“You insinuated I wasn’t fighting,” Jackson went on in a hurt voice. “I want you to know I did everything humanly possible. I left no stone unturned, Mr. Mason. I told Mr. Rooney in no uncertain terms exactly what I wanted, and when he refused to accede to my request I openly accused him of betraying the best interests of the corporation.”
Mason opened a drawer, took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Jackson,” he said, “when you start fighting, never try to hit the other man where he’s expecting the punch. And when you once start a fight, never give up until the other man’s licked. If you can’t do it by hook, do it by crook. By the way, I don’t suppose you happen to know a Marjory Trenton?”
“No, sir.”
Mason filled the whiskey glasses. “That’s where you made your mistake, Jackson.”
Chapter 10
Tuesday morning dawned with overcast skies and a cold, drizzling rain. Mason, a temporary office established in his hotel suite, finished dictating the application for a writ of habeas corpus and said to Della, “All right, Della, transcribe those records. We’ll get these writs issued and served.”
The telephone rang. Della picked up the receiver, smiled up at Mason and said, “Mr. Charles Whitmore Dail is in the lobby.”
“Tell him to come on up,” Mason said.
Drake, who had been in communication with his San Francisco branch office on another telephone, came in through a connecting door and said, “I have a report on Evelyn Whiting, Perry. She’s a registered nurse. She’s been married and divorced, resumed her maiden name, and has her own private opinion on husbands, taken by and large, as a class and as individuals.”
“Like that, eh?” Mason asked, grinning.
“Exactly,” Drake said.
“She didn’t impress me as being a man-hater,” Mason told him.
“I didn’t say she was a man-hater,” Drake said. “I said she was a husband-hater.”
“So what?” Mason asked.
“So when Moar fell for her like a ton of bricks and wanted her to marry him, she said nothing doing, they’d be friends and that was all.”
“Wasn’t she a bit high-powered for a chap of Moar’s type?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know,” Drake said. “You saw Moar, I didn’t. But I gathered that Moar rated about one date a week and she was trotting out to night clubs in between times. In other words, her intentions weren’t honorable or serious. Moar’s were.”
“Where did you get the dope?” Mason asked.
“She has a sister here in San Francisco, a Marian Whiting, who lives in the Wavecrest Apartments.”
“Your men talked with the sister?”
“Yes.”
“What else did they find out?”
“That’s all that’s shown in the report,” Drake said.
“Was the sister suspicious or close-mouthed?”
“Apparently not,” Drake told him. “She was excited because Mrs. Moar had been accused of murder, and she wondered what Evelyn would say to that.”
Mason stared at Drake and said, “What’s that, Paul?”
Drake raised his eyebrows. “She was wondering what her sister would say when she heard about it.”
Mason said, “Wait a minute, Paul, that doesn’t make sense. Her sister’s here in San Francisco?”
“Well... Oh, I see,” Drake said, frowning into his notebook. “You may have something there, Perry. Want me to have my men make a further investigation? They can go see the sister and—”
“No,” Mason interrupted. “I want to think it over. It’s either unimportant, or it’s important as the devil. I don’t know which. If it’s important, we won’t trust anyone else with it. We’ll handle it ourselves.
“Now here’s something else that bothers me Just before the ship left Honolulu, someone picked the lock on Moar’s suitcase, took out a picture of Belle Newberry and substituted a picture of Winnie Joyce.”
“What was the idea?” Drake asked.
“The idea of the substitution,” Mason said, “was evidently to keep the theft of Belle Newberry’s picture from being discovered. Apparently there’s rather a startling resemblance between Belle and the picture actress. The picture which was substituted was just about the same pose and lighting.”
“How come?” Drake asked.
“Belle got a fanmailed photo of Winnie Joyce and then had one of her own taken in just the same pose and with the same lighting effect. Someone got bold of a Winnie Joyce publicity photograph and made the switch.”
“You don’t think Winnie Joyce is mixed up in it, do you?” Drake asked. “There’s big money invested in her. If her name ever came into the investigation they’d...”
“No, I don’t think so,” Mason said.
“You could raise hell with the Prosecution by letting Winnie Joyce’s studio get a hint that you were going to drag her name in, and...”
“No,” Mason interrupted. “I don’t play ball that way, Paul. From what I’ve seen of Winnie Joyce on the screen, she’s a nice kid. There’s a startling resemblance, though. Not only does Belle Newberry resemble her in face and figure, but in actions and temperament. They have high-powered personalities, if you know what I mean.”
“And you think this substituted picture had something to do with the murder?” Drake asked.
“I don’t know, Paul. So far, I’ve been acting on the assumption that Celinda Dail, who apparently has matrimonial designs on Roy Hungerford, stole the picture and sent it by air mail to Rooney for an investigation. But I’m not so certain that’s correct. Rooney admitted he’d made an investigation for Celinda, but didn’t say anything about the picture. He intimated Belle had let drop some remark which had given Celinda a clue she’d gratuated from U.S.C. I’d like to find out something about that picture. Have your men cover the Royal Hawaiian Hotel over in Honolulu and see if they can uncover anything. Perhaps some of the employees may have seen someone hanging around Moar’s room— Remember, though, Paul, he was registered under the name of Newberry.”
Drake said, “Okay, Perry, on my way,” and dashed through the door into his room.
Someone knocked on the door of the sitting room. Mason said, “That’s Dail. Let him in, Della.”
Della Street opened the door and said, “Come in, Mr. Dail.”
Charles Whitmore Dail seemed far from comfortable. “Good morning, Mr. Mason,” he said. “Good morning, Miss Street. I seem to have placed myself in rather an unenviable position.”
“Sit down,” Mason invited.
“Thank you,” Dail said. He glanced around him at the room with its dictating machines, protable typewriters, and law books.
“Field headquarters,” Mason explained.
“You move around rather rapidly,” Dail observed.
“I don’t let any grass grow under my feet when I’m working on a murder case,” Mason admitted.
“I’ll say you don’t,” Dail said. “I suppose you know what I want to see you about, Mr. Mason. I must confess, you stole a march on me.”
“In what way?” Mason asked.
Dail laughed nervously. “You move too fast for me, Mr. Mason. I can’t keep up with you.”
“Did you,” Mason asked, “intend to keep up with me?”
“Well,” Dail said, “I think you’ll agree that I had every reason to think Carl Moar was guilty of embezzlement.”
Mason lit a cigarette. “I don’t see that you had any reason to think so.”
“Surely,” Dail said, “when a man has been in your employ, suddenly leaves without a word of explanation, and there’s a shortage of twenty-five-thousand dollars, it’s at least a reasonable inference he’s guilty of embezzlement.”