—”
“Now listen, Chief,” she interrupted. “I’m going to catch that boat. If you’re thinking up any stunt which’ll land me in jail you can forget it right now.”
“No,” he told her, “this’ll be perfectly legal.”
“Never mind if it’s legal,” she said. “Will it look legal?”
“Well,” Mason admitted, hesitating, “I’ll confess that it may look just the slightest bit—”
She interrupted and said, “That’s enough. The answer, in words of one syllable is ‘No.’ ”
“Now don’t be like that, Della,” he pleaded. “This is a cinch. You go down to the best luggage store in the city, buy yourself a whole flock of suitcases, hat boxes, trunks and what have you, and have them lettered with the initials ‘D.M.’ You put in some bricks, newspapers, boards and old shoes, to give the luggage a reasonable amount of weight. Then you have a transfer man take the luggage up to Rita Swaine’s apartment at 1388 Chestnut Street. Tell him the number of the apartment is 408, and if you’re not there he’s to get a passkey from the attendant and put the baggage right in the apartment.”
Della Street yawned and said, “Sorry, Chief, I’m not interested. When the ship pulls out tomorrow, I want to be standing on deck, waving bye-bye to a few of my envious friends who’ll have come down to see me off. I wouldn’t care to be behind bars in the county jail, thank you.”
“You don’t have to be,” Mason told her. “This is perfectly legal.”
“Will I get arrested?”
“They can’t hold you in jail—”
“Never mind whether they can hold me. Will they arrest me?”
“Well,” Mason conceded, “before we get done Sergeant Holcomb may be a little bit put out about it.”
Enough so he’d take me to the hoosegow, Chief?”
Mason said, “Sergeant Holcomb’s impulsive, but I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll steal a march on him, Della. Get your book and I’ll give you some dictation.”
She said, “Oh, well, you’ve never yet gone so far I wouldn’t back your play. Let’s go.”
She moved over to her secretarial desk, opened her shorthand notebook and held her pen poised above the paper, “Okay, Chief,” she said, “what is it?”
“In the Matter of the Application of Della Street,” Mason dictated, “for a Writ of Habeas Corpus.”
Chapter fifteen
Low-flung clouds, borne along in solemn procession by a brisk south wind, slid smoothly over the city streets, sending down an occasional patter of raindrops. The morning was depressing, gloomy, a fore-runner of disaster.
The transfer man who stood awkwardly ill at ease in front of the apartment house desk, said, “Well, all I know about it is she said she was moving in. She had a sublease or something. She said all the baggage initialed ‘D.M.’ was to go in. Here, she said to give you this letter if I had any trouble.”
The clerk said, “Well, you’re having trouble,” and slit open the envelope. He read the document, scratched his head and said, “Well, it seems to be in order. Rita Swaine has her rent paid and she’s in jail. She says to let a Miss Della Street move her things into the apartment, and these are Della Street’s things. I guess she has the right to do it if she wants. I’ll send the boy up to unlock the door.”