“Shoot.”
“Our party is a man thirty-eight years old, bronzed, wears cowboy boots, a five-gallon hat, leather jacket, Pendleton trousers, rather chunky and has a wide, firm mouth. The license number of his automobile is 4E4705. He’s driving a Buick and has quite an elaborate house trailer painted green on the outside with aluminum paint on the roof. Up until Saturday morning he was in the Silver Strand Trailer Camp. He left Saturday, showed up again late Monday night, pulled out again Wednesday morning and hasn’t been seen since.”
“How did you get it?” Mason asked.
“Just a lot of legwork.”
“Give me the highlights.”
“We located the store that has that cash register — the only one in town. Cash register gives the time and date of sale, the amount of the items and the total. This sale was made shortly after the store opened Saturday morning, and the cashier remembers the man’s general appearance. She particularly remembered the cowboy boots. We started covering trailer camps and almost immediately picked up our trail.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’ve got operatives scattered around with automobiles covering every trailer camp, every possible parking place for a house trailer anywhere in this part of the country. We’re working in a constantly widening circle and should turn up something soon.”
Mason took out his notebook. “The number is 4E4705?”
“That’s right.”
“Then our mysterious observer in the observation tower made a mistake in addition. Remember, we were looking for a number 4″4704. The first number must have been 4E4705 and ditto marks were beneath the E. The real total then should have been...”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door, a quick staccato knock which somehow contained a hint of hysteria.
Mason exchanged glances with Drake. The detective left the desk, crossed over and opened the door.
The woman who stood on the threshold was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, a tall brunette with flashing black eyes, high cheekbones and an active, slender figure. A red brimless hat perched well back on her head emphasized the glossy darkness of her hair and harmonized with the red of her carefully made-up lips.
She smiled at Paul Drake, a stage smile which showed even, white teeth. “Are you Mr. Drake?” she asked, glancing from him to Mason.
Drake nodded.
“May I come in?”
Drake wordlessly stood to one side.
His visitor entered the room, nodded to Perry Mason and said, “I’m Mrs. Drummond.”
Drake started to glance at Mason, then caught himself in time and managed to put only casual interest in his voice. “I’m Mr. Drake,” he said, “and this is Mr. Mason. Is there something in particular, Mrs. Drummond?”
She said, “You’re looking for my husband.”
Drake merely raised his eyebrows.
“At the Silver Strand Trailer Camp,” she went on nervously. “And I’m looking for him too. I wonder if we can’t sort of pool information?”
Mason interposed suavely. “Your husband, and you’re looking for him, Mrs. Drummond?”
“Yes,” she said, her large dark eyes appraising the lawyer.
“How long since you’ve seen him?” Mason asked.
“Two months.”
“Perhaps if you want us to pool information, you’d better tell us a little more about the circumstances and how you happened to know we were looking for him.”
She said, “I’d been at the Silver Strand Trailer Camp earlier in the day. The man promised me that he’d let me know if my husband returned. When your detectives appeared and started asking questions, he took the license number of their car, found out it belonged to the Drake Detective Agency and...” She laughed nervously and said, “And that is where I started to do a little detective work on my own. Are you looking for him for the same reason I am?”
Mason smiled gravely. “That brings up the question of why you’re looking for him.”
She gave an indignant toss of her head. “After all, I have nothing to conceal. We were married a little over a year ago. It didn’t click. Harry is an outdoors man. He’s always chasing around on the trail of some mining deal or some cattle ranch. I don’t like that sort of life and... well, about two months ago we separated. I sued for divorce.”
“Have you got it yet?”
“Not yet. We had an understanding about a property settlement. When my lawyer sent my husband the papers, he sent them back with an insulting note and said he wouldn’t pay me a red cent and that if I tried to get tough about it, he’d show that I didn’t have any rights whatever.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you want to find out just what he means by that?” Mason asked.
“That’s right. And now suppose you tell me what you want him for. Has he done something?”
“Is he the type who would?” Mason asked.
“He’s been in trouble before.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“A mining swindle.”
Drake glanced inquiringly at Mason.
“Where are you located?” Mason asked Mrs. Drummond.
“I’m right here at the hotel. And don’t think they’re the ones who told me about Mr. Drake’s being here,” she added hastily. “I found that out by... in another way.”
“You spoke of pooling information,” Mason said suggestively.
She laughed and said, “Well, what I meant was if you find him, will you let me know? And if I find him, I could let you know. After all, he shouldn’t be difficult to locate with that trailer, but I want to catch him before he can get out of the state. If I can find out where he is, I have — some papers to serve.”
“You have a car?” Mason asked.
She nodded, then added by way of explanation, “That is one thing I salvaged out of our marriage. I made him buy me a car, and that’s one of the reasons I want to see him. The car’s still in his name. He agreed to let me have it as part of the property settlement, but in his letter to my lawyer he said he could even take the car away from me if I tried to make trouble. Does either of you gentlemen have any idea what he meant by that?”
Mason shook his head and Drake joined in the gesture of negation.
“Perhaps,” Mason suggested, “we might work out something. You see, even if your assumption is correct that we are looking for your husband, we would be representing some client in the matter and would naturally have to discuss things with that client.”
“Is it because of something he’s done?” she asked apprehensively. “Is he in more trouble? Will it mean all his money will go for lawyers again, just like it did before?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you,” Mason said.
“That means you won’t. Look, I’m in room six-thirteen. Why don’t you ask your client to come and see me?”
“Will you be there all during the evening?” Drake asked.
“Well...” She hesitated. “I’ll be in and out. I’ll... I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep in touch with the hotel and if there are any messages, I’ll be where I can come and get them.”
She flashed them a smile, moved toward the door with quick, lithe grace, then almost as an afterthought turned and gave them her hand, glancing curiously through the open door of the adjoining room to where Della Street was seated at the telephone. Then she gave Mason another smile as the lawyer held the door open for her, and left the room, walking with quick nervous steps.
Mason closed the door and cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Paul Drake.
“The guy’s wise,” Drake said. “That means we haven’t much time, Perry.”