The Case of the Troubled Trustee (7 page)

The girl at the telephone desk smiled and said, "I'm not supposed to know, but Mr. Drake received a telephone call from Ensenada, Mexico, just before he telephoned Miss Street."

"That," Mason said, "will make a nice vacation."

The lawyer was smiling as he walked down the corridor and opened the door of his private office.

"Good morning, Della," he said. "Hi, Paul, how are you? I've been thinking we're working too hard. How would you folks like to break away from routine for a day and drive down to Ensenada, Mexico?

"That's a wonderful Mexican city, wonderful food, sweet lobsters, the caquama, or big turtle from the Gulf, enchiladas, chile con came, refried frijoles, ice cold Mexican beer-"

"Hush," Della Street said, "you're breaking Paul's heart. He had stomach trouble last night."

"How come?" Mason asked.

Drake shook his head. "I knew when I was getting into this business what the occupational hazards were. Like a surgeon who lives under tension and usually develops heart trouble by the time he's fifty-five, a detective lives on hamburgers and bicarbonate of soda… How the devil did you know about Ensenada, Perry?"

"Stopped in your office on the way down," Mason said. "Your telephone operator told me you had a call from Ensenada."

"Well," Drake said, "my man lost Dutton."

"Lost him!"

"That's right."

"For how long?"

"About an hour."

"What happened?"

Drake said, "My man who relieved me took up the tailing job."

"And what did he do?" Mason asked.

"Well, Dutton left the apartment house just as the cops came up. Me drove around aimlessly for a while; then after about ten or fifteen minutes stopped at a service station and-"

"I thought you said his car was filled up," Mason said.

"That's right, he'd filled it up where he had it serviced, but this time he was only interested in the telephone. He went into the telephone booth and dialed a number. My man had to be a little careful. He parked across the street and watched with binoculars but he couldn't get the number.

"Anyhow the fellow either got the wrong number or a busy signal, because he just held the phone to his ear for a few seconds; then hung up, waited a few seconds, then dialed again."

"What happened this time?"

"Well, my man figured that telephone conversation was pretty damn important. Me wanted to get it the worst way, so he took a chance."

"On what?"

"He approached the booth while the fellow was in there, acting as though he wanted to make an important call. Dutton waved him away, but my man had one of those pocket battery-powered wire recorders and some adhesive tape. I've been using them lately and they work pretty well. He had parked his car around the back of the booth and he ostensibly walked back to wait by his car. What he actually did was fasten the wire recorder on the back of the booth, using adhesive tape, and then he got in his car and drove away. He didn't drive very far but waited where he could watch Dutton's car.

"When Dutton came out of the booth after that last call, he was going like a house afire. My man figured he'd retrieve the wire recorder later on or ring the office and tell somebody to go and get it. He stayed with Dutton."

Mason nodded. "That was the thing to do."

"But Dutton drove like crazy. He went through three red lights that my man followed him through, hoping that a traffic officer would tag both of them. On the fourth red light, Dutton almost had a collision. The intersection was blocked. Dutton got away and my man was stymied by traffic."

"Going through red lights that way, didn't Dutton know he was being followed?"

"Probably," Drake said. "He may even have been trying to shake pursuit, but somehow the way my operative felt, Dutton was going someplace in too much of a hurry to give a hoot about anything-and that's the way it turned out."

"Go on," Mason said.

"Well, after my man lost him and knew he'd lost him for good, he went back to the phone booth and picked up the wire recorder, turned back the wire recorder to the starting point and then listened to the conversation. Of course, he could only hear one end of the conversation. It was brief and to the point."

"What was it?" Mason asked.

"The first thing Dutton said was a question. 'What's new? You know who this is.' Then he waited for the answer and then said, 'I called the other number and was told to call you at this pay station I'll pay over the five thousand if you're acting in good faith.' Then there was a period of silence while he was evidently getting instructions, and then he said, 'Give me that again… the seventh tee at the Barclay Country Club, is that right? – .. Why pick that sort of place?' Then he said, 'All right, all right, it's nearly that time now… Yes, I've got a key…' Then he hung up the phone and that was the end of the conversation."

"Your man followed up that lead?" Mason asked.

"My man went to the Barclay Country Club. It's a key job, and my man didn't have a key, and at that hour of the night there wasn't any chance of getting in without one, but there were three or four cars parked and one of them was Dutton's. My man checked the license number."

"So what did he do?"

"Put himself in a position where he could pick up the car when it left, and waited it out. He got there at ten minutes after ten o'clock."

"Mow long did he have to wait?"

"About twelve minutes."

"Then what?"

"Then Dutton came out at ten-twenty-two and started driving south. My man tailed him without headlights for a while and it was pretty damn risky. But Dutton stopped after a short distance and got out of the car. My man went on past, then pretended to have tire trouble, jacked up the car and waited until Dutton came sailing past.

"Dutton drove to the border, kept on driving down to Ensenada. He had no idea he was tailed. Me's staying at the Siesta del Tarde Auto Court. He is registered under the name of Frank Kerry."

Mason said, "He doesn't need any credentials in the way of tourist cards or anything of that sort as long as he's no farther south than Ensenada, eh, Paul?"

"That's right. If he gets below Ensenada, he's going to need a tourist card or an entry permit of some kind; but as far as Ensenada he's on his own."

"Your man still tailing him?"

"That's right. Me's doing the best he can. Of course, one man isn't much good on a twenty-four-hour-a-day job… Do you want me to send a relief down?"

Mason was thoughtful. "Might as well, Paul," he said. "And I think the time has come for me to assume the role of a Dutch uncle."

"Doing what?" Drake asked.

"Getting this thing cleaned up before I get too deeply involved," Mason told him. "After all, Dutton is a client of mine but- Well, I may have to insist that he surrender himself or go to the police."

"And then what?"

"Then," Mason said, grinning, "I'lltry to beat the rap."

The lawyer turned to Della Street. "How," he asked, "would you like to take a couple of notebooks, plenty of pencils, a briefcase and a quick trip down to Ensenada, Mexico? This time I think we'll get the real story."

Chapter Eight

Mason and Della Street left Tijuana behind, took the smooth, new road to Ensenada.

"The old road," Mason said, "was more scenic."

"Wasn't it? But these days one sacrifices everything to speed. However, it's nice to get where you're going without fighting the steering wheel around a lot of curves. Do you think he's really embezzled money, Chief?"

"I don't know," Mason said. "The way he acts, I'm afraid he's leaving me to hold the sack."

"In what way?"

"There'll be a hue and cry," Mason said, "and I'll be in there pitching, assuring everybody that things are going to work out all right; that I have every confidence in my client; that I know the facts; that I have advised him and that he hasn't committed any crime; that in due course everything will be explained and cleared up-,,

"And then?" she asked.

"And then," Mason said, "after a while it may dawn on me that my client is being hard to find."

"You mean in Ensenada?"

"Ensenada," Mason said, "could be simply the first stop. He's going to stay there long enough to get out from under the telltale registration of his automobile and all that. He'll probably leave the car where it can be found; double back to the United States; grab a plane for Brazil or someplace, and leave me behind to make explanations."

"You think he's that kind?" she asked.

"No," Mason said shortly, "I don't."

"Then what?"

"That," the lawyer told her, "is the reason we're making this trip, Della."

They drove into Ensenada, threaded their way down the busy main street, and Mason asked directions to the Siesta del Tarde.

"Will you know Drake's man?" Della Street asked as they drove up in front of the auto court.

"He'llknow me," Mason said.

The lawyer got out and stood stretching and yawning, looking around at the scenery, soaking up the sunlight, before helping Della from the car.

The two of them walked toward the office of the auto court, then paused and looked back toward the car. Mason caught the eye of the man who was sauntering down the street.

The man winked at Mason, put a cigarette in his mouth, fumbled through his pockets and said, "Pardon me, could you let me have a match?"

"I can do better than that," Mason said. "I have a Zippo lighter."

The lawyer snapped the lighter into flame, held it toward the man with the cigarette.

"In Unit nineteen," the detective said. "He hasn't been out, unless he sneaked out while I was telephoning a report to Los Angeles.

"That's his car over there, the Chevvy with the license number, OAC seven, seven, seven."

"Okay," Mason said, "we're going in and talk with him. Keep an eye on things. I may want you as a witness… How are you feeling? Pretty well bushed?"

"Staying awake is the hardest part of a job like this, Mr. Mason. I was up all night and sitting here in the car where it's warm, I kept wanting to take forty winks. If I had, I'd be apt to wake up and find the bird had flown the coop."

Mason said, "You can either check out within the next thirty minutes, or we'll have a relief for you. Paul Drake got in touch with a relief operative in San Diego this morning and he's on his way down."

"That'Il help," the detective said. "I'm not complaining, I'm just trying to stay awake and sometimes that's just about the hardest job a man can have."

"Okay," Mason told him, "we're going in."

The lawyer nodded to Della Street.

A long driveway led to the office; then down to a parking place by the cabins. Palm trees and banana trees shaded the units of the court.

Mason, ignoring the sign which said Office, guided Della to the unit occupied by Kerry Dutton.

The lawyer turned to his secretary and said, "When I knock on the door, say, 'Towels.'"

The lawyer knocked.

A moment later, Della Street said, "Towels."

"Come in," a man's voice called, and a hand on the inside turned the knob on the door.

Mason pushed his way into the room, followed by Della Street.

Kerry Dutton stared at them in speechless amazement.

Mason said, "When I'm representing a person, I like to do a good job, and in order to do a good job I have to have the realfacts. I thought perhaps you could tell me a little more about your problem."

Dutton's eyes went from one to the other.

Mason moved over to a chair; held it for Della, then seated himself in the other chair, leaving the bed for Dutton.

Dutton's legs took him over to the bed and seemed to give way as he settled down on the counterpane.

"Well?" Mason asked.