“Wanted: Information concerning the past life of William Hogarty, age fifty-four years, walks with slight limp because four toes of right features, partially bald, black eyes, black hair. In 1906, Height, five feet ten. Weight, a hundred and eighty. Heavy features, partially bald, black eyes, black hair. In 1906, Hogarty went to Tanana district to Klondike. Returned Seattle sometime in 1907. Has gone under name of L. C. Conway. Any accurate information as to past life, heirs and former associates of this man will receive liberal reward. Particularly anxious to find doctor who performed operation on frostbitten foot and learn what, if any, statements were made by Hogarty at that time. Communicate Perry M. care this paper.”
Mason shoved the ad across the counter. “Here,” he said, “is a fifty-dollar bill. Keep this ad running until the money’s used up or until I tell you to stop. Run it in display type, or double-space it, or whatever is necessary to attract attention.”
“Yes, sir,” the girl said, looking at his wet clothes. “It must be raining outside.”
Mason shivered, passed one of his cards across the counter. “Any replies you receive,” he said, “are to be sent at once by airmail to this address. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good night,” Mason said, and strode out into the cold rain. “If I can’t buy an overcoat,” he told the cab driver, “perhaps I can find an airplane that will carry me far enough south to get into a different climate.”
The cab driver looked at him in amazement.
“In other words,” Mason said, “the airport, and make it snappy.”
At the airport, Mason found that the next regular passenger plane left Seattle at ten-thirty-five the next morning. The taxicab took him to one of the city’s better hotels where he again registered and explained to the clerk that he had no baggage.
In his room, Mason enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath and a night’s sleep. In the morning, he called Della Street on the long distance telephone.