Mason hooked his thumbs through the armholes of his vest and started pacing the floor, his head thrust forward, eyes moodily contemplating the carpet. “That,” he said, “dumps it right in Marcia Whittaker’s lap.”
Drake nodded.
“Or,” Mason added, “on the shoulders of the old man.”
Drake said, “By the way, Perry, there’s no question about the identity of the old man. The police dug up a photograph of Leeds and showed it to my operatives. They identify it as being the photograph of the man who went up to that apartment.”
Drake fed a couple of sticks of chewing gum into his mouth. The expression of his face remained calmly tranquil, but his jaw moved with nervous rapidity.
After a moment, he said, “Milicant didn’t have diabetes, did he, Perry?”
“Not that I know of. I may be able to find out. Why?”
“A peculiar condition of the right foot. Four of the toes had been amputated. The autopsy surgeon figures it was due to gangrene, but found no present indication of a diabetic condition.”
Mason stared thoughtfully at Drake. “He walked with a slight limp,” he said. “It never occurred to me to find out the reason.”
Without changing the rhythm of his rapid gum-chewing, the detective nodded.