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“My name’s Mason.”
“A detective?”
“No, a lawyer.”
“Huh.”
“I happen to represent Mrs. Eva Belter,” he went on. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Well,” he protested, “don’t get hard about it. You might at least be sociable.”
She made a grimace,spat forth a swift comment, “I hate to have my sleep interrupted at this hour in the morning, and I hate men who come busting in the way you did.”
Mason ignored her statement. “Did you know that Frank Locke didn’t own Spicy Bits?” he asked casually.
“Who’s Frank Locke, and what’s Spicy Bits?”
He laughed at her.
“Frank Locke,” he said, “is the man who’s been signing the checks on the special account of Spicy Bits, which you’ve been cashing every two weeks.”
“You’re one of these smart guys, ain’t you?” she said.
“I get around,” Mason admitted.
“Well, what about it?”
“Locke was just a figurehead. A man by the name of Belter owned the paper. Locke did what Belter told him to.”
She stretched up her arms and yawned. “Well, what’s that to me? Have you got a cigarette?”
Mason handed her a cigarette. She came close to him while he applied the match, then strolled over and sat down on the bed, tucked her feet up in under her, and hugged her knees.
“Go on,” she said, “if it interests you. I reckon I can’t get to sleep until after you leave.”
“You’re not going to sleep any more today.”
“No?”
“No. There’s a morning paper outside the door. Would you like to see it?”
“Why?”
“It tells all about the murder of George C. Belter.”
“I hate murders before breakfast.”
“You might like to read about this one anyway.”
“All right,” she said, “go get me the paper.”
He shook his head at her.
“No,” he said, “you get the paper. Otherwise, when I open the door something might happen, and I’d get pushed out.”
She got up, puffing placidly at the cigarette, crossed to the door, opened it, reached out and picked up the paper.
The headlines screamed the news of the Belter murder. She walked back to the bed, sat down with her feet tucked in under her, legs crossed, and read through the paper, smoking as she read.
“Well,” she said. “I still don’t see that it’s anything in my young life. Some guy got bumped. It’s too bad, but he probably had it coming to him.”
“He did,” said Mason.
“Well, why should that make me lose my beauty sleep?”
“If you’ll use your noodle,” he explained patiently, “you’ll find out that Mrs. Belter has come into a position where she controls all of the property in the estate and I happen to represent Mrs. Belter.”
“Well?”
“You’ve been blackmailing Frank Locke,” he said, “and Locke has been embezzling trust funds in order to pay the blackmail. That special account of Spicy Bits was an account that was given him to use in purchasing information. He’s been handing it over to you.”
“I’m in the clear,” she said, tossing the paper to the floor, “I didn’t know anything at all about it.”
He laughed at her.
“How about the blackmail?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes, you do, Esther. You are shaking him down on account of this Georgia business.”
That remark registered with her. Her face changed color, and, for the first time, there was a startled look in her eyes.
Mason went on to press his advantage.
“That,” he said, “wouldn’t look pretty. You may have heard of compounding a felony. It’s a crime in this state, you know.”
She appraised him watchfully. “You’re not a dick, just a lawyer?”
“Just a lawyer.”
“Okay,” she said. “What do you want?”
“Now you’re commencing to talk turkey.”
“I’m not talking; I’m listening.”
“You were with Frank Locke last night,” he said.
“Who says I was?”
“I do. You went out with him, then came back here, and he stayed until long in the morning.”
“I’m free, white, and twenty-one,” she said, “and this is my home. I guess I’ve got a right to entertain men friends if I want to.”
“Sure you have,” he said. “The next question is, have you got sense enough to know which side of your bread has got the butter?”
“How do you mean?”
“What did you do last night after you got back to the room?”
“Talked about the weather, of course.”
“That’s fine,” he told her. “You had some drinks sent up, and sat and chatted, and then you got sleepy and went to sleep.”
“Who says that?” she asked.
“That’s what I say,” he explained, “and that’s what you’re going to say. You got sleepy and passed out.”
Her eyes were thoughtful. “How do you mean?”
Mason spoke as though he had been a teacher coaching a pupil. “You were tired and you’d been drinking. You got into your pajamas and went to sleep about eleven-forty, and you don’t know anything that happened after that. You don’t know when Frank Locke left.”
“What good does it do me if I say I went to sleep?” she inquired.
Mason’s tone was casual. “I think Mrs. Belter would be very much inclined to overlook the matter of the embezzled account if you went to sleep as I mentioned.”
“Well, I didn’t go to sleep.”
“You’d better think it over.”
She stared at him with her big, appraising eyes and said nothing.
Mason crossed to the telephone and gave the number of Paul Drake’s Detective Agency.
“You know who this is, Paul,” he said, when he heard Drake’s voice. “What have you got, anything?”
“Yes,” said Drake, “I’ve got something on the broad.”
“Spill it,” said Mason.
“She won a beauty contest in Sava
“Okay,” Mason said, as though he had expected just that. “That comes in pretty handy right now. Stay with it, and I’ll get in touch with you a little later.”
He hung up the telephone and turned back to the girl.
“Well,” he asked, “what is it, yes or no?”
“No,” she said. “I told you that before, and I don’t change my mind.”
He stared at her, steadily. “You know, the fu