The Case of the Baited Hook

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “Well, naturally, I wanted to make my story stand up.”

  Mason said suddenly, “Freel, you went to Tidings. He didn’t come to you. Your first contact was with Tidings. You wanted to sell him information about Byrl Gailord. Because he was the trustee of her funds, you thought there’d be a chance for a shakedown. And then you found out about Mrs. Tump, or she found out about you, and you cashed in on that. But you were still doing business with Tidings. There was something he wanted. . . . Now what did Tidings want?”

  Freel put his hands on his knees. His head was lowered until his voice sounded muffled as he said, “You’ve got me wrong, Mr. Mason. It wasn’t anything like that at all.”

  Mason strode over to him, placed his hand on the collar of the little man’s coat, and said, “Get up off that bed,” and, as he spoke, jerked Freel to his feet.

  Mason whipped the pillows from the bed and felt underneath them. He turned to Paul Drake. “Give me a hand with this mattress, Paul,” he said. “We might as well try here first.”

  Mason took the head of the mattress, Drake the foot.

  “Flip it over.”

  They turned the mattress over.

  Freel came running forward to grab at Mason’s arm. “No, no,” he cried, tugging futilely at the lawyer’s right arm.

  Mason shook him off.

  “You can’t do that,” Freel screamed indignantly.

  Near the center of the mattress on the under side, inch-wide strips of adhesive tape had been interlaced into a network. Mason took out his penknife and cut through the strips of tape.

  Once more Freel lunged at him, and Mason said, without looking up, “Take care of that guy, Paul. He might get hurt on the knife.”

  Drake slipped an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Come on, Freel,” he said. “Take it easy. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  Freel struggled with frantic effort against Drake’s restraining arm. Mason, cutting through the strips of adhesive tape, disclosed a little recess which had been hollowed out in the padded cotton stuffing of the mattress. A roll of bills, fastened with two elastics, became visible in the opening. Mason pulled out the roll and unsnapped the elastic.

  There were ten one-thousand-dollar bills in the roll.

  Mason turned to Freel. “All right, Freel,” he said. “Who gave you the money?”

  “Mrs. Tump,” Freel said.

  “Tidings,” Mason corrected.

  Freel’s eyes shifted. He shook his head nervously. Mason put the bills back into a roll, snapped the elastics around them. “All right, Freel,” he said, “if you’re going to act that way, this money goes out of the room with me. I’ll turn it over to the police.”

  Freel moistened his lips. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “The truth,” Mason said.

  “Then will you give me my money?”

  “Yes.”

  Freel said, “Tidings gave it to me.”

  “Tell me about it,” Mason said.

  “I double-crossed Mrs. Tump,” Freel admitted miserably. “You’re right. Maybe I have done a little blackmailing. I’ve had to live since the Home let me go. If I’ve collected from a few people, it was because I had to. And I’ve never been able to get very much—just a little here and a little there—and I had to be careful because I only dared to work in the cases where they couldn’t complain to the police—cases where the publicity would have ruined someone. Sometimes I’d collect a little money from the father, sometimes from people who had adopted children and didn’t want the children to know about the adoption.”

  Freel was whining badly now. “I didn’t ask for much money, Mr. Mason, only enough to get by on. I figured that the world owed me a living.”

  “Go ahead,” Mason said. “Tell me about Tidings.”

  “I went to Tidings. I told him what I knew about Byrl Gailord.”

  “What did Tidings do?”

  “He laughed at me and kicked me out.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then out of a clear sky, Mrs. Tump hunted me up. She offered me a thousand dollars in cash and fifteen thousand dollars later on if I’d bolster up her story about the adoption proceedings and about the Russian parentage of the girl. . . . The entire thing was made up out of whole cloth. The girl was the illegitimate child of her daughter. The daughter’s married to a Des Moines banker. He’d have a fit if he ever found out. . . . But that wasn’t the game that Mrs. Tump was gunning for. Byrl was getting along in society. Mrs. Tump had a marriage staked out with this man Reeger.”

  “And then Tidings came back into the picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted me to promise that when the time came, I’d tell the absolute truth. That was all he asked.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I tried to protect Mrs. Tump. I told him that I couldn’t. He laughed at me, and said he had enough on me to convict me of perjury if I didn’t; and then he offered me ten thousand dollars and . . . well, there was nothing I could do. I had to take the money. Otherwise, I’d have had to do just as he wanted, and wouldn’t have had a cent for it. You see, he had me. . . . Anyone could have had me who was willing to go to court. My record for the last few years wouldn’t stand investigation. I knew it as well as anyone.”

  “Did you,” Mason asked, “kill Tidings?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Tidings had plenty on you,” Mason said. “Tidings was a hard man. He might have crowded you too far.”

  “No,” Freel said tonelessly. “I didn’t kill him. I never killed anyone.”

  Mason tossed him the ten thousand dollars. “All right, Freel,” he said, “here’s your money. Come on, Paul.”

  Freel watched the two men out into the corridor. Then he darted over to close and lock the door.

  “Put an operative on him,” Mason said to Drake.

  “He’ll skip out,” Drake said.

  “I want him to skip out,” Mason said, “and I want to know where he goes.”

  Drake stopped at the corner drugstore to call his office. When he emerged, he nodded to Mason. “An operative will be on the job in ten minutes, Perry.”

  “Now,” Mason said, climbing into Drake’s car, “tell me something about Peltham.”

  “What about him?”

  “He lived in an apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe you said he was rather circumspect.”

  “Very.”

  “Secretive?”

  “Very.”

  “Does the apartment house have a garage?”

  “Yes. In the basement. There’s an attendant who has charge of the cars.”

  “Did Peltham leave in his automobile?”

  “No. His car’s still there.”

  “Got the license number and a description?”

  “Yes. It’s on the report that we sent into your office.”

  “The number of his apartment and all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose police have searched the place?”

  “Yes. They’ve gone through it with a fine-toothed comb.”

  “Do you know if they are still watching it?”

  “No, but they probably are.”

  Mason said, “That’s going to complicate the situation a little.”

  Drake said suddenly, “Perry, I’ll appreciate it a hell of a lot if you don’t tell me anything more about what you’re going to do. I don’t like the sound of it.”

  Mason settled back against the cushion of Drake’s car. “Neither do I,” he said.

  8.

  MASON, WEARING a low, black felt hat, a topcoat, and gloves, stepped casually from the taxicab in front of the Giltmont Arms Apartment Hotel. A liveried doorman reached for the two travel-stained suitcases which the cab driver handed out, suitcases which bore the labels of half a dozen foreign countries.

  Mason paid off the cab driver, gave him a generous tip, and followed the doorman into
the apartment hotel.

  A heavy-set man, wearing square-toed, rubber-heeled shoes with heavy soles, looked up from a newspaper as Mason entered. He gave the lawyer a quick, flashing scrutiny, and then returned to his paper.

  Mason said to the clerk, “I may be here for as much as two months. My niece is driving up her automobile for me to use. I’ll want garage space for it. I don’t care to be too high above the street, nor too near it. Something on about the tenth floor would be satisfactory. I am willing to go as high as two hundred and fifty dollars a month.”

  The clerk nodded. “I think I have just the thing,” he said. “Mr. . . . er . . .”

  “Perry,” the lawyer said.

  “Yes, Mr. Perry. I’ll have a boy take you up for an inspection.” He nodded to a bellboy. “Show Mr. Perry to 1042,” he said.

  Mason followed the bellboy to the elevator.

  1042 was a well-furnished, three-room apartment with two exposures. Mason announced that it was quite satisfactory and had the bellboy bring up his suitcases. When he had been settled, he picked up the telephone and said to the clerk, “I told you my niece is bringing an automobile for my use. Kindly notify me when she arrives, and I’ll go down and make arrangements for proper storage.”

  “That won’t be at all necessary, Mr. Perry,” the clerk said. “I’ll instruct the garage man and . . .”

  “No, thank you,” Mason interposed firmly. “I want to make certain that the car is parked where it will be available at rather unusual hours. I’ll talk with the garage man myself. A bit of a tip sometimes is most efficacious I’ve found.”

  “Yes, Mr. Perry,” the clerk said suavely. “I’ll let you know as soon as your niece arrives.”

  Mason hung up the receiver, opened one of his suitcases, took out a bundle of keys, and compared them with his door key. He selected three passkeys of similar design and started experimenting on his own door.

  The second key worked the lock easily and smoothly. Mason detached it from the bundle and slipped it into his pocket. He closed the door of his apartment quietly behind him, and walked down the corridor until he came to the door bearing the number 1029. This was Peltham’s apartment, and Mason, moving with calm assurance and a complete lack of nervousness, fitted his passkey to the door. The lock clicked back, and Mason entered the apartment.

  He didn’t switch on the lights, but took from his pocket a miniature flashlight about half the size of his little finger. Using that to guide him, he moved directly toward the clothes closet.

  He selected a dark topcoat and made certain that the name of the tailor and the initials “R.P.” appeared in the label on the inside of the inner pocket.

  He folded the overcoat, put it over his arm, closed the closet door behind him, his gloved hands leaving no fingerprints, and quietly left the apartment.

  Two minutes later, safely ensconced in his own apartment, Mason telephoned Della Street at the drugstore where she was waiting.

  “Okay, Della,” he said.

  “Everything under control?” she asked.

  “Clicking like clockwork.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Mason hung up the receiver and sat waiting. Within a few minutes the telephone rang, and the clerk said, “Your niece is here, Mr. Perry.”

  The detective in the lobby was still reading his newspaper when Mason stepped from the elevator into the lobby. He gave the lawyer only a cursory glance.

  The clerk said, “The garage is around the corner to the right and down the incline, Mr. Perry.”

  “Thank you,” Mason said. “I’ll find it.”

  Della Street tucked her arm through Mason’s. She was jaunty and chic in a sports outfit with her hat tilted at a saucy angle. “Hello, Uncle,” she said.

  “Hello, darling.”

  Della’s car was parked at the curb. “Take off that wire?” Mason asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “All right,” Mason said. “Wait here.”

  He walked rapidly to the corner, turned to the right, and walked down the incline which led down to the basement garage.

  The garage attendant was seated in a sedan by the door, engrossed in a radio program. When he saw Mason, he hurriedly shut off the radio, and made a great show of being busy parking the car.

  Mason waited until he had finished, then significantly took his wallet from his pocket.

  “My name,” he said, “is Perry.”

  The garage man nodded.

  “I have just moved into 1042,” Mason said. “My niece has kindly placed her car at my disposal for the duration of my stay. For some reason, her car won’t start. She drove it up to the entrance all right and shut off the motor. Now, it won’t start. Do you suppose you can get it going and bring it down for her?”

  “Sure,” the garage man said. “She’s flooded the carburetor, that’s all. Janes do that all the time. I’ll go out and bring it in.”

  Mason had to move two cars before he could drive Peltham’s car out to the street.

  The garage man was still struggling with Della Street’s refractory automobile as Mason glided smoothly by on the cross street. Looking back, he had a glimpse of Della Street’s arm and hand extended through the window of the car, waving him on his way.

  Mason drove some ten blocks, stopped at a drugstore, and telephoned Dr. Willmont at his club.

  “Okay, Doctor,” Mason said. “I’m ready for that experiment.”

  “How soon do you want it?”

  “As soon as I can get it.”

  “Half an hour at the Hastings Memorial Hospital,” Dr. Willmont said.

  “All right. Put it in a can and leave it at the desk for me.”

  “I have a thermal unit which I use occasionally for transportation,” Dr. Willmont said. “It’ll be in that unit at the desk. See that I get the unit back when you’ve finished with the experiment.”

  “Okay,” Mason told him. “That’ll be tomorrow. You’re sure it’ll be ready in half an hour?”

  “Yes. Everything’s all ready. The donor’s waiting, and my assistant is on the job awaiting instructions.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, and hung up.

  Mason piloted Peltham’s automobile out to a place which was sufficiently isolated to serve his purpose. Stopping the car, he shut off the motor and spread Peltham’s overcoat over a clump of brush, took a thirty-eight caliber revolver from his pocket, held the weapon close enough to leave powder burns in the cloth of the coat, and fired a shot into the left breast.

  Tossing the coat into the car, Mason thrust the revolver back into his pocket and drove to the hospital. He picked up the thermal container with its content of human blood, and then drove Peltham’s automobile to the exact place where Tidings’ car had been found by the police.

  Mason poured blood onto the overcoat around the hole which had been made by the bullet, both on the inside and outside. He saw that there were stains smeared liberally over the seat of the car and on the floorboards. He left spots on the steering wheel and trickled a rivulet down the inside of the overcoat to form in a puddle on the seat and floor.

  When he exhausted his supply of blood, he surveyed the effect with critical appraisal and nodded with satisfaction.

  Carrying the thermal container, he swung out in a long, brisk stride, heading northward. Headlights loomed ahead before he had gone two blocks, and Della Street slid her car into the curb.

  “Okay, Chief?” she asked.

  “Not a hitch anywhere,” he said.

  “Just what,” she asked, “will this do?”

  “It’s going to smoke someone out into the open,” Mason said, lighting a cigarette and settling back against the cushions of the car.

  Fifteen minutes later Mason sent a telegram addressed to Miss Adelle Hastings at 906 Cleveland Square, which read:

  HIGHLY IMPORTANT TO ASCERTAIN FROM P IF THERE IS ANY OBJECTION TO SETTING ASIDE SALE OF WESTERN PROSPECTING STOCK TO GAILORD TRUSTEE. PLEASE ASCERTAIN AT ONCE AND NOTIFY ME BY WIRE SENT TO MY O
FFICE. M.

  9.

  TIDINGS’ SECRETARY, Carl Mattern, opening the door of his apartment in response to Mason’s knock, regarded the lawyer with his characteristic owlish scrutiny.

  “Why, good evening, Mr. Mason.”

  “There’s a minor matter I wanted to clear up, Mattern,” Mason said. “I thought you could help me.”

  “Certainly. Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you.”

  Mason entered the modest apartment. Mattern indicated a comfortable chair, and Mason dropped into it.

  “What,” Mattern asked, “can I do for you?”

  “Not much for me,” Mason said. “It’s really for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mason said, “I’m not going to mention names, Mattern, but the claim has been made that you left the broker’s office right after the completion of that stock deal and went out to report to Tidings, and while you were talking with him, there was a quarrel, that Tidings accused you of having a personal interest in the transaction and confronted you with proof, and that you shot him.”

  “That’s absurd,” Mattern said.

  Mason nodded affably. “Thought I’d mention it to you,” he said, “so you’d have a chance to clear it up.”

  “In the first place,” Mattern said, “I can account for every minute of my time from the time I left that brokerage office.”

  “That’s fine,” Mason said. “Would you mind running over the schedule with me?”

  Mattern took a notebook from his pocket. “Not at all,” he said. “When I realized that it was going to be necessary for me to remember what had happened that day, I thought I’d better jot it down on paper.”

  “Good idea,” Mason said.

  “To begin with,” Mattern said, “I left the brokerage office at eleven-eight. I made a point to notice the time when the deal was closed. I returned to my office, and Mr. Tidings called me just about noon. I told him that the deal had been concluded satisfactorily. Mrs. Tump had been trying to see him, and I told him about that. Then I rang up a friend of mine in one of the other offices and asked her to have lunch with me. We went down in the elevator at five minutes past twelve, and I returned with her at five minutes before one o’clock.”