The lawyer knocked gently on the closed door from the bathroom.
When there was no answer, he opened the door, stepped into the other room and groped for a light.
“They haven’t been in here at all,” he said. “This place is cold.”
Drake surveyed the empty room, said, “Well, I guess that’s it, Perry.”
Mason gave a quick look around the room, then closed the door. They walked back to the front cabin, switching out lights as they walked.
Mason said, “Two people. They sat around here for a while, had a couple of drinks, smoked, had the gas wall heater turned on... must have been here for quite a little while, Paul. Look at the number of cigarette stubs.”
“Suppose they got a tip we were coming?” Drake asked.
Mason shrugged.
“Of course,” Drake pointed out, “they could have gone someplace planning to come back.”
Mason shook his head. “Not a scrap of baggage anywhere. Let’s take a look in the icebox.”
Mason returned to the kitchen, opened the door of the icebox, pulled out the tray reserved for ice cubes, said, “Every ice cube taken out, Paul.”
He pressed his finger down on the surface of the water in the ice tray. Its thin coating of ice cracked under the pressure of his finger.
“I don’t get it,” Drake said.
“It means there was more than one highball,” Mason explained. “Probably two or three.”
Drake said nervously, “I hate to be prowling around in here, Perry. If we get caught...”
Mason replaced the tray in the icebox, snapped the door shut, clicked off the lights in the kitchen and said, “I feel the same way, Paul. We’re getting out.”
“Then what?”
“We’re going back. You’re going to bed. I’m going to drop you in Las Olitas. You can take a taxicab back to the city. I’m going to talk with Patricia. I think I’ve been on the receiving end of a fast one.”
10
The night garage man at the Westwick Hotel Apartments regarded the ten dollar bill which Mason handed him with eager appraisal.
“Who do you want killed, buddy?” he asked.
“Know anything about Maurine Milford?”
The man grinned. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Not much.”
“Perhaps whatever it is will help.”
“Shucks,” the night man said. “I hate to take the money for what little I know, because it isn’t worth the ten bucks.”
Nevertheless, he folded Mason’s bill and pushed it down deep in his pocket.
“You can’t ever tell,” Mason said. “What is it?”
“The day man told me she slipped him a five buck tip to keep her car shined up and polished. The day man doesn’t have anything to do with that stuff. I do the work. The day man offered to split the tip with me, but I told him I thought I could get another five. Well, sure enough, this Milford woman was in the first part of the evening and took her car out. I gave it a few finishing touches. I told her I hadn’t had a chance to really work on it, but that I would when she brought it back. I managed to get it across to her that it was the night man that did the work.”
“So what?”
The man grinned and said, “A five. Added to your ten, that makes fifteen bucks for the night. That’s something!”
“And when did she bring the car back?”
“She hasn’t brought it back. Looks like an all night party to me.”
Mason said, “What do you do to keep yourself occupied down here?”
“What do I do? Gosh, buddy, I have all these cars to dust off, and the windshields have to be washed. I...”
“And then what do you do when it gets along in the small hours of the morning like this?”
The garage man grinned and said, “After all, ten bucks is ten bucks. I guess there’s no reason you and I shouldn’t get along. I pick a car that has nice comfortable cushions and a damn good car radio. I park it out where I can see the entrance in case anybody comes in, and turn on the radio and sit there and listen to whatever all night program is on. Some of them are pretty terrible, but it beats standing around on a cold cement floor and biting your fingernails. Then when you see someone coming in, you jump out of the car, switch off the radio, start scrubbing away at the windshield or polishing a fender. Like I was doing when you came in, buddy.”
Mason said, “Move over, we’ll listen to the radio together.”
“What’s your racket?” the man asked.
Mason said, “I’m sort of strong for the Milford girl.”
“Oh, oh! Beg your pardon, buddy — what I said about an all night party. I don’t know her at all. I was just shooting off my face.”
“It’s okay,” Mason said. “What station did you have on?”
“It’s some recordings,” the man said. “Not bad. They’ll come on with a breakfast program in about an hour and a half.”
“Disc jockey?”
“Oh, so so. He is pretty crude and amateurish, but he’s probably practicing up for daytime stuff. This is a good radio.”
Mason climbed in the car and sat with the night man. The radio warmed up and a record of cowboy music filled their ears.
“I like this stuff,” the garage man said. “Always wanted to be a cowboy — so I turn up washing off windshields at night. Helluva life!”
“Darned if it isn’t,” Mason agreed. “Will you have a smoke?”
“I’m sorry, buddy, but I don’t smoke in a car. There’s always the chance that the man who owns this particular heap might come walking in and...”
“Sorry,” Mason apologized.
“Get out and walk around when you want to smoke,” the man invited. “And then get back... oh, oh!”
His hand snaked out, turned off the radio.
“Out,” he said out of the side of his mouth, “quick.”
Mason opened the car on the right and slid out to the cement floor.
The garage man, with a rag in his hand, was assiduously polishing the fender on the car, as headlights came down the ramp from the street.
The night man put down the rag on the fender, walked across to the automobile, said, “Okay, I’ve got it.”
“Hello,” Patricia Faxon said as she jumped out of the car with a quick, lithe motion. “Guess I was out pretty late, wasn’t I?”
The night man merely grinned at her.
“Do the best you can with the car,” she said. “It’s streaked up a bit. When can I get it washed?”
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s okay. Do the best you can with it. I...”
She suddenly stiffened at sight of Perry Mason.
“Hello,” the lawyer said.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk with you.”
“How long have you been here?”
Mason merely smiled, said, “Let’s do our talking in your apartment, Patricia.”
“At this hour?” she asked.
Mason nodded.
She regarded him for a long moment with hesitant appraisal; then she led the way to the elevator shaft and pressed the button.
The elevator was on automatic at this hour of the night, and it responded promptly.
Mason held the door open for her. She entered the cage. Mason followed her. The door slid shut and Patricia pushed the button for the eighth floor.
Mason said, “I thought you were the frightened girl who couldn’t get back here fast enough.”
“I changed my mind.”
“What caused you to change your mind?”
She pretended not to hear him. The elevator stopped at the eighth floor. They walked down the corridor together. Patricia fitted a latchkey to the door, said, “I suppose you know you’re kicking my good name out of the window.”
Mason didn’t say anything.