Mason switched out the lights, and felt his way to the door. Behind him he could hear harsh, convulsive sobs coming from the other side of the bedroom door.
The lawyer eased out of the house, tiptoed up the gravel walk. The dog in the adjoining house once more started a frenzied barking and was again calmed to silence by the man’s authoritative voice.
Mason got in his car and drove back toward the city.
From Corona, Mason called Paul Drake.
“This is Perry, Paul. Any news?”
“Nothing important.”
“Body been identified?”
“Not yet. At least not as far as anyone knows.”
“Anything else new?”
“Sgt. Holcomb rang up and wanted to know where you could be reached.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I didn’t know where you were, but I knew that you intended to be at the district attorney’s office at nine o’clock in the morning.”
“What about Della?”
“I told her you said to go home, but she didn’t go. She’s sticking it out. She’s got a percolator full of hot coffee... What the heck are you doing down at Corona?”
“Running down a lead,” Mason said. “Now look, Paul, here’s something I want you to do.”
“What?”
“Cover the Redfern Hotel. Find out if there were any check-outs from the seventh floor between six and eight last night. If there were, I want those rooms rented by some of your operatives.”
“You can’t ask for a specific room by number,” Drake said. “It would make them suspicious...”
“Don’t be that crude,” Mason told him. “Have operatives go to the hotel. They’re just in from a plane trip. They don’t want to get too high, but they want to be high enough to be away from the street noises, something on the seventh floor. Then start getting particular until they get the rooms we want.”
“Check-outs tonight? Is that right?”
“Well, it’s yesterday night now,” Mason said, “but I want any check-outs between — well, say between six and nine just to be safe.”
“You coming in here?” Drake asked.
“I’m coming in,” Mason told him. “What have you found out about the gun? Anything?”
“Not yet. We’re working.”
“Well, get some action,” Mason told him.
“Do you know what time it is?” Drake asked.
“Sure, I know what time it is,” Mason said. “And I’ll tell you something for your information. By tomorrow the police will be swarming all over us. If we’re going to do anything at all, we’re going to have to do it before nine o’clock this morning.”
“I’ve got ten men out,” Drake said. “They should turn up something. Come on in and have a cup of coffee. I’ll try to get a line on the hotel. I’ve got a couple of men in there already. They’re buying drinks, tipping the bellboys and trying to get them to talk.”
“What kind of a place?” Mason asked.
“You can get anything you want,” Drake told him.
“Who runs it? The clerks?”
“The bell captains run that end of it.”
“Well, we may want something,” Mason told him. “I’m coming in, Paul. I’ll be seeing you in an hour.”
Chapter Seven
Mason’s steps echoed along the corridor of the silent building as he left the elevator and walked down to his office. He inserted his latchkey, snapped back the spring lock and opened the door.
Della Street, who was stretched out in the overstuffed chair, her feet propped on another chair, her legs covered with a topcoat, jumped up, blinking.
She saw Mason’s face, smiled, and said, “Gosh, Chief, I was asleep. I made myself comfortable and all of a sudden I went out like a light.
“There’s coffee over there in the electric percolator. I’m afraid it’s pretty strong and stale by now. I made it fresh about midnight.”
“Didn’t Drake tell you to go home?”
“He told me you said to go home,” Della Street smiled. “But I thought I’d wait it out, at least until you got in.”
“What have you got to go with the coffee?” Mason asked.
“Doughnuts. And they’re pretty good. I went down to this doughnut shop just before it closed at midnight and got a bag of fresh doughnuts... I’ll bet I’m a mess.”
She shook out her skirt, put her hand to her hair, fluffed it out, smiled at Perry Mason.
“What’s new?”
“Lots, of things, Della. Give Paul Drake a ring and ask him if he wants to come down and have coffee, doughnuts and chitchat.”
Della Street promptly put through the call, said, “He’s coming right down.”
Mason opened the closet which contained the wash-stand, washed his hands and face in hot water, rubbed briskly with a towel.
Della Street produced three big coffee mugs and opened the faucet on the electric percolator. The office filled with the aroma of hot coffee.
Drake’s code knock sounded on the door.
Della Street opened it.
“Hi, Paul,” Mason said, hanging up the towel with which he had been drying his face. “What’s new?”
“Not too much at this end,” Drake said. “What’s new with you?”
“They’re going to have the body identified in about thirty minutes,” Mason said.
“How do you know?”
Mason grinned. “I fixed a time bomb so it will go off just about on schedule.”
“How come?”
“The body,” Mason said, “is that of Rose Calvert. Rose’s middle name, believe it or not, was Mistletoe. Her dad thought she might turn out to be romantic. His hunch was right — poor kid.
“For your information, Rose’s husband, Norton B. Calvert, lives in Elsinore, is running a service station, and was waiting from day to day in hopes that his wife would come back.
“Probably at about this time he’s at the Elsinore police station, telling them that he has reason to believe his wife has been murdered, and asking the Elsinore police to find out about it. They’ll call the Los Angeles police, and since there is only one unidentified body, at least so far, the police will ask for a description, and very shortly will have an identification.”
“But won’t they find out that you were down there?” Della Street asked apprehensively.
“They’ll find out I was down there,” Mason said, “and they’ll be mad. They’ll feel that I held out on them in respect to an identification of the body.”
“Well?” Drake asked drily. “Wouldn’t that be a natural conclusion under the circumstances?”
“Sure, it will,” Mason said. “So the police will decide to give my client the works. They’ll check on Rose Calvert, and find out that during the last few weeks of her life she had been very, very much involved with Gifford Farrell. They will, therefore, jump at the conclusion that Farrell is my client. They’ll descend on him, and they’ll probably be rather inconsiderate and ungentle.
“Find out anything about that gun, Paul?”
“Not yet. That information is supposed to be available only during office hours, at least to the general public. However, I took it on myself to issue a gratuity of fifty dollars and I’m expecting—”
“Well, grab this coffee while it’s hot,” Della Street said, “and you can do your expecting right here.”
Drake said dubiously, “I’ve been swigging down coffee all night.”
Mason picked up one of the big mugs, put in sugar and cream, stood with his feet apart, leaning slightly forward. He reached for a doughnut, then raised the coffee mug to his lips.
“How is it?” Della Street asked apprehensively.
“Couldn’t be better,” Mason said.
“I’m afraid it’s stale and bitter.”
“It’s wonderful!”
Drake tasted his coffee, said, “Well, you have to admit one thing, it’s strong.”