“You’d better keep your nose clean,” Drake warned. “If any good private detective is out there, he’ll recognize you the minute he sees you.”
“That’s why I want to know if he’s there,” Mason said and hung up.
Mason looked at his watch, noted the time, drove until he found a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that was open, sat at the lunch counter and had two leisurely cups of coffee. He paid for the coffee, entered the phone booth, called the Gladedell Motel and this time got Gerald Conway on the line.
“Where have you been?” Mason asked.
“Nowhere. Why?”
“I called and you didn’t answer.”
“Oh. I just ran out to a drugstore for shaving stuff and a toothbrush. What did you want?”
“I wanted to tell you I have what I think is a complete proxy list. It doesn’t look too good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Just sit tight.”
Mason hung up and drove to a point within two blocks of the Lane Vista Apartments, where he parked his car at the curb, got out and walked along the sidewalk, walking directly past the entrance to the apartment house without hesitating.
Halfway to the next corner, a figure detached itself from the shadows and fell into step by Mason’s side.
“Paul Drake’s man,” the figure said without turning his head.
“Let’s take a look,” Mason told him.
“All right. Around the corner.”
“Anyone sitting on the place?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay,” Mason said, and the two walked around the corner until they came to the mouth of an alley.
The man paused, took a folder from his pocket containing his credentials and a small, fountain-pen flashlight.
Mason studied the credentials, said, “Okay, tell me about the stake-out.”
“I know the guy who’s waiting,” the detective said. “He’s from the firm of Simons & Wells. They make a specialty of serving papers.”
“Did he notice you?” Mason asked.
“Hell’s bells!” the man said. “I walked right into it with my chin out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know the guy who’s sitting on the job. I started to case the joint. This guy was on stake-out. He knew me, and I knew him.”
“You talked with him?”
“Sure. He said hello, and wanted to know what I was out on, and I asked him if he was waiting to serve papers and he said no, he was just making a preliminary survey. I asked him if I could have one guess as to the initials of the party, and we sparred around for a while. Then he admitted he was there to tail Rose Calvert. Seems like her middle name is Mistletoe.” The operative chuckled. “Some name!”
“Okay,” Mason said, “what about Rose Calvert? Is she in her apartment?”
“Apparently not. Hasn’t been in all afternoon. She was reported to have been in yesterday. A little before ten today she called a cab, loaded a bunch of baggage and went away. She hasn’t come back.”
“Dolled up?” Mason asked.
“Not too much.”
“Taking a powder?”
“She could have been taking a powder, all right. Quite a bit of baggage. There’s a letter in the mailbox outside the apartment, according to what this guy tells me.”
“This operative has been ringing Rose Calvert’s bell?” Mason asked.
“No. He found out she was out. He’s waiting for her to show. However, he goes off duty at 1:30 a.m. He didn’t start working until five-thirty this evening. There’s no relief coming on.”
“You take a look at the letter in the mailbox?”
“No. My friend told me about it.”
“What did you tell your friend?”
“Told him I was interested in another case.”
“Did you give him any names?”
“No, but I don’t think I fooled him any.”
“What about this letter?”
“It’s in an envelope addressed to Rose M. Calvert and it’s got a return address in the upper side from Norton B. Calvert. The address is 6831 Washington Heights, Elsinore.”
“You didn’t take a peek at the letter?” Mason asked.
“Hell, no! I’m not monkeying with Uncle Sam. I didn’t even touch the envelope. I got my data from my friend.”
“Stamp canceled and postmarked?”
“That’s right. Postmarked Elsinore yesterday.”
“How is the letter? Typewritten or ink?”
“Written in pencil.”
“From Norton B. Calvert, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Who is this Norton B. Calvert? Husband? Son? What?”
“I don’t know. She’s pretty young to have a son living away from home. Around twenty-seven, as I get the impression.”
“Know how she was dressed?” Mason asked.
“Yes, she was wearing a tight-fitting, light-blue sweater, straight matching blue skirt, and high-heeled shoes.”
Mason digested the information in thoughtful silence.
“That mean anything to you?” the operative asked.
“I think it does,” Mason said, looking at his watch. “I’m going to play a hunch. What’s that address in Elsinore?”
“6831 Washington Heights, Elsinore.”
Mason said, “Let’s see. It’s about an hour to Corona and then about thirty minutes to Elsinore. That right?”
“I believe so. That won’t miss it very far.”
“Ring up Paul’s office,” Mason said. “Tell Drake to stick around until he hears from me. Have him tell Della Street to go home. Do you think this detective connected you with me?”
“Sure he did. Naturally he’s dying to find out what my angle is. When you came along, he would have been all eyes and ears. I let you go as far as I dared before I cut in on you, but I’m satisfied he was where he could watch us. He goes off duty at one-thirty, in case you want to call without being seen. She may be in by then.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “Go back and watch the place so this detective can’t say you quit as soon as I showed up. Try to give him a line before he leaves. Tell him you’re going to be on duty all night as far as you know. When he quits at one-thirty, wait ten or fifteen minutes to make certain he’s gone, and then high-tail it back to Drake’s office.”
“Suppose she shows?”
“She won’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure. If she shows, it won’t make any difference. I just want to keep from giving this private detective any blueprints of my plans.”
Mason swung away from the man, walked around the block, went to where he had parked his car, got in, filled the tank with gas at the nearest service station, and took off down the freeway.
From time to time he consulted his watch, and despite the last cup of coffee, found himself getting sleepy. He stopped at Corona for another cup of coffee, then drove on.
When he got to Elsinore, he found the town completely closed up. The police station and fire station had lights. Aside from that there was no light anywhere.
Mason drove around trying to get the lay of the town. He saw a car turn into a driveway. A family who had evidently been to one of the neighboring cities at a late show got out of the car.
Mason drove up.
“Can anybody tell me where Washington Heights is?” he asked.
The man who was evidently the head of the family detached himself from the group, came over toward Mason’s car.
“Sure,” he said. “You drive straight along this road until you come to the first boulevard stop, then turn right, and climb the hill, the second street on the left is Washington Heights.”
“Thanks,” Mason told him, leaning slightly forward with his head to one side so his hat brim would be between his features and the other man’s eyes. “Thanks a lot!”
Mason pushed his foot gently on the throttle, eased away from the curb.