Mason inserted his index and second finger in its opening and scissored out a small piece of pasteboard.
“Now what in the world is that?” Della Street asked.
“That,” Mason said, “seems to be a pawn ticket on a Seattle pawn shop, pledge number 6384-J, which can be redeemed at any time within ninety days on paying the amount of an eighteen-dollar loan, a handling charge, a storage charge and one per cent per month interest.”
“How dreadfully unexciting,” Della Street said. “The poor girl had to hock her family jewels to get out of Seattle and she chose that method of making certain she didn’t lose the pawn ticket.”
Mason said, “Eighteen dollars’ worth of jewels, Della? You wrong the family. We’ll drive up to the Drake Detective Agency, and ask Paul Drake for the name of his Seattle correspondent. We’ll rush the ticket up there by air mail and redeem the pawned article. That will at least give us eighteen dollars’ worth of something and a few hundred dollars’ worth of information. Then we can sell the article even if we can’t sell the information.”
“Suppose the information turns out to be something you don’t want?” Della Street asked.
“Then I’m stuck with it,” Mason said, “but by that time we’ll know a lot more about Morris Alburg.”
Chapter 3
It was around nine-thirty when Perry Mason unlocked the hail door to his private office, and found Della Street arranging piles of freshly opened mail on his desk.
“Hi, Della, what’s new?” Mason asked, crossing over to the hat closet and placing his hat on the shelf.
“Morris Alburg telephoned.”
“What did he want?”
“An insurance agent wanted to see the waitress.”
“You mean Dixie?”
“That’s right. He represents the company that carried insurance on the car that hit Dixie as she ran out of the alley.”
“Fast work,” Mason said. “Too fast.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“They want to rush through a settlement, getting proper releases, and... No, they don’t either.”
“It would certainly look like it.”
Mason paused, standing by the corner of his desk. He ran the tips of his fingers over his clean-shaven jaw, frowned down at the papers on the desk without seeming to see them, and said, “That’s a new one.”
“I don’t get it. I thought insurance companies always did that.”
“They used to,” Mason said. “Some of them still do, but for the most part insurance companies are pretty ethical now. If there’s a claim against them they want to see that a reasonable and fair compensation is paid.
“But here’s a case where a girl runs out of the back door of a restaurant and into an alley, dashes right in front of an oncoming car, which, of course, hit her.”
Della Street said, “I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Simply this,” Mason said. “The driver of the car that hit her couldn’t have been negligent unless there’s something we don’t know anything about. He was driving his car along the road, apparently going at a reasonable rate of speed. He was probably intent on making the traffic signal at the corner, but he had the right to expect that everyone on the street would be using it in a safe and prudent manner. All of a sudden this girl darts out from the curb, running in blind terror, and jumps right in front of him.”
“Perhaps he had been drinking.”
“The records indicate that he stopped his car almost at once. There’s nothing to show that he had been drinking, yet within a few hours here comes a man from the insurance company wanting a settlement... What did Morris Alburg tell him?”
“Told him to come up and see you, that you were taking care of everything pertaining to Dixie Dayton’s affairs.”
Mason laughed and said, “I’ll bet that answer gave the fellow something to think of.”
“You don’t think he’ll come up here?”
Mason laughed and said, “I hardly think he wants to deal with an attorney. He— Wait a minute, Della. There’s just a chance that this is simply an attempt to find out where the girl is. That man may be simply— Did he give Morris Alburg a name?”
Della Street nodded. “George Fayette.”
“How long ago did Morris call?”
“A little after nine.”
The phone on Della Street’s desk gave a jingle. Della Street picked up the receiver, said, “Yes, hello, Gertie... Who is it?... Just a moment.”
She cupped her hand over the transmitter and said to Mason, “He’s here.”
“Who?”
“George Fayette.”
Mason grinned. “Go on out and bring him in, Della. Let’s not let him have a change of heart and get away. I want to see what he looks like, and I want to ask him a few questions.”
Della said into the telephone, “I’ll be right out, Gertie,” and hung up.
Mason settled himself in the chair behind his desk, and Della Street walked out to the reception room to escort George Fayette into Mason’s private office.
A moment later she was back, alone.
“What happened?” Mason asked sharply. “Did he leave?”
Della Street carefully closed the door, said, “Chief, it’s the same one.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man I was trying to follow last night, the man who sat alone at the table...”
“You mean he’s out there now, supposed to be representing an insurance company that carried insurance on the car that hit Dixie Dayton?”
“That’s right.”
Mason grabbed the telephone. “Get the Drake Detective Agency on the line right away, Gertie. Get Paul Drake if you can. Tell Mr. Fayette I’ll see him in just a minute. Don’t let him hear you. Tell him I’m on a long-distance call.”
Mason looked at his wrist watch. “Telephoning may be a waste of time, Della. Paul’s office is just down the corridor. Perhaps you’d better go and...”
“Wait a minute... Gertie says Paul’s on the line.”
Mason said, “Hello, Paul, Perry Mason.”
“Well, well, well, how are you...”
“Hold it, Paul, this is a rush job.”
“What is it?”
“There’s a man in my office. He has given his name as George Fayette. I don’t know whether that’s his real name or not. I doubt very much if it is. I want that man shadowed. I want to know who he is, I want to know where he goes, I want to know what he does.”
“Okay, how much time do I have?”
Mason said, “I’ll stall him along as much as possible, but I have an idea that five or ten minutes is all I can count on. Now, Paul, he’s about thirty-five years old, he’s about five feet seven inches tall, but he must weigh pretty close to a hundred and eighty-five. He’s dark and has bushy eyebrows — and he may fool you. He’ll seem to be completely engrossed in his own affairs, and yet he’ll be wary as the devil.”
“I know the type,” Drake said. “We’ll handle him.”
“I’m very much interested in getting the license number of his automobile,” Mason said, “and finding out who he is, all of that stuff.”
“Okay. You think I’ll have ten minutes?”
“Better figure on five,” Mason said. “I feel quite certain I can hold him here for ten minutes, but he may not like the looks of the thing, figure on stalling, and start out.”
Drake said, “I’ll have a man waiting to ride down in the elevator with him. Be sure I have at least five minutes, Perry.”
Mason hung up, said to Della Street, “Now, Della, go out and stall him for a minute. Smile sweetly at him, tell him that I’m talking long distance on a call that just came in from the East; that you’ll let him know as soon as I’ve finished. Then go over to Gertie’s desk and tell her to wait until you cough. When she hears you cough she can say that I’m finished with my call. Get it?”