She switched on lights in the apartment. Mason closed the door.
She said, “I’m going to fix myself a drink. A big one. What do you want?”
“What are you having?”
“Scotch and soda.”
“Okay by me. Where have you been, Pat?”
“Out.”
Mason said, “We might get farther if you’d be more co-operative.”
She laughed breezily and said, “I’ve heard that before somewhere. Believe it or not, I just drove out here from our house in the city.”
Mason followed her out into the kitchenette. She took a bottle of Scotch from the shelf, then took out two glasses; then she took ice cubes from the refrigerator.
“Been drizzling up in the mountains,” the lawyer said. “Rather nasty weather.”
“Is that so?”
“And,” the lawyer went on, “I noticed that your car was pretty much of a mess. Evidently you’ve had it out where it’s wet.”
She splashed Scotch into the glasses without bothering with the jigger measure that was on the shelf by the Scotch bottle.
“See your mother?” Mason asked.
She said, “You’ll find soda in the icebox, Mr. Mason.”
“See your mother?” he repeated, taking a siphon of soda water from the refrigerator.
“I think I want to let this drink take effect before I do any talking at all.”
“What’s the matter?” the lawyer asked. “Something to conceal?”
She made no answer, but led the way back to the living room, took a quick drink from the glass, said, “What’s this going to be, the third-degree?”
“Not unless it has to be. I want to know whether you saw your mother.”
“I...”
Knuckles tapped gently on the panel of the door. For one panic-stricken second, Patricia pretended not to hear them. Then the chimes sounded and Mason said casually, “Do you want to open the door, Pat, or shall I?”
Without a word, she put her drink on the stand by her chair, walked across and opened the door.
A woman’s voice said, “Thank heavens, you’re up, Pat. I...”
She broke off at the sight of Mason.
For a moment, she and Pat faced each other. Then the elder woman said, “I’m sorry. I guess I have the wrong apartment. I...”
“Come on in, Mrs. Allred,” Mason said. “One would hardly take you for Pat’s mother. You look more like her sister.”
She smiled and said, “It’s a nice opening line. I’ve heard it before. Aren’t you keeping Pat up rather late?”
Mason said, “It isn’t a line and it isn’t flattery. You might call it a professional appraisal of an article of merchandise I may have to sell to a jury.”
Patricia closed the door. “Perry Mason, Mother.”
“Oh!” she said in a single sharp exclamation.
“We’re having a drink,” Patricia went on. “You must be cold.”
“I’m numb,” her mother admitted.
“I’ll fix you one.”
Mrs. Allred smiled vaguely at Mason, hesitated a moment, then followed her daughter into the kitchen.
“Have any trouble getting in?” Patricia asked.
She said, “The night man at the desk was a little dubious, but I flashed him a smile and walked directly to the elevator with all of the assurance in the world. He finally decided I belonged here.”
“There’s ice there in the refrigerator, Mother. You want bourbon and soda?”
“That’s right.”
Mason could hear the gurgle of liquid, the clink of ice in a glass, then the sibilants of swift whispers.
The lawyer settled back in his chair, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, arose politely when the two women reentered the room.
“Got it all fixed up?” Mason asked.
“What?” Patricia asked. “The drink?”
“No. The story.”
Patricia glared at him. Both women sat down.
Mason said, “You can beat around the bush if you want to. I don’t know how much time we have.”
Patricia said, “I told Mr. Mason about Bob Fleetwood, Mother. He knows how things are.”
Mrs. Allred said, “After all, Mr. Mason, I have nothing to conceal. I found accommodations at a little tourist camp up in the mountains. I had previously telephoned my husband where we would be, and he said he was coming up to join us.”
“Did he?”
She hesitated.
“Go on,” Mason said. “Let’s hear the story.”
She said, “Bob and I had a couple of drinks, killing time and waiting. Then Bob excused himself to go to the bathroom. He was in there quite a while. After a while I called to him to find out if he was all right. There was no answer. The door was locked from the inside.
“I was in a panic. I thought perhaps he’d taken something, or — well, you know, it could have been suicide.”
“But it wasn’t?”
“He had the key to the other cabin. I ran around to try the outside door of that cabin. It was open. The bathroom door on that side was open. He hadn’t stopped in the bathroom at all. He’d locked the door to my side, walked right on through, gone out the other door, taken my car and driven away.”
“Didn’t you hear your car when it drove away?” Mason asked.
“I heard it, but thought it was some other tenant. I didn’t have any idea it was my car. I’d left it parked in the driveway.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you do?”
“I walked out to the road,” she said, “and hitchhiked in. I don’t want to have that experience again.”
“How about your luggage?”
She said, “I had a small suitcase with me. I’d taken it out because there was a flask of whisky in it. We were waiting for Bertrand to join us.”
“Did Fleetwood know that?”
“Yes.”
“Had he recovered his memory?”
“No. He was all right otherwise, but he hadn’t recovered his memory.”
“And what about your husband?”
“I don’t know what happened to him, Mr. Mason. He never did show up.”
“You didn’t wait to find out, did you?”
“He was long overdue when Bob took the car. I... well, I don’t know what happened.”
“Did you try calling your house?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“What happened?”
“There was no answer.”
“No servants?”
“They sleep over the garage. They wouldn’t answer a phone at night.”
“So then you went out to the highway and hitchhiked back?”
“Yes.”
“Get the name of the motorist who took you in?”
“Motorists,” she said, making an exaggerated “s” sound. “That s-s-s-s-s stands for plural. There were three of them in succession. The last man was an old man.”
“Did he drive you directly here?”
“No. He got me in to where I could get a taxicab, however.”
“And your suitcase? Were you lying about leaving it in the car?”
“I left it at the depot. I checked it because I thought I might have some trouble getting in here with a suitcase. I thought I could walk in and get to Pat’s apartment all right, if I didn’t have a suitcase. If I did have, I knew I’d be stopped and have to make explanations.”
“Why didn’t you want to explain?”
“I wasn’t ready.”
“Why didn’t you go home?”
“Because I... because I was afraid to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It was just a hunch I had. I wanted to be with Pat.”
“You telephoned your husband earlier in the evening and told him where you would be?”
“That’s right.”
“And he was to come right up?”
“As soon as he could get away. He said he’d be up about ten o’clock.”
“And how about Pat?”
“What about her?”