“You girls commented on this among yourselves?” Mason asked.
“Not so much. Morris doesn’t like for us to have those huddles. When he sees us talking together he manages to break it up, one way or another; puts us to work doing something. That way we keep pretty much to ourselves.”
“Then you haven’t talked this over with the other girls?”
“Not to speak of.”
“Then it may be your imagination.”
“What is?”
“What you’ve been telling me about his favoritism.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I guess I’ve been in this racket long enough to know when I’m getting a run-around and when I’m not.”
Mason took a wallet from his pocket, took out a crisp twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that I haven’t been at your table lately, Miss Nolan. Perhaps you would accept this by way of an apology and in lieu of the tips I would have left if I had been there.”
“Say, now,” she said, “that’s what I call being real decent. You really are okay, Mr. Mason, and remember, any time you come in if you sit at my table you’ll get the best, and — well, you know you get the best any place, but — well, thank you.”
She folded the bill, pulled up her skirt without any pretense of modesty, and inserted the bill in the top of her stocking.
“Anything else?” Paul Drake asked.
Mae Nolan slowly pulled down her skirt. “Well, now,” she said, “this is a little different. It’s always a pleasure to do what I can for a couple of good sports... I suppose you know Mr. Alburg gave her that fur coat?”
“Alburg did?” Mason asked.
“That’s right.”
“He certainly didn’t let on to me that he had,” Mason said. “I can’t believe that he’d...”
“Well, he did all right. He went out and got it for her.”
“Where?”
“That’s what we’ve been asking ourselves, Mr. Mason. Some of the girls think he got it out of a closet in his apartment. He might have been keeping it for her.”
“But he’s the one who got it?”
“I’ll say. He went out and when he came back he had a bulky brown paper parcel under his arm. He took it into the kitchen. The next thing we knew, one of us went into the little girls’ room and here was this same brown paper all stuffed into the wastebasket...
“And Dixie Dayton cried all that afternoon. We couldn’t figure out why she was crying until we saw her flash this mink coat. And then we saw the moths had got into it.
“That’s just like Morris Alburg. He’d been keeping it for her, all wrapped up in paper. He never thought to put any moth balls in with it.
“My Gawd, that coat set somebody back a chunk of dough at one time. Personally, I don’t think Dixie was classy enough to promote it. I think it was stolen.”
“Well,” Paul Drake said, “I guess that’s a piece of news. Anything else?”
She thought for a minute or two, then said, “I guess that’s all. I’ve got to go. Thanks for the buggy ride.”
She gave them a dazzling smile, got up and stretched, smoothed her skirt over her hips.
Drake got up and held the door open. Mae Nolan flashed another glance at Perry Mason, smiled and batted her eyelids several times, then, with a slightly exaggerated hip motion, swept from the office only to turn suddenly and say, “Hey, wait a minute. You aren’t going to tell Mr. Alburg anything about this, are you?”
Mason shook his head.
“Thanks,” she said.
The door closed. Della Street picked up a newspaper and made fanning motions to clear the atmosphere of the perfume.
Mason cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “I didn’t notice it was as bad as that, Della.”
“You wouldn’t,” she said.
“No?”
“No. Not with those legs and the way she bats her eyes. Personally, I wouldn’t take the word of that little tramp for anything.”
“A lot of it could be imagination,” Mason said, “but not all of it. Let’s see if we can get Alburg on the phone, Della.”
“On the private line?”
Mason nodded.
“Ten to one you draw a blank,” Drake said.
Della Street went over to her desk, said to the girl at the switchboard, “Give me an outside line, Gertie,” and then, with swift, competent fingers, dialed the number of Alburg’s restaurant.
“I want to talk with Morris Alburg,” she said. “This is Mr. Mason’s office... What’s that?... When?... When do you expect him?... Well, ask him to call Mr. Mason as soon as he comes in, will you?”
She hung up and said to Mason, “He went out about two hours ago and hasn’t been back.”
“Anyone know where he is?”
“Apparently not. They said they didn’t know where we could reach him, but they’d have him call as soon as he came in.”
The interoffice phone on Della’s desk exploded into a series of three short, sharp rings.
Della Street turned to Perry Mason. “Lieutenant Tragg is on his way in. That’s a code signal I fixed up with Gertie—”
The door from the outer office pushed open. Lieutenant Tragg, in plain clothes, stood surveying the room. “Hello, folks,” he said. “Are you busy, Mason?”
“Heavens, no,” Mason said. “I just rent the office so I’ll have a place to work up a private handicap on the races. I used to try doing it down on the street corner, but the traffic noises tended to distract me, so I got this place up here.”
Tragg walked in, closed the door behind him, said, “Don’t feel so put out, Mason. I always give Gertie a chance to let you know I’m on the way, and hesitate long enough so you can hide anything you want to ditch, but it’s beneath the dignity of the law for me to wait in anybody’s outer office.”
“I know,” Mason said sympathetically. “The taxpayers’ money has to be conserved, even at the expense of the taxpayers’ time.”
“Exactly,” Tragg said, settling himself into a chair and tilting his hat back on his head.
He studied Mason thoughtfully, then said, “I might have known that if I started pulling any chestnuts out of the fire for you I’d get my fingers burnt.”
“Are they burnt?” Mason asked.
“Well, they’re feeling pretty hot. I hope I don’t raise a blister. I could have got them burnt off.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I. I came in to find out.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
Paul Drake got up, said, “Well, I’ll toddle along and see how the overhead is clicking in my office.”
“Don’t let me frighten you away, Drake.”
“Just away — not frightened,” Drake said, and flashing Mason a glance, eased out of the exit door.
Tragg drew a cigar from his pocket, clipped the end, looked at Mason shrewdly and lit up. “How’s business?”
“Too much business, not enough money.”
“I know,” Tragg sympathized. “Some days when you don’t make even a measly thousand dollars... What’s your tie-up with that Alburg case?”
Mason said, “I was in the restaurant when all the excitement took place. I eat there once in a while. Alburg asked me a few questions.”
“What questions?”
Mason smiled at Tragg and said, “I can’t remember, Lieutenant.”
Tragg inspected the end of the cigar to see that it was burning evenly, gave Mason a grin and said, “You know, Counselor, I like you.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s where the trouble comes in.”
“What trouble?”
“My trouble. There are those down in the department who don’t like you.”
“No?”
“No. They think you’re on the other side of the law.”