“Watch the customers as they come out,” Mason said. “Follow them to their automobiles and get the license numbers.”
“They won’t talk,” the detective objected. “Once they get home, they’ll swear they never even heard of the joint.”
“Be your age, Paul,” the lawyer said impatiently. “Pick the prosperous guys who are with the flashy wrens about half their ages. Those birds will do anything to avoid publicity. You get them staked out and I’ll do the questioning. Let them tell me they never heard of the joint, and I’ll read ‘em a riot act.”
Drake said, “Yes, I guess we could do that.”
“Well, get started,” Mason told him. “And, while you’re about it, tell your outfit to look up an Lone Bedford, who’s a friend of Austin Cullens. Get all the dope on her. Have one of your men tell Harry Diggers he’s representing an insurance company and get a written statement out of Diggers. Get an inventory of the stuff that was in that handbag Mrs. Breel was carrying.”
“Okay,” Drake said, “I’ll get started. I can get some operatives who know Bill Golding and Eva Tannis. That’ll release me so I can go back to the office and direct things from there.”
“I’ll watch the place while you telephone,” Mason told him. “Make it snappy.”
Drake nodded and walked to the corner, where he telephoned his office from a cigar store. When he returned, Mason said, “Okay, Paul, I’m on my way. Keep this place sewed up.”
Drake nodded, fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette and said, “It’s sewed, Perry.”