Again the phone rang.
Mason nodded to Della Street.
She picked up the receiver, said, “Hello…. Yes….”
She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said, “Can you take a call from Fresno, Chief?”
“Find out who’s talking.”
“Who’s calling?” Della Street asked.
She looked up. “Mrs. Davenport.”
Mason nodded and Della Street handed him the receiver.
“Hello,” Mason said.
“Is this Mr. Perry Mason, the attorney?”
“That’s right.”
“Just a moment. Mrs. Davenport is calling.”
A moment later Mason heard the flat, toneless monotone of Myrna Davenport’s voice.
“Mr. Mason, there’s been a terrible mistake. He’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?”
“My husband.”
“That’s what Sara Ansel told me. He died this afternoon and—wait a minute, is that what you meant?”
“No. I mean he’s gone. He’s really gone.”
“You mean he isn’t dead?”
“Yes, Mr. Mason, that’s what I mean. He isn’t dead. He wasn’t dead at all. He couldn’t have been He’s gone.”
“Where?” Mason asked
“I don’t know.”
“When did he go?”
“I don’t even know that. He got in a car and disappeared.”
Mason, fighting back anger, said. “What kind of a run around is this? What are you trying to put over? Sara Ansel told me distinctly that Ed Davenport was dead. That was around three o’clock this afternoon. She said he had died about fifteen minutes earlier.”
“That’s what we thought. That’s what the doctor told us. We all thought he’d passed away, but evidently he was only unconscious. We didn’t know where to catch you before you got to this number and by that time we were pretty much confused because—”
“Where are you now?”
“We’re at a drugstore, but we’re leaving right away. We’ll go back to Los Angeles.”
Mason said, “Don’t go back to Los Angeles. Catch the first available plane, train or bus for San Francisco, whichever is the first available means of transportation. Go to the San Francisco Airport. Go to the mezzanine floor. Sit there and wait. Now do you understand those instructions?”
“You.”
“Will you do that?”
“I’ll have to ask Aunt Sara.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s right here.”
“Well, ask her,” Mason said impatiently.
He held the phone for a moment, conscious of Della Street’s anxious eyes, then heard Myrna Davenport’s voice, “Very well. We’ll follow your instructions.”
“Don’t talk to anyone. If anyone should ask you questions, don’t answer. That relates to anyone. Do you understand? Anyone.”
“I understand what you’re telling me but I don’t understand why.”
“Never mind understanding why. Do what I tell you,” Mason said.
Mason hung up the phone.
He strode angrily toward the light switch.
“What is it?” Della Street asked anxiously.
“Apparently,” Mason said, “we have been made the victim of a beautiful double cross.”
“And Ed Davenport isn’t dead?” she asked.
“According to the latest report he is very much alive and has disappeared—perhaps he’s on his way up here or he may have been the man who telephoned from Bakersfield leaving the cryptic message.”
“So what is your legal position now?”
“That of having assumed charge of an estate before there was any estate, of having rifled a ‘dead’ man’s effects while the man was still alive.”
Della Street thought that over for a moment, then moved into the kitchen, making certain that things were replaced as they had found them, polishing off fingerprints and turning off lights.
Mason met her at the front door. “Let’s go, Della.”
“Where?”
“Back to Chico, where we turn in this car and catch the first available means of transportation out. We stop over long enough to ring up the Drake Detective Agency and tell Paul Drake to have two operatives cover the Pacific Palisades Motor Court at San Bernardino, to keep an eye on unit thirteen, to report to him as soon as the unit is occupied, by whom, and then keep the place covered. We also have Paul check on Ed Davenport. Come on Della, let’s go.”
Chapter 4
It was two forty-five in the morning when Perry Mason and Della Street walked into the San Francisco Airport.
“You go up first,” Mason said, indicating the mezzanine. “Look around. If they’re up there beckon to me. If anyone seems to be shadowing them, don’t beckon but come downstairs and report. Just take a good look around.”
“How can I tell if anyone is shadowing them?”
“If someone is sitting up there reading a paper or a magazine, apparently completely engrossed in something else, let me know. Let’s not walk into any traps.”
Della Street climbed the stairs, and after a few moments came down to say, “There’s a man sitting there reading a paper, Chief.”
“And the two women are up there?”
“They’re up there, apparently sound asleep. Both of them with their heads back and their eyes closed.”
Mason said, “Della, there’s a three-five plane to Los Angeles. Get four tickets. We can just about make it. I’ll go up and get the women. If they’re being shadowed we can’t help it.”
Mason climbed the stairs. The man who was engrossed in the newspaper casually turned a page, folded it and went on with his reading.
Mason walked partway around the mezzanine, came back, stretched, yawned, settled himself down beside Sara Ansel, who was gently snoring. Myrna Davenport’s head was resting against Sara Ansel’s shoulder. She was sleeping peacefully.
Mason touched Sara Ansel’s arm.
She fidgeted uneasily.
Mason looked over at the man who was reading the newspaper, then touched her again.
Sara Ansel wakened with a start.
“I beg your pardon,” Mason said casually, putting a cigarette in his mouth. “Do you have a match?”
She started to glower, then recognized him and said, “Why, I… I—”
“And may I offer you a cigarette?” Mason asked.
The man with the paper still seemed completely engrossed in his reading.
Myrna Davenport was awakened by the voices.
“Why, how do you do?” she said. “I—”
Mason frowned her into silence. “Do one of you ladies have a match?”
Myrna Davenport produced a lighter.
Mason lit his cigarette. “Thank you very much,” he said. He stretched, yawned, settled back in the chair and said in a low voice to Sara Ansel, “There’s a three-five plane for Los Angeles. Della Street, my secretary, is getting tickets. She’ll meet you at the gate with tickets and gate passes. She’ll hand them to you unobtrusively. Get on that plane. We’ll talk there.”
Mason again yawned, looked at his watch, walked over to the balcony, looked down and received a signal from Della Street that the tickets were all okay.
The lawyer walked casually around to the far side of the balcony, again looked at his wrist watch, settled down in a chair, leaned back and smoked contemplatively while he watched Sara Ansel and Myrna Davenport descend the stairs.
The man who had been reading the newspaper got up, walked to the railing around the mezzanine and casually raised his right hand. Then he returned to his chair.
Mason arose, walked across to the stairs and went down to the main floor, moving slowly, yet timing himself carefully. He reached the gate where the three-five plane was loading two minutes before the time of departure.