Free Case of the Footloose Doll by Erle Stanley Gardner

I’ll do something to hold the attention of Harrod or whoever else is in the apartment. You plant this ice pick. Wear gloves, and be sure you don’t leave any fingerprints.”
    “What about the price tag?”
    “Leave it on.”
    “Why?” she asked. “If he was stabbed with an ice pick—”
    “Exactly,” Mason said. “I want it so we can tell the ice picks apart. The one that you planted and the one that someone stuck in his chest.
    “If Harrod doesn’t go to the police, we have simply presented him with an ice pick. If he does go to the police, the police will find two ice picks in his apartment. It will be up to Harrod to keep them straight so as to tell one from the other.”
    “Do I keep my gloves on all the time?” she asked.
    “No,” Mason said. “I have to explain your presence as my secretary.
    You plant the ice pick while I’m distracting their attention. As soon as you have the ice pick planted, take your gloves off and take out a notebook and pencil.”
    The cab driver held the door open for them. “Where to?” he asked.
    Mason glanced significantly at Della Street. “Drive straight down the street for three blocks,” he said. “Then turn to the right and I’ll tell you where we want to get out. We’re meeting a person on a corner.”
    “Okay,” the driver said. “I take it you want me to drive slow.”
    “That’s right,” Mason said.
    The driver closed the door and the cab moved off, went down to the designated corner, turned to the right and moved slowly along. They passed the Dixiecrat Apartments, went for half a block, then Mason said suddenly, “This is where we’re to meet the person. Stop right here.” The driver stopped and Mason handed him a five-dollar bill. “This will cover the meter and leave you a little over,” he said. As the man started to thank him, Mason handed him two more one-dollar bills.
    “And this will enable you to buy something for the kids when you go home.”
    “Gee, mister, thanks,” the cabdriver said.
    “I sure won’t forget this.”
    Mason said, “In that case, perhaps you’d better give me the two dollars back.”
    The cabdriver thought for a moment, then grinned. “I’ve got the poorest memory in the world,” he said.
    Mason handed him three more one—dollar bills. “In a cabdriver,” he announced, “that’s a wonderful asset.”
    He and Della got out on the corner. The cab drove away. Mason and Della walked the half block back to the Dixiecrat Apartments.
    Mason consulted the directory. “Carl Harrod, 218,” he said.
    Mason pressed the button. Almost instantly the buzzer sounded which released the outer door.
    “We could probably have saved time on the stairs,” Della Street said, as the elevator slowly and reluctantly slid to a stop. Mason opened the outer door, pulled back the sliding metal grill. Della Street entered, Mason followed her and pressed the button for the second floor.
    As the elevator came to a dispirited stop, Mason pulled back the sliding metallic grill, opened the hinged door, let Della precede him into the corridor, and stood for a moment looking which way to turn.
    A woman stood in the corridor six doors to the right. Mason strode past Della Street to take the lead. “Mr. Harrod?” Mason asked the young woman as he approached.
    “You’re Mr. Mason?”
    “Yes.”
    “This way,” she said. “Carl is expecting you.”
    She held the apartment door open and Mason walked in, preceding Della Street.
    The woman waited until Della Street had entered the apartment, then hurried forward and said to Mason, “He’s had a chill.” She led the way over to an adjustable reclining chair in which a man was stretched, a blanket wrapped tightly around him.
    The eyes were closed.
    “Carl,” she said, “this is Mr. Mason.”
    Harrod opened his eyes. “I’m glad you came, Mr. Mason.”
    “You’re Harrod?” Mason asked.
    “Yes.”
    Mason bent over him and the young woman half—turned toward Della Street to