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gesture of irritation. “That's Who comes of trying to be po “Fred. Milfield murdered!” Burbank exclaimed. That's right,’ Dad,” Carol said. “We've been trying to find you all afternoon.” —* Burbank said, “I simply can’t understand why anyone would want to murder Fred Milfield.” Carol said, “Dad, won't you trust my judgment? Please, Please, won't you tell them?” Roger Burbank said, “Let's hear what Lieutenant Tragg has to say first.” Carol said to Lieutenant Tragg eens “Dad wasn’t there at all yesterday afternoon. Father has been mixing into critics—there are things that are to be kept absolutely con fidential. Even now, I can’t tell you the details—but suppose Dad had an appointment with some big-shots from Sacra mento—people who insisted that their meeting be shrouded with the utmost secrecy. He simply couldn’t tell you who they were, and each of them would deny it if you put the question up to him. Suppose they took every precaution to ensure secrecy, and met at a motor lodge up here on the coast highway, were in conference for nearly twenty four hours, working out plans, and only split up a short time ago. I thought he might stop in here for dinner. I took a chance on stopping—and here we are. “How very, very interesting,” Tragg said. “You say that none of these men would admit he was present at the conference?” “None of them would dare to,” Tragg said, “All right. ‘Let’s quit beating around the bush. If there’s anything to this, we want to know it, and check on it—and if there isn’t,” and here Tragg’s voice became ominously crisp “we want to find that out oo. “You tell them, Dad,” Carol said. URBANE said nothing. His forehead was creased in a dark scowl of dis approval as he frowned at his daughter. “All right,” Carol said, “if I have to, I will. You investi gate at the Surf and Sun Motel up on the highway between Ventura and Santa Barbara,” Trage turned to Burbank. “If there's anything to this, you’d better verify it.” Burbank seemed angry. “Oh, well,” he said with a gesture of annoyance, “she’s let the cat out of the bag now. But I’m not going to confirm it. If you let me DTll—damn it, I'll deny “Any proof?” Tragg asked Carol. “Of course there’s proof. The ashtrays and empty bottles are still there. Get fingerprints. We told the manager to leave things just as they were. Dad even left his shaving outfit on the glass shelf in the bath room. “By George!” Burbank ex claimed, “I'm always forget ting that damned razor.” Trage said dryly, “Any real evidence except that of the shaving kit?’ Carol said, “Dad, didn’t you carry the key away with you? It isn’t at the Motel.” Slowly Roger Burbank slip ped his hand into the side pocket of his coat, pulled out a spical hotel key, from the loop of which dangled a chain. At tached to the chain was a large papier-mache tag im printed Surf and Sun Motel, and down below in large numer als the figure 14. Trage took the key, scraped back his chair, signalled the waiter. “Cancel our orders,” he said, “and give the bill to the wise guy.” He jabbed an angry finger in Mason's direction. A light was on in Mason’s office as the lawyer’s rubber heels padded down the tiled floor of the corridor. He quietly fitted a latchkey to the door, clicked back the lock, and pushed the door open. Della Street was seated at Mason’s desk, her head pil lowed on her arm. She was fast asleep. Mason gently closed the door, walked across to the desk and stood for a moment looking down at Della with tender solicitude. “Don’t you ever go home?” he asked eagerly. Della awakened with a start, blinked her eyes against the lght and smiled up at Mason. “I had to know what hap pened,” she said. “Bosh! You were waiting because you event I might ring up and want something. Had any dinner?” “No. What's new?” she asked. Mason studied her face in tently, saw traces of fatigue. “The thing that’s new,” he said, “is that you're going home and get yourself some shut eye.” “Did you find Roger Bur bank?” “Yes. In a restaurant about half an hour away from here on the Ventura Boulevarde.” They went out and he de scribed to her the events of the evening. “Rather a peculiar position for a man to be in, wasn’t it?” Della asked. “I mean, tellin the police that he'd been wit several men who would have to deny that they had been there with him?” “Very,” Mason admitted. “It was a Peer for Tragg. And the hell of it is, as far as Tragg’s concerned, he's dealing with politica big-shots. If he takes urbank’s word that he wasn’t aboard that yacht when the murder was committed, that’s one thing. If he insists upon corroboration and starts check ing up, he may stir up a hor net’s nest. Tragg, you see, is more or less dependent upon having a certain amount of political goodwill.” “Was there any corroborat ing evidence whatever?” “Very strong corroborating evidence,” Mason said, “and produced at the psychological moment in a manner well cal calculated to carry conviction. Burbank’s hand dropped down to his coat pocket. He pro duced the key to the cottage that had been occupied by the politicians—a key that un doubtedly came from cabin fourteen at the Surf and Sun Motel.” “What did Tragg say to that? “That,” Mason said, “con vinced Tragg so much that he jumped up from the table and went whizzing up the highway. What has Paul found out about the murder?” “I have written a report here. It gives the highlights.” “First,” said Mason, “you are going to have a cocktail, some hot soup, and a steak.” They went to a small restau rant on Ninth Street. When the waiter had taken their orders, Della opened her purse, handed Mason Paul Drake’s re port. ‘There are some three and-a-quarter by four-and-a quarter photographs attached to it,’ she said. “Paul says he can get some blown-up enlarge ments by tomorrow or Monday.” Mason started to say some thing, and then changed his mind, unfolded Drake's report and glanced at it casually. It was neatly typewritten, and the first page read: SUMMARY: PERRY: This is a recapitula tion of the detailed information and photographs you will find on the following pages. Roger Burbank is a financier. Ordi narily he doesn't go in for spe culative investments. Fred Milfield and Harry Van Nuys got Burbank to finance the Skinner Hills sheep project— whatever that may be. Prob ably your hunch on the oil is the right one. I don't think the police have stumbled on to Van Nuys yet. My men have no located him at the Cornish Hotel and are keeping an eye on him. The murder was committed aboard Burbank’s yacht some time early Friday evening. It’s a sailing yacht about thirty five feet in length, and Bur bank uses it as a means of escape, not to cruise in. He usually goes out Friday nights, and at high tide goes in on the mud flats and amuses himself spearing sharks. When the tide begins to go out he anchors in the channel, reads books, studies, and loafs. Occasion ally a chap named Beltin, who is his right-hand man, comes out to relay some message of importance. Once or twice Milfield has gone out to the yacht, apparently by pre arrangment. Once he brought Van Nuys with him, Burbank is a crank about sails. There isn't even an auxiliary motor on the boat. An outboard motor for the dinghy with about five gallons of gasoline is as far as hell go. Even the cookin and heating are done on a wand stove. Lighting is by candle. The body was found rolled over against the starboard side of the cabin, but there is evi dence to indicate the murder took place on the port side of the cabin and when the boat went aground at low tide, the body rolled over. Death was caused by a single crushing blow on the back of the head, and so far I haven’t been able to get too many details about the police theory. One out standing clue is the print of a woman's shoe outlined in blood on the lower step of the com panionway right in the middle of the step. The police con sider it a major clue, I’ve got the names, addresses, location of the yacht club, a sketch plan of the yacht, and the reports of my operatives attached hereto, it is just a sum mary. I be waiting for a call from you in case you want me. Della says she doesn’t know when you'll be back. PAUL. Mason studied the photographs. Della Street watched him silently, finishing a cocktail, smoking a cigar ette. _Mason called the_ waiter, “Look, you’ve got a long ex tension on your desk telephone. Hand it over here, will you? I want to make a call.” Mason dialled Paul Drake’s number and held his lips close to the telephone so that his voice would be inaudible be yond the confines of the booth. When Drake came on the line Mason said, “Hello, Paul. Got a pencil handy? Make a note of this, J. C. Lassing, L-a-s-s-+i-n-¢ ... Now make a note of the Surf and Sum Motel on the highway between Ventura and Santa Barbara, got that?” “Uh, huh.” “All right, J. C. Lassing is supposed to have registered at cabin fourteen at the Surf and Sun Motel yesterday. I'd like to know a lot more about Mr. Lassing.” “All right, I’ll get busy.” “I'm just reading your re port,” Mason said. “Who dis covered the body, Paul?” “A sheep man by the name of Palermo. Wanted to see Milfield and knew he was aboard Burbank’s yacht.” “How'd she get aboard?” Mason asked. “Palermo’s a tight-fisted son of the soil,” Drake answered. “He was damned if he was go ing to pay fifty cents to rent a rowboat when he had a fold ing boat he could use. There’s a lake up in that Skinner Hills district where they do a lot of duck-shooting and Palermo guides dudes around at ten bucks a day, furnishing boat and decoys. So he loaded his folding boat into a trailer and carried it along.” “Just to save fifty cents?” Mason asked, “That’s his story. I haven't talked with him. The news paper boys say it sounds con vincing once you've seen the guy. Here's something else, Perry. Van Nuys told the clerk at the hotel where he's staying that if he hadn't stopped Mrs. Milfield from taking a plane to San Francisco yesterday af ternoon, she'd have been in a sweet mess by this time. My man was hanging around the lobby and managed to over hear enough of the conversa tion to get the general drift.” “Nice going, Paul. I see what he has to say about it. You get in touch with Lassing. I think I'll have a talk with Van Nuys right away—if I can beat the police to it. He's at the Cornish Hotel?” “According to the last report I had he is,” Drake said. Mason hung up, pushed the telephone to one side. “Tell me about Carol Bur bank,” Della said. Mason reached into the side pocket of his coat, took out the eae STANLEY
Newspaper Details
Sydney Daily Telegraph
Sydney, New South Wales, AU
Tue, Jan 31, 1950
Page 5
Full Page
Clipped by
Carleen S.
AU 24 Jan 2026
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