Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, tall, thin, and with a look of perpetual, puzzled perplexity on his face, said, “Hello, gang.”
“Come in and sit,” Mason invited.
Della Street picked up her notebook, settled herself at a small secretarial table, and held her pen poised. Paul Drake slid into the big leather chair, squirmed around so that he was seated crosswise, took a notebook from his pocket, and said, “Well, it looks like one of those things.”
“How so?”
“The reason Lieutenant Tragg wasn’t particularly communicative,” Drake said, “is that he’s running around in circles. He doesn’t want to talk with anyone until he knows more what he has to talk about.”
“Let’s have it,” Mason said.
“I’m somewhat the same way myself, Perry. I’ve picked up as much as I can of what the police know and done a little snooping on my own.”
“What did you find out?”
“This man Hocksley is a mystery. I think Opal Sunley, that stenographer who comes in to transcribe the cylinders he dictates, knows more than she’s admitting. I think Mrs. Perlin, the housekeeper, knew a whole lot more than was good for her.”
“Just what did Hocksley do?”