“That’s all right,” Mason said. “We’ll rent a car.”
Lights came on in the valley below. The pilot skimmed over orange groves and prosperous ranches, then taxied the plane into a landing.
“I can’t fly you back tonight,” he said. “I’m not licensed for night flights.”
“Never mind,” Mason told him. “We’ll get back, don’t bother about us.”
Mason paid off the aviator, and took a taxicab to a place where he could rent a car, then rang the number Paul Drake had given him and explained who he was.
“You’re in luck,” the operative told him. “We located your party just about twenty minutes ago.”
“Where is she?”
“Staying at the Antlers Hotel, and this is one for the book.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s registered under the name of Mabel Davenport.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “You have her under surveillance?”
“Yes. She’s been out most of the afternoon. She came in shortly after we had her located and she’s in her room now.”
“You have a man on duty there?”
“Yes.”
“How will I know him?”
“He’s wearing a gray suit, about thirty-five years old, five feet ten and a half, a hundred and seventy pounds, with a blue and red necktie and a gold horseshoe tiepin.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “He’s expecting us?”
“He’ll be expecting you. He’ll be in touch with me within the next few minutes and I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said, and hung up. “Well, Della, we’ve got our party located. She’s at the Antlers Hotel, registered under the name of Mabel Davenport.”
“And that’s Mabel Norge, the secretary?”
Mason nodded.
“The only person,” Della said, “who could possibly have known that Ed Davenport was going to be taken sick shortly after leaving Fresno.”
“And how would she have known that?” Mason asked.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? She drove down to Fresno with him. She spent the night in the motel. Just before he left in the morning she saw that he took something that would make him violently ill and—”
“But he didn’t register a woman with him,” Mason said. “If a woman had been spending the night he’d have registered as Frank L. Stanton and wife. He was alone when he drove up and he—”
“And he had a visitor,” Della Street said.
“Exactly.”
“And after this visitor left, Mabel Norge joined him. She’d been waiting.”
“And you think she poisoned him?”
“That’s the part I can’t understand. She must have given him something that made him sick.”
“Just as he was leaving?”
“Just as he was leaving in the morning.”
“Under those circumstances,” Mason said, “he would have been as apt to have turned back and called for a doctor from Fresno as to have gone on and become sick in Crampton where the grave was so conveniently waiting.”
She sighed. “I suppose you’ll tell me in your own good time.”
“I’ll tell you as soon as I know, Della, but right now I have a theory—and that’s all.”
“Well, don’t be such a clam. According to your theory there was only one person who knew he was to be taken sick as soon as he left Fresno and that he’d get as far as Crampton and then stop. It wasn’t—good heavens, you don’t mean it was Ed Davenport himself?”
“That’s right.”
“But why on earth? Why would he want—?”
Mason said, “We’ll know some of the answers in a few minutes if Mabel Norge talks, and under the circumstances I rather think she will. It’s going to be rather embarrassing to her when we step in and find her registered as Mabel Davenport.”
“And you mean that Ed Davenport deliberately planned to get sick so that—?”
“Ed Davenport was the only person on earth who could have known definitely, positively and absolutely that he was going to get sick in Crampton—that is, Della, if it was planned out in advance.”
“Well, it had to be planned out because of the grave.”
“That at least is the theory of the prosecution,” Mason said.
Della Street was silent for a few moments, trying to figure it out, then she shook her head and said, “It’s too deep for me.”
“I think,” Mason told her, “we’re going to get some information that will enable us to unravel the puzzle. Remember that telephone call we received in Paradise, Della. The man didn’t ask for any kind of identification. As soon as you said hello he gave you the information about the motel in San Bernardino, then hung up.”
“I get it,” Della Street said, “and Mabel Norge came by the place in Paradise not simply because she was driving by but because she was waiting for a phone call that would tell her where to go.”
“That’s right.”
“And because she didn’t get that phone call she didn’t know where to go and—but she knew it was somewhere in San Bernardino, and so she went to San Bernardino and waited.”
“That’s right.”
“But why didn’t she go back to the place in Paradise after we had left and—?”
“She probably did,” Mason said. “She went back there and sat waiting for a telephone call that didn’t come. The reason it didn’t come was because you had taken the telephone call earlier. There had probably been some alternate instructions. If Mabel hadn’t received the call by a certain time, say midnight, then she was to go to San Bernardino, register at the Antlers Hotel as Mabel Davenport, and await instructions there.”
“But how would that account for her having embezzled money out of—?”
“Who said she embezzled money?” Mason asked.
“Well, she drew out virtually everything there was in the account in Paradise, and then disappeared.”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “That’s not embezzlement.”
“Well, it looks like it to me.”
“We’ll see what Mabel Norge has to say about it,” Mason said.
He parked the car at the parking lot by the Antlers Hotel, entered the lobby, and had no difficulty identifying the man in the gray suit with the blue and red tie.
The man, who had been lounging by the cigar counter, sauntered over to Mason and said, “She’s in the cafe. She just went in for dinner. Do you know her when you see her?”
Mason nodded.
“Do you want to wait until she comes out or—?”
“No,” Mason said, smiling. “We’ll join her for dinner.”
“Okay, you want me to stay on the job?”
“I think so,” Mason said. “Come on, Della, we’ll drop in on Mabel.”
“She’s in the second booth to the right, sitting alone,” the detective said.
“Okay, we’ll join her.”
Mason held the swinging door open for Della Street. They entered the restaurant, turned to the right. Abruptly Mason paused, said, “Well, well, Della, here’s someone we know.”
Mabel Norge, who had been studying the menu, glanced up curiously and then suddenly panic filled her eyes.
“Good evening,” she said coldly.
Mason moved over and extended his hand. “Well, well, Miss Norge! How are you tonight? I heard you were here.”
“You heard I was here?” she asked after hesitating a moment in extending her hand.
“Why, yes,” Mason said. “You notified the authorities in Butte County, didn’t you?”
Her face colored. “They weren’t supposed to tell anyone.”
Mason easily and quite naturally seated himself opposite her, and Della Street slid in beside him.
“Well,” Mason said, “it’s nice finding you here where we can talk and—”