Mason said, “Uh-huh, I didn’t see it. All right, Paul, call your office. A man by the name of Harry Diggers had an accident out here in front of the house an hour or so ago. He hit a Sarah Breel. He claims she stepped out from the sidewalk right in front of his car. Police held him for a while and then let him go. I want a complete statement from him, and I’d like it before the police pick him up again. Your men can get his address from the records. There’s a gambling club down on East Third Street over a cafe known as The Golden Platter. Have a couple of men find out all they can about that. A gem broker by the name of George Trent is out somewhere on a drunk. Get men on the job to find him. Get the best description you can from people who know him. Pick up a photograph if it’s at all possible. Burgle his office if you have to. He has a string-bean niece, name of Virginia. She lives at his house. It’s listed in the telephone directory. Get a photograph and a description of George, and put enough men to work to find him. He’ll be hanging around a place where he can get liquor and gambling in combination.”
“How about women?” Drake asked.
“Perhaps women too, I don’t know. Never mind that. Get busy. You’ll have to hurry before the officers come.”
Drake, moving with a swiftly silent efficiency which belied the gangling appearance of his arms and legs, melted back into the corridor, and a few moments later, Mason heard the muffled sound of his voice over the telephone. From the street came the sound of tires as a car slid to an abrupt stop. Mason, trying to give Drake more time at the telephone, walked out to meet the radio officers half way up the cement walk leading to the porch.
“Your name Drake?” one of the men asked.
Mason shook his head, said, “No. My name’s Mason. I found the body.”
“Thought your name was Drake.”
“No,” Mason said, “It isn’t. Here, have a card.” He fumbled around in a card case, gaining valuable seconds.
“What’s the dope?” one of the men asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Mason said. “I was calling on Austin Cullens, who lives here. I wanted to see him in connection with a certain business matter, about which I’d been consulted earlier in the day. I found the lights off and the door ajar. I stepped inside and found him...”