“I know,” Drake said. “You figured you couldn’t go wrong as far as value was concerned. Now I’ll tell you what the article was.”
“What was it?”
“A gun.”
“Any good?”
“Apparently so. A thirty-eight Smith and Wesson special.”
“You picked it up?” Mason asked.
Drake shook his head. “The police did.”
“What police?”
“The Seattle police.”
“How come? You had the pawn ticket, didn’t you? I wanted you to mail it to Seattle, and...”
Drake said, “When the police went to Alburg’s cafe last night, they naturally asked Alburg what he knew about the girl. Alburg told them he didn’t know a damned thing, that she’d applied for a job as waitress, that she needed money, that it was the first of the month, and...”
“I know,” Mason said. “He told me all that.”
“The officers looked around a bit and found this girl’s handbag had been picked up by the ambulance driver and taken to the hospital. Just as a matter of routine they made an inventory.”
“That was the traffic detail?”
“Yes — traffic accidents.”
“Go ahead.”
“They found lipstick, keys that don’t mean anything yet, a compact, and a ticket on a Seattle pawn shop.”
“Another one?”
“That’s right.”
“So what did they do then?”
“Sent a teletype to Seattle. The police went around to investigate. That pawn ticket was for a diamond ring. The pawnbroker remembered her. He said she’d hocked a gun at the same time. The police took a look at the gun. Then things began to happen.”
“What sort of things, Paul?”
“I can’t find out for sure, but it touched off a lot of activity down here. Police began to go places and do things. Alburg’s restaurant is crawling with detectives.”
“Where’s Morris Alburg?”
“Lots of people want to know,” Drake said.
Mason quit signing mail. “I’ll be damned,” he said.
Drake said, “Alburg could just be out on business.”
“What else, Paul?”
“Alburg never told the police anything about the fur coat, but one of the waitresses did. She told the police that Alburg had given the fur coat to you, and that your secretary had worn it out.”
“Observing brats, aren’t they?”
“Uh-huh,” Drake said. “And apparently there’s a certain amount of friction and jealousy on which I think we may be able to capitalize.”
“How come?”
“I think Alburg is giving you a bum steer.”
“Alburg is?” Mason asked. “Good Lord, Paul, I’m doing this for Alburg.”
Drake nodded.
Della Street blotted the last of the letters, took them out to the stenographic room to be folded and mailed, then returned and seated herself at her secretarial desk.
Drake said, “One of the waitresses is named Nolan, Mae Nolan. She just might have had an idea that Morris Alburg was noticing her a little bit.”
“Does he play around with his waitresses?”
“Apparently not,” Drake said. “And that may be part of the trouble. However, there are a lot of angles to be considered. There are certain tables that are choice, as far as tips are concerned, others that aren’t so good, and stuff of that sort.”
“It goes on a basis of seniority?”
“It goes on a basis of favoritism,” Drake said. “At least the girls seem to think so.”
“What about this Mae Nolan?”
“She’s in my office. I’ve just taken a statement from her. I thought perhaps you’d like to talk with her.”
“Sure thing,” Mason said. “If Morris Alburg is cutting any corners with me, we’ll show him where he gets off.”
“Well, you talk with this girl and then see what you think,” Drake said.
“All right, bring her in.”
Della Street said, “I can run down and get her, Paul, if you and the chief want to talk.”
“Not that,” Drake said. “But I’m sure lazy, Della. If you’ll do the leg work, it’ll help... She’s in my office. The girl at the telephone desk knows her. Just tell her to come on down here.”
“I’ll introduce myself?” Della Street asked. “That is, is there any reason why she shouldn’t know that...”
“None whatever,” Drake said, “not as far as I’m concerned.”
“Sure,” Mason said. “Go ahead, Della.”
“You have that Seattle pawn ticket?” Mason asked.
“Our Seattle correspondent has it,” Drake said. “They telephoned as soon as they’d contacted the pawn shop. He found the pawnbroker running around in circles, acting as though he’d been caught sucking eggs.”
“Wasn’t his nose clean?”
“It was supposed to have been, but something was bothering him. Under the circumstances my Seattle man didn’t tip his hand once he found out the police had the gun.”
Mason reached for a cigarette. “Want one, Paul?”
Drake shook his head. “Not now.”
Mason was just lighting up when they heard the sound of quick steps in the corridor, and Della Street, escorting a young woman into the office, said, “This is Mr. Mason, Miss Nolan.”
“How do you do, Mr. Mason.”
Mae Nolan was an artificial blonde, somewhere in her thirties. Her face was held in the lines of perpetual good nature, but the blue eyes above the smiling mouth were swift in their appraisal, and cold in their scrutiny.
“Sit down,” Mason invited.
“Thank you,” she said, with her best company manner.
Drake smiled indulgently and said, “No need to mince around any, Mae. Just tell Mr. Mason your story.”
She flashed him an angry glance, and said, “I wasn’t mincing around.”
Mason said, “I think you misunderstood Paul Drake, Miss Nolan. He merely was referring to the fact that you could get right down to brass tacks. He wasn’t referring to your manner, but pointing out there was no need for any verbal detours.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, smiling at Mason, and batting her eyelashes. Then, swiftly turning to Paul Drake, said, “I’ve been nervous and upset today. What with one thing and another, I haven’t had a chance to get much sleep. We go on at six o’clock and work until twelve-thirty in the morning, right straight through.”
“Pretty tough job?” Mason asked.
“Sometimes.”
“The tables fill up pretty well?”
“Well, of course, it varies. On Saturday night we’re packed jammed. Then on Monday night there isn’t quite so much business. But, of course, every night during the rush hour everything is jammed. Then things taper off around ten o’clock except on Saturday night. Then there’s about an hour when things quiet down, but they start off again with a rush as soon as the theaters are out.”
“Certainly must be a job,” Della Street said sympathetically, “being on your feet all the time like that.”
“You don’t know the half of it, dearie,” Mae Nolan said, turning to Della Street. “You have a cinch in a job like this. Gosh, I— Oh, well, never mind. You folks aren’t interested in my troubles... It isn’t the work so much as it is the people who are unappreciative, the people who bawl you out for their own mistakes... A man will order roast beef and forget to tell you that he wants it rare. Then afterwards he’ll swear that he told you he didn’t want it unless it was real rare, and... Oh, what’s the use?”
“I thought you asked them how they wanted it when you took the order,” Della Street said.
Mae Nolan flashed her a cold glance. “I just used that as an illustration, dearie.”
“You were going to tell us something about Dixie Dayton,” Paul Drake said.
“Oh, was I?”