“Go on from there,” Mason said.
“That’s about all there is to it,” Serle told him. “I left there right after we’d eaten, went down to a poolroom I knew, and hung around there until ten o’clock, then I called Louie, and he said everything was okay, that he’d stick around and wait for me to call from the station, jump in a cab, come down and put up the bail, and that would be all there was to it.”
“Did you call the police immediately after that?” Mason asked.
“No, I didn’t. I wanted a little time to go over what I was going to tell the law. I played a game of pool and figured things out. I can think better while I’m knocking the ball around.”
“What time did you call Louie?” Mason asked.
“Right around ten o’clock.”
“As late as ten-thirty?” Mason asked, casually.
“Hell, no, it was ten o‘clock. Christ, he told me to call at ten, and I called at ten. When a guy’s going to put up the cash to spring you on a felony rap, you don’t let half an hour slip through your fingers.”
Mason said coldly, “Serle, you’re lying. You called him around ten-thirty. You didn’t remember the exact time. The first time you told your story, you admitted it. But after you’d talked with Homicide and seen they wanted to fix the call before Leeds had left, you decided to oblige them. You figured you could square your rap if you were obliging.”
Serle said doggedly, “It was ten o’clock when I called... They say Leeds is a multimillionaire.”
“So I hear,” Mason said.
“Maybe this is going to be kind of important to him,” Serle suggested. “He might want to do something for me.”
Mason met his eyes in cold, steady appraisal.
The waitress approached, said hurriedly to Mason, “You’re Perry Mason?”
He nodded.
“There’s a call for you from your office. They said it’s very important, to get you at once.”
Mason gestured toward Serle with a sweep of his hand.
“Give him the check,” he said, “with my compliments.”
He strode to the telephone booth. Della Street was on the line.
“Listen, Chief,” she said, breathlessly. “Drake’s located Alden Leeds.”
“Where?”
“Seattle. Emily Milicant’s with him. Drake’s Seattle correspondent is keeping him under surveillance. Your plane leaves in thirty minutes. Think you can make it? I’ve got your reservation. I’ll wire you all the details care of the Portland airport.”
Mason said, “I’ll make it. Take this in shorthand.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Milicant’s apartment was on the sixth floor. Check everyone who had apartments above him. Serle let something slip about a conversation Milicant had over the phone. It may have been with someone above him in the same apartment house. Tell Drake a waitress named Hazel Stickland of the Home Kitchen Cafe took a runout powder. Have him check on that waiter who took the food up to Milicant’s apartment. We’re taking this waiter’s story too much for granted. Find out if he knows this waitress. Have Drake try to find Hazel. Serle’s sold us out to the D.A., lock, stock, and barrel. He fixes that conversation at ten o’clock. He knows he’s lying, but he figures he can square his own pinch that way. Alden Leeds probably telephoned police the tip-off that got Serle’s place raided. Milicant knew that when Leeds called, Leeds probably left another twenty grand with Milicant when he paid that last visit. Milicant must have been killed almost immediately after that... Give all that dope to Paul Drake. Got it?”
“Got it,” she said. “Happy landings, Chief.”
Mason hung up and sprinted out of the restaurant.
Chapter 10
It was drizzling when Mason entered the Seattle Hotel. “You have a J. E. Smith here?” he asked.
The clerk verified the registration, and said, “Yes. Three-nineteen. Shall I give him a ring?”
Mason said slowly, “No, I’ll call him after I’ve freshened up a bit. I had to leave in a hurry. Any place around here where I can get some clean clothes?”
“The middle of the next block,” the clerk said. “They’ll be open for an hour yet. Tomorrow’s Sunday. Everything will be closed.”
Mason nodded. “I want two rooms,” he said, “one for myself, one for Mrs. George L. Manchester of New York. I’ll pay for both rooms in advance. Give me the key to the room you select for Mrs. Manchester. I’ll look it over, see if it’s okay, and leave the key at the desk when I come down.”
Mason took a billfold from his pocket and slid a twenty-dollar bill across the desk to the clerk, then signed his name and that of Mrs. George Manchester on the registration card the clerk handed him.
The bellboy took Mason to his room. The Manchester room was three doors away and on the other side of the corridor. When the bellboy had left, Mason took the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door of 319.
Emily Milicant’s voice asked sharply, “Who is it?”
“Express package,” Mason said gruffly.
There was a moment of silence, then the rustle of motion, and the door opened a cautious inch.
Mason pushed it open. Emily Milicant fell back in dismay. A white-haired, thin man with cold, gimlet eyes, seated in an overstuffed chair by the radiator, frowned at Mason. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
Emily Milicant answered the question. “Perry Mason, the lawyer.”
The man in the chair said, “Lock the door.”
As Emily Milicant locked the door, Leeds asked, “How’d you find us?”
“Easy,” Mason said. “Too easy. If I found you, the police can find you.”
Emily Milicant, speaking rapidly, said, “Alden was simply terrified by that sanitarium. He was afraid he was going to be railroaded into an insane asylum. So he decided to run away.”
Mason, seating himself on the bed, calmly appropriated pillows with which to bolster his back. He lit a cigarette, and said conversationally to Alden Leeds, “When did you last see John Milicant?”
Leeds said, “It’s been about a week, I guess.”
“Try again,” Mason said.
Leeds stared at Mason, his cold, gray eyes, under frosty eyebrows, boring steadily into the lawyer’s. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Mason said, “You called on John Milicant at ten-five last night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You called on him where he’d had an apartment under the name of L. C. Conway,” Mason said.
Emily Milicant started to say something, then stopped suddenly.
Mason went on casually, “Don’t tell me that you don’t know John Milicant was murdered last night sometime between ten and ten-forty-five.”
Emily Milicant came to her feet, her eyes staring. “John!” she cried, and then, after a moment, “Murdered!”
Alden Leeds started to get to his feet, dropped back in the chair, and said sharply, “He’s lying, Emily, trying to get something out of you. Don’t fall for it.”
Mason fished in his inside pocket, took out a clipping, hastily torn from an early edition of the afternoon paper. He passed it across to Emily Milicant who read a few lines and crossed over to kneel beside Alden Leeds’ chair. Together they read the newspaper account
Mason said to Leeds, “You may or may not know that I’ve been employed to represent you by Phyllis.”
“He knows,” Emily Milicant said quickly. “Oh, Mr. Mason, this is awful... not that I didn’t expect it would happen some day. I’ve told him time and time again that he must quit associating with...”
“Forget all that stuff,” Mason interrupted roughly. “I don’t know how much time we have. Not much, I’m afraid. Milicant was your brother. Under the name of Conway, he’d been blackmailing Alden Leeds. You, Leeds, went up to John Milicant’s apartment last night. You were there at just about the time the murder must have been committed. The apartment was searched. It looks as though you’re the one who did the searching. Now, never mind lies, tears, or sentiment. Shoot fast and shoot clean.”