Tragg said, “Hocksley had that flat downstairs. He had a housekeeper, a Mrs. Sarah Perlin. A stenographer, Opal Sunley, came in and transcribed records. You’re right, Mr. Karr. The man dictated to a machine. In any event, that’s what Opal Sunley says, and I was glad to get your corroboration on that.”
“What was his line of business?” Mason asked.
Tragg said, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know!” Mason exclaimed. “Haven’t you talked with his stenographer?”
“That’s just it,” Tragg said. “His stenographer tells an absolutely impossible story.”
“What do you mean?”
“Apparently, Hocksley was engaged in some sort of exporting business. He wrote a great many letters giving detailed specifications about bills of lading, shipments, shipping directions, and all that sort of stuff. He wrote to a manufacturer’s agent about buying merchandise. He wrote to steamship companies about deliveries. And every damn letter in the outfit was a phoney.”
“What do you mean?” Mason asked.
Tragg said, “The letters were some sort of code stuff. Because from what the Sunley woman tells me, I know darn well that, with shipments in the condition they are today, the letters weren’t what they seemed to be on their face.”
“Did she know it?” Mason asked.