“How much of Delano’s estate has been distributed?” Mason interposed.
“Well, there was a partial distribution and—it amounts to something over a hundred thousand, I guess, and there’s more money coming in all the time. In addition to all that Ed Davenport raised some money on a note that she signed with him. He told her it was just a matter of form, but you can’t tell me any of that sort of stuff! I wasn’t born yesterday. I think I know something about men!”
“I dare say you do,” Mason said, “but in the meantime we’ll relax until we get to Los Angeles. Then you get in a taxicab and go home, and, if there’s nothing new, be at my office by two-thirty in the afternoon.”
Mason got up, tapped Della on the shoulder and led the way to two vacant seats in the front of the plane.
“Well?” Della Street asked when Mason had seated her by the window and dropped into position in the seat beside her.
“Did you get the story?” Mason asked.
“Most of it,” she said. “Apparently Ed Davenport was on one of his toots and was rolled. He got sick and passed out. The doctor gave him a shot. Davenport came to and found the door locked, so he thought someone was trying to restrain him. He got out of the window, got in somebody’s car and went places.”
“What places?” Mason asked.
“Probably he started home.”
“Not with all of the Highway Patrol being alerted to look for a man driving a car, clad only in pajamas.”
“Well,” she said, “what do you think?”
Mason smiled. “A little bit depends on what Paul Drake has found out about that San Bernardino motel, and a great deal depends on what happens when we get to Los Angeles.”
“You think they were followed to San Francisco?”
Mason nodded.
“You think that man reading the newspaper was interested in them?”
“I think he had cop written all over him,” Mason said. “However, we may as well get a few minutes’ sleep before we land.”
And with that Mason touched the button which slid the seat back into a reclining position.
“Now,” Della Street complained, “you’ve got me wide awake.”
“Doing what?”
“Thinking over what’s happened.”
Mason said sleepily, “Wait an hour and a half and you may have a lot more to think over.”
Chapter 5
The plane glided to a landing, then taxied up to the airport.
Mason and Della Street watched Sara Ansel and Myrna Davenport walk through the terminal and enter a taxicab.
The cab swung out into the driveway and then into the traffic.
A businesslike car with a tall aerial in the rear pulled out of a parking position and swung in behind the taxicab.
“Well, that does it,” Mason said.
“Police?” Della Street asked.
Mason nodded.
“What are they waiting for, why don’t they go ahead and make an arrest?” Della Street asked.
“They’re trying to establish a pattern of action.”
“So what do we do?”
“We now get two taxicabs.”
“Two?”
Mason nodded.
“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to take one until we get to town?”
“Exactly,” Mason said, “but this way is more confusing.”
“Do I try to see if I’m being followed?”
“Definitely not,” Mason told her. “You’re the soul of innocence. You settle back in the cushions. You’ve had a long, hard day, and you’re going home, take a bath and get a few hours’ sleep until you feel like coming to the office, or until I call you.”
“And in the meantime what will you be doing?”
Mason said, “I’ll bathe, shave, change clothes and see what happens.”
“You think something is going to happen?”
“I wouldn’t be too surprised.”
“What?”
Mason said, “Well, I might—just might—run out to the Pacific Palisades Motor Court at San Bernardino”
“Why?”
Mason said, “The man in unit thirteen might turn out to know something about Ed Davenport.”
“Oh-oh!” she said, and then, after a moment, “Suppose he does. Then what?”
Mason said, “I might talk with him. I’d like to establish a pattern of action myself.”
“Won’t you be able to get any sleep?”
“I won’t if I go out there, but I won’t go out there unless Paul Drake reports the cabin is occupied.”
“Why not take me with you?”
Mason shook his head firmly. “You, young lady, are going to get a little shut-eye. The party may get rough from now on.”
“You don’t think there’s a simple explanation for this, that Ed Davenport went on a bust and—?”
“There may be a simple explanation,” Mason said, “but there are complicating factors. Here’s a taxicab, Della. In you go. You have enough money for expenses?”
“Plenty.”
“Okay. See you later.”
Mason waved good-by to her and stood stretching and yawning, looking at the glow of light above the city.
Another businesslike car with an aerial in the rear slid out from the parking place and followed Della Street’s taxicab.
Mason took another cab and, fighting back in almost irresistible impulse, determinedly kept his eyes to the front and never once looked back to see whether or not a police car was following.
Mason paid off the taxi driver in front of his apartment house, went in and took a shower. Then, wrapped in his bathrobe, called the Drake Detective Agency.
The night operator answered the phone.
“This is Perry Mason,” he said. “I suppose Paul Drake is wrapped in the arms of Morpheus.”
“He was up here until well after midnight,” the operator said. “He said that if you called we were to relay reports that have come in on that San Bernardino job.”
“Let’s have them,” Mason said.
“Unit thirteen,” the operator said, “according to the data made available by our operatives in a telephone report, was rented over the telephone from Fresno Sunday night by a man who identified himself as Frank L. Stanton. He said that he was going to be in late Monday, that he wanted a unit and specifically instructed that the unit be left unlocked so he wouldn’t have to bother waking the manager and getting a key. He said he might not get in until between two and three o’clock Tuesday morning, that he would want the unit for two consecutive days. He asked how much the price was, was informed that it was six dollars per day, and said that he would go to the telegraph office and wire twelve dollars for two days.”
“That was done?” Mason asked.
“That was done.”
“And what about Stanton?”
“Up until thirty minutes ago, when the operative telephoned in a report. Stanton hadn’t shown up, but here’s a development that you’ll probably be interested in.”
“What is it?”
“Another detective agency is on the job.”
“Watching for Stanton?”
“Apparently.”
“Who is it?”
“We’re not certain yet but we think it’s Jason L. Beckemeyer, a private detective from Bakersfield.”
“How are you making your identification?” Mason asked.
“By the license number of the automobile. That gave our men the first lead. Then I telephoned in for a description of Beckemeyer and he answers the description of the driver. Fifty-two, five feet seven, weight a hundred and eighty pounds. A short, chunky, barrel-chested individual.”