“Good work, Paul,” the lawyer said.
Drake paused long enough to shift his gum from one side to the other and work it into place with half a dozen nervously rapid chews.
“Okay,” he said, “here’s what happens. Around six o‘clock Emily Milicant goes down to that apartment house. She went up in the elevator around six o’clock and was out about six-five. She’d led us to Conway, so we dropped her, and I put operatives in the lobby to check everyone who took the elevators to the sixth floor. There’s a floor register over the elevator.
“At six-twenty-nine, John Milicant comes in. He’s accompanied by a tall, thin chap around forty that my operative identifies as Guy T. Serle. You remember he’s the one who took over the Conway Appliance Company. They’re smoking cigars. Serle seems sore as hell about something. After we got the dope later on, we found out how he could be sore.”
“What was the dope?” Mason asked.
“Police raided the Conway Appliance Company about five o’clock this afternoon. They confiscated a lot of equipment, picked up a couple of underlings, and there’s a felony warrant out for Serle.”
“Think he knew it when he was with Milicant?” Mason asked.
“He acted like it.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “go on.”
“Well, Serle went in at six-twenty-nine and out at six-thirty-eight. At six-fifty-seven, a blonde baby, who impressed the operative on duty as being a million dollars’ worth of pulchritude, went in, and five minutes later came out. From the description, I figure she’s Marcia Whittaker, although the operative didn’t know Marcia Whittaker.