On the cold pavement in front of the house, with the first streaks of dawn showing in the east, Della Street turned anxious eyes to Perry Mason. “Chief,” she asked, “aren’t we doing a lot for Alden Leeds?”
Mason grinned down at her. “I’ll say we are. Getting cold feet, Della?”
She snuggled her arm in his. “Be your age, you big oaf.”
They drove a dozen blocks before Mason found an all-night restaurant with a public telephone. He parked the car, went into the restaurant, and called Paul Drake’s office. When he heard the detective’s voice on the line, he said, “Okay, Paul. You can go home now,” and hung up.
Chapter 8
Phyllis Leeds sat across from Mason in the big leather chair, her eyes darkened by apprehension and fear of what was to follow. Mason said, “There’s no way of breaking it gently, Miss Leeds, so brace yourself.”
“About Uncle Alden?” she asked.
“Not directly,” Mason said. “It’s about John Milicant. He was found in his apartment about an hour ago by a maid. He’d been murdered.”
“Murdered?”
Mason nodded. “A carving knife stuck in the back, a little above the left shoulder. The blade forward and downward.”
“Good Heavens!” she exclaimed.
“Paul Drake had operatives on the job all last night,” Mason went on. “We know everyone who entered the apartment house where Milicant had his apartment — everyone, that is, that went to the sixth floor. Among those persons was a Marcia Whittaker, whom John Milicant intended to marry, and a man who answers the description of your Uncle Alden.”
“Uncle Alden!” she exclaimed. “That’s impossible!”
Mason said, “So far we’re working on incomplete data. I’m telling you what we have.”
“But there’s some mistake. It couldn’t have been Uncle Alden.”
“All right,” Mason said, “we’ll assume that it wasn’t your Uncle Alden.”
“The way you say it sounds as though you thought it was he.”
Mason said quietly, “I think it was,” and then went on, “The last person to enter that apartment was Marcia Whittaker. She says she found the apartment locked, that she pounded on the door and got no answer. She waited around in the corridor for four or five minutes, calling John’s name and tapping on the door. When he didn’t answer, she finally left. She went back to her own flat, and, as I get the story, called police headquarters around five o’clock this morning, telling them she thought something was wrong and asking them to make an investigation. They made a very routine investigation. They keep the names of persons injured in automobile accidents and persons taken to the emergency hospitals. They checked through those lists and found no record of a Louie Conway — which was the name under which Marcia knew John Milicant. They naturally reached the conclusion that it was a stand-up and paid no further attention to it.”
“Do you mean that John Milicant was Louie Conway... the one Uncle Alden made the check to? Did...”
As her voice trailed off into silence, Mason said, “Yes.”
“I can’t believe it... Are you certain?”
“Marcia Whittaker says he was, and it looks like it. Have you heard anything from Ned Barkler?”
“No. He packed up and left, bag and baggage.”
“He told me he was going,” Mason said. “Tell me, do you know anything at all about a Bill Hogarty?”
She frowned. “Bill Hogarty,” she repeated.
“Yes,” Mason said, watching her closely.
“I’ve heard the name,” she said, after a while. “I think I heard Ned Barkler and Uncle Alden talking about him once.”
“Do you know what was said?”
“No. I remember now. They were talking in low tones when I came into the room. Barkler had his back turned to me. I heard him say, ‘You got Hogarty’s...’ and then Uncle Alden frowned at him. He looked up and saw me, and quit talking.”
“Do you know how long ago that was?”
“No, I don’t. To tell you the truth, it didn’t impress me much at the time. I thought... ” She broke off and laughed nervously. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Mason, I thought I’d interrupted a smutty story. Have you told Emily? We must notify her.”
Mason shook his head. “The police haven’t been able to locate her.”
“But where is she?” Phyllis Leeds asked.
“That,” Mason said, “is what the police are interested in right now. She was at her brother’s apartment about six o’clock last night.”
“You mean the Conway apartment?”
“Yes.”
“But I can’t believe she knew that John was Conway.”
“I don’t think she knew it,” Mason said, “—until yesterday afternoon. But when she found it out, she knew enough about Conway to know where to find him.”
“How did she find out?”
“I told her.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
“Putting two and two together,” Mason said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to bother you with details or worry you. Look here, Miss Leeds. I have some information of the greatest value to your Uncle Alden. If he gets in touch with you, tell him that. Tell him to talk with me before he does a single thing or makes any statement to anyone. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“All right,” Mason said. “Go on home, sit tight, and don’t worry. I’m not going to burden you with a lot of details. I’m doing everything I can do — but I’m working in the dark.”
She rose obediently. “My head’s spinning like a top,” she said. “Why should Uncle Alden have given John Milicant twenty thousand dollars? Why should he have gone to see him? Why should...”
“Forget it,” Mason interrupted. “Things will move fast from now on. Answers will be uncovered faster than you can think up questions. Go home, sit tight, and see that your Uncle Alden gets in touch with me. And if the police question you, make Ned Barkler’s departure seem as casual as possible.”
She walked slowly toward the door, then turned to flash him a quick smile. “With you on the job, I feel that I don’t have to worry.”
“That’s the spirit,” Mason told her. “I’ll be on the job pretty much from now on.”
Drake entered the office less than ten minutes after Phyllis Leeds had departed. “Perry,” he asked suspiciously, “why did you want me to keep on the job last night and this morning and see if there were any unusual activities at Milicant’s apartment?”
Mason met the detective’s stare steadily. “Want me to tell you, Paul?” he asked.
“No,” Drake said hastily. “Lord knows why I asked that question in the first place. It’s just been sticking in my mind, that’s all.”
“Better get it out of your mind,” Mason said. “What else do you know?”
“The police figure robbery was one of the motives for Milicant’s murder. He always carried a wallet, and it was usually well filled. The wallet is gone. Someone certainly went through the apartment looking for something they may or may not have found. The place is a wreck.”
“Anything else?” Mason asked. “How about time of death? Have they fixed that?”
“Tentatively at around ten-thirty, somewhere between ten and ten-forty-five.”
Mason frowned. “Why the exactness?” he asked. “Good Lord, Paul, I could cite you cases by the dozen where the autopsy surgeons have missed the time of death by from twelve to twenty-four hours. Look at the New York case where the man killed the model.”
“I know,” Drake agreed, “but that’s where they figure on body temperature, rigor mortis, and things like that. This case is different. There’s no question on earth as to when he ate his dinner. Serle says they were discussing a business deal, and that he ordered up the dinner but can’t remember what time it was.