“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know what we’re up against yet. What about that woman in the room?”
“What about her?”
“Was she really frightened or acting?”
“Her hand was shaking and the gun was wobbling.”
“When she came out, all she had on were a bra and panties?”
“Yes.”
“Good-looking?”
“Her figure was all there.”
“Yet she didn’t seem embarrassed?”
“She was frightened.”
“There’s a difference. Was she embarrassed?”
“I... I would say just frightened. She didn’t try to... to cover up.”
“How old?”
“Probably late twenties.”
“Blond, brunette or redheaded?”
“She had a towel wrapped around her head. All I could see was from the neck down — and I mean all.”
“Eyes?”
“I couldn’t see well enough to tell.”
“Rings?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Where did she get the gun?”
“Apparently out of the desk.”
“And after that?”
“She acted as though she thought I was going to assault her or something. She wanted to give me all of her money, and begged me not to hurt her.”
“Did her voice sound like Rosalind’s voice over the telephone?”
“No. This mud pack seemed to have hardened. Her lips couldn’t move well. You know how those mud packs act. Her talk was thick — like a person talking while asleep. Rosalind’s voice was different.
“I’ve heard Rosalind’s voice before. I have the feeling that I’ve heard it quite a few times. It wasn’t her voice so much as the spacing of the words, the tempo.”
“You don’t think this girl in the hotel was Rosalind?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything.”
“Wait here until you hear from me,” Mason said. He nodded to die detective. “Let’s go, Paul.”
Mason crossed the office, held the door open.
“My car or yours?” Drake asked, as they waited for the elevator.
“Mine,” Mason said. “It’s out here.”
“You scare me to death in traffic,” Drake told him.
Mason smiled. “No more. When John Talmage was. Traffic Editor of the Deseret News, he followed all my cases and took me to task for the way I drove. He cited a few statistics.”
“Cure you?” Drake asked.
“Made a Christian of me,” Mason admitted. “Watch and see.”
“I’m skeptical but willing to be convinced,” Paul told him.
Mason, carefully complying with all traffic regulations, drove to the Redfern Hotel and found a parking place.
“Going to identify yourself?” Drake asked.
Mason shook his head. “I’ll keep in the background. You’ll go to the desk, ask if there are any messages for Mr. Boswell.”
Drake raised his eyebrows.
“In that way,” Mason said, “we’ll find out if the clerk remembers Conway coming in and asking the same question. If he does, he’ll look at you suspiciously and start asking questions. Then you can identify yourself and we’ll start from there.”
“And if he doesn’t remember?” Drake asked.
“Then,” Mason said, “you talk with him long enough for him to remember your face. Then if anyone asks him to identify the person who came to the desk and inquired for messages for Boswell, he’ll be confused on the identification.”
“Suppose there’s a Boswell registered in the hotel. Then what do we do?”
“We first go to the room phones, say we want to speak with Gerald Boswell. Find out if he’s registered. If he isn’t, we go up to 729 and look around.”
“For what?”
“Perhaps we’ll find the girl under that mud pack.”
The two men entered the Redfern Hotel and went to the house phones. Mason first asked for Gerald Boswell and was told he was in Room 729. There was no answer.
“Go on, Paul,” Mason said, handing him the key.
Paul Drake walked to the desk, stood there quietly.
The clerk looked up from some bookkeeping he was doing, came over to the counter.
“Messages for Boswell?” Drake asked.
“What’s the first name?”
“Gerald.”
The clerk moved over to the pigeonholes, picked out a stack of envelopes from the one marked “B,” and started flipping them over.
Abruptly he stopped, looked up at Paul Drake, said, “You were in here earlier, weren’t you, Mr. Boswell? Didn’t I give you an envelope?”
Drake grinned. “Let’s put it this way: I’m looking for a recent message.”
“I’m quite certain there isn’t any,” the clerk said. “I gave you that— Or was it you?”
Drake said casually, “That envelope. What’s come in since?”
“Nothing!”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Look it over again and make certain.”
The clerk looked through the file, then regarded Drake dubiously. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Boswell, but do you have any means of identification?”
“Sure,” Drake said.
“May I see it?”
Drake took the key to 729 from his pocket and tossed it on the counter in front of the clerk.
“729,” the clerk said.
“Right,” Drake said.
The clerk moved over to the directory of guests, looked under 729, then became apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Boswell. I was just making certain, that’s all. If any recent messages came in, they would be in the key box. There’s nothing... You didn’t have anyone else come in this evening and ask for messages, did you?”
“Me?” Drake asked in surprise.
The clerk nodded.
“Don’t be silly,” Drake told him. “I’m able to get around. I take my own messages.”
“And I gave you a letter earlier?”
“There was a message in a brown manila envelope,” Drake said.
The clerk’s face showed relief. “I was afraid for a minute that I’d given it to the wrong party. Thank you very much.”
“Not at all,” Drake said and, picking up his key, moved over to the elevator.
Mason moved over to join him.
The girl in the elevator was reading her paperbacked novel. The picture on the cover depicted a good-looking woman in panties and bra, engaged in casual conversation with a man in evening clothes. The title was No Smog Tomorrow.
The elevator girl didn’t look up. As Mason and Drake entered, and as the cage moved under their added weight, the operator closed the book, holding her forefinger to mark the page.
“Floor?” she asked.
“Seven,” Drake said.
She started chewing gum as though the book had been sufficiently absorbing to make her forget about the gum.
“What’s your book?” Drake asked.
“A novel,” she said shortly, looking up for the first time.
“Looks spicy,” Drake said.
“Any law against my reading what I want?”
“None,” Drake said.
“You can buy it yourself at the newsstand for twenty-five cents, in case you’re interested.”
“I’m interested,” Drake told her.
She flashed him a quick glance.
“But not twenty-five cents’ worth,” the detective added.
She diverted her eyes, pouted, jerked the cage to a stop, said, “Seventh floor.”
Mason and Paul Drake walked out and down the corridor.
The girl held the cage at the seventh floor. The mirror on the side of the elevator shaft showed her eyes as she watched the two men walking down the corridor.
“Go right to 729?” Drake asked Mason in a low voice. “She’s watching.”
“Sure,” Mason said.
“She’s interested.”
“So much the better.”