“No, a nice lottery ticket.”
Mason whistled. “You tailed the delivery?”
“Sure. He chased around to twenty or thirty addresses, then beat it back to the East Ranchester address. I picked up Serle — a guy about forty, nervous, quick-moving chap, six feet tall, pretty slender, bony features, pinkish blonde, gray-eyed, wears double-breasted suits. I put a tail on him to see if he has any contact with Conway... However, we have a cinch now. We can locate Conway by putting a shadow on the girl.”
Mason pinched out his cigarette with swift decision. “I’d rather talk with the girl than with Conway,” he said. “Della, when Phyllis Leeds calls, tell her Judge Treadwell has issued a writ of habeas corpus.”
“Why did you pick Treadwell?” Drake asked.
Mason grinned. “He has an arcus senilis.”
“What’s that?”
“One of the things psychiatrists like to pounce on in senile dementia cases. You’ll hear plenty about it in a day or two. Come on. Let’s go.”
Driving out in Paul Drake’s car, Mason said, “The way I figure it, Paul, I’m retained by Phyllis Leeds. I’m not working for Emily Milicant.”
Drake flashed him a sidelong glance. “Go on,” he said.