“According to the last report I had he is,” Drake said.
“When was that report?”
“About thirty minutes ago.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “I’ll look him up. How does it happen the police have overlooked him?”
“The police apparently don’t know too much about the Skinner Hills business. Remember we started working on that Karakul fur deal and that’s given us the inside track.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “I’ll call you if anything turns up.”
“I’ll be getting reports until around two or two-thirty,” Drake said, “but for the love of Mike, don’t call me after that unless it’s something damned important.”
Mason hung up, pushed the telephone to one side. “How’s the grub, Della?”
“Fine. Tell me about Carol.”
“What about her?”
“Why did you have your tongue in your cheek when you came back?”
Mason reached into the side pocket of his coat, took out the sheaf of twenty-dollar bills Carol had given him.
“What’s that?” Della asked him.
“Expense money.”
“It looks as though she thought you were going to have plenty of expenses.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“What’s the idea?”
Mason said, “When do the banks close, Della?”
“What do you mean? Oh, I see. It’s Saturday.”
“Exactly. Here we have five hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. They are fastened together with a gummed strip of paper bearing the imprint of the Seaboard National Trust and Savings Bank. Nice new bills — interesting, isn’t it?”
“You mean Carol drew this expense money out of the bank before...”
“Exactly.”
“But she didn’t know about the murder before noon, did she?”
Mason grinned. “I didn’t ask her. I was careful not to. What would you do, Della, if you found yourself faced with the job of manufacturing an alibi?”
“You mean, if I had to make an alibi up out of whole cloth?”
“Yes.”
“Heavens! I don’t know. It would seem to me to be an impossible problem.”
Mason said, “Even if you had a long, long time to think it over, I’ll bet you couldn’t do a better job than to claim that you’d been attending a political conference of such great importance the bigwigs who attended it wouldn’t dare to let their identities be known, would even deny that they were there. And then if you could lead some witness into a place where that conference took place and point to ash trays that were littered with cigar butts and cigarette stubs, a wastebasket that was filled with empty bottles, bathrooms containing soiled towels, and, even as a final finishing touch, ‘Father’s razor on the shelf in the bathroom’ — that, I would say, would be a very artistic job.”
“Very.”
“Then if the police happened to discover ‘Father’ at just the opportune moment, and ‘Father’ seemed not at all eager to establish his alibi, but only did so under pressure, and then rather reluctantly put his hand down into his coat pocket and pulled out a key to the cabin in which the conference was supposed to have taken place — that would be one sweet job of alibi building, wouldn’t it?”
“Do you think the whole thing was faked?”
“I don’t know. I’m just pointing out things.”
“But can’t the police check every detail?”
“Which do you mean, can or will?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Query: What would you do if you were a police officer — and had to decide whether you wanted to rip aside the mask of secrecy some big-shot politicians had carefully set up?”
Della said, “Well, I might try to dig out the truth, and then again, I might drop the whole thing — fast.”
“Exactly,” Mason said.
“Apparently,” Della Street said thoughtfully, “Carol Burbank is a very unusual girl.”
“Or her father is a very unusual man,” Mason said. “I’m interested in finding out which — and in the meantime, finish your dinner because you’re going home and get some sleep.”
Della Street smiled across the table at him. “Not if you’re going to beat the police to the Hotel Cornish. A notebook might come in handy there.”
Mason smiled. “It’s going to cost you your dessert.”
“I didn’t want any, anyway.”
“That’ll run Pierre’s blood pressure up.”
Della Street opened her purse, calmly started applying lipstick. “One gathers,” she said, “that Pierre’s blood pressure has been boiling up and dropping down at alternate intervals for the last forty years.”
“That,” Mason said, “would have made it start when Pierre was about fourteen.”
“Well,” Della Street announced, putting her lipstick and compact back into her purse, “let’s make it forty-two years then.”
Chapter 8
The Hotel Cornish was one of the less pretentious hotels tucked away on the fringes of the business district. The night clerk, a man somewhere in the late sixties, with a high forehead, fuzzy hair that bristled out on each side above the ears, looked at Perry Mason and Della Street through rimless glasses and said shortly, “Full up. There isn’t a room in the house.”
Mason said, “You have a Harry Van Nuys registered here?”
“That’s right. Van Nuys, Las Vegas, Nevada, room 618. Want to leave a message?”
“I’d like to have you call him and let him know I’m here.”
“He expecting you?”
“Not exactly.”
“It’s late.”
“I know what time it is.”
The clerk hesitated, then with somewhat poor grace plugged in a line and said, “A lady and a gentleman down here to see you.”
He waited a moment then turned his head over his shoulder.
“What’s that name again?” he asked.
“Mason.”
The clerk said into the telephone. “It’s a Mr. Mason... Very well. I wasn’t certain whether you had retired.”
The clerk pulled out the plug, said somewhat ungraciously, “You can go up.”
Mason nodded to Della Street.
It was an automatic elevator and it seemed to take an interminable time rattling and swaying up to the sixth floor.
Harry Van Nuys was waiting for them at the door of 618.
Mason had an opportunity to size up the man as slender fingers clasped about Mason’s. “Mr. Mason, I believe,” Van Nuys exclaimed cordially. “And is this Mrs. Mason?”
“Miss Street.”
“Oh — I beg pardon. Do come in, both of you. You’ll excuse the appearance of the room. I was hardly expecting visitors and things are somewhat littered around. Do take that chair, Miss Street, you’ll find it very comfortable. I’ll get the magazines and newspapers out of it.”
The voice was suave, pleasant, well modulated and expressive.
The restless eyes were so black that it was hard to detect expression in them, but his voice more than made up for it. Here was no man who talked in a conversational monotone, but one whose every word seemed alive with expression. His motions as he moved about straightening up the room were graceful, well-timed and effective.
Mason asked jokingly, “Are you this hospitable to all your visitors? We might be selling books or soliciting for charitable donations, you know.”
Van Nuys smiled cordially. “What if you are, Mr. Mason? You have taken the trouble to come and see me at a rather unconventional hour. I take it that any errand which is important enough to cause that sacrifice of time on your part certainly entitles you to my courteous attention. I’m in the selling game myself, and I always claim anyone is entitled to a respectful hearing.”
“Well,” Mason admitted, “that’s one way of looking at it. You don’t know who I am — what I do?”