“When she arrived there something happened to keep her from returning to the office.
“Now then, the question is: Did she leave her purse purposely or accidentally?”
“Why would she leave it purposely?”
“Because,” Mason said, “it had that gun in it. She didn’t want to be carrying that purse around with her any more than necessary. She intended to come right back. She told Gertie she’d be back within a matter of five minutes.
“If she wanted to get something out of her car, she probably wanted to tip the attendant. She took along probably a fifty-cent piece and the parking receipt, intending to tip the attendant. Then something happened that caused her to change her plans.”
Mason was thoughtfully silent, then said, “Della, give Paul Drake a ring. See if he’s left his office. If he hasn’t, ask him to come down here right away. I’ve got a job for him.”
“How about all this?” Della Street asked, indicating the contents of the purse which had been arranged on Mason’s desk.
Mason opened a drawer of his desk. Picking the gun up with his handkerchief, he dropped it into the drawer. The other articles he returned to the purse.
Della rang Paul Drake at the Drake Detective Agency, talked briefly, then hung up and said to Perry Mason, “He was just leaving the office. I caught him at the door. He said he’d be right down.”
A moment later Drake’s code knock sounded on the exit door of Mason’s private office and Della Street opened it.
“That’s the worst of having a detective agency on the same floor as your clients,” Drake said. “You never get away... Now look, Perry, I hope this isn’t a big job. I’ve got something I want to do tonight.”
Drake moved over to the client’s big overstuffed chair, draped himself over the rounded leather arm and grinned at the lawyer.
Mason said, “This is a detective job that I want done fast. I should have had it done two or three hours earlier. I hope I’m not too late.”
Paul Drake, tall, loose-jointed, shock-proofed against any surprise, slid back into the chair, his long legs off the rounded arm, He reached for a cigarette. His manner was completely relaxed.
“Shoot,” he said.
Mason said, “You’re pretty well known down at the parking lot next door, Paul?”
“I should be,” Drake said, grinning. “I’ve kept my car there for seven years.”
Mason said, “So have I. That’s the reason I can’t do this myself. As a detective you have the right to probe around without people asking too many questions. I’d attract too much attention.”
“What do you want me to do?” Drake asked.
Mason said, “Go down to that parking lot, Paul. Cover every automobile that’s left in it. Look for Nevada license plates. Whenever you find a car with Nevada license plates write down the license number and look to see if there is a registration certificate on the steering post of the car. If there is, get the owner’s name but get the license numbers of every Nevada automobile that’s in that parking lot.”
“Right now?” Drake asked.
“Right now!” Mason said. “I should have been smart and had it done three hours ago.”
Drake gave him a quizzical look, then slid his tall frame to an upright position and without a word walked out of the door.
“Charter service?” Della Street asked.
“We’ll wait on Paul Drake,” Mason said. “If her car’s down there, we’ll start looking at this end.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“We fly to Las Vegas.”
“Do we eat first?”
“We eat afterwards,” Mason said, “unless you want a hamburger or a hot dog to tide you over.”
Della Street moved over to the telephone, called the restaurant and lunch counter which occupied one corner of the parking lot.
“Can you,” she asked, “prepare two hamburger sandwiches which we can pick up in about twenty minutes? This is Della Street, Perry Mason’s secretary... That’s right. Mr. Mason wants his with lots of onion and relish. I like mine with lots of relish and not quite so much onion. Start on them right away, please.”
Della Street hung up the phone.
Mason looked at his watch, grinned, said, “What about Paul, Della?”
“Paul,” Della said, “has something on for tonight. He’ll probably dine on filet mignon, baked potato, French-fried onions and a nice salad, all washed down with a bottle of vintage wine.
“And,” she continued, “if you give him an opportunity, he’ll charge the whole business on the expense account and hand you the bill.”
Within fifteen minutes Drake’s code knock sounded on the door. Della Street opened it, and Drake, coming in, said, “Only two Nevada licenses in the parking lot, Perry.”
“Find out who owns the cars?”
“There are no registration certificates. One of the licenses is ATK 205. I asked a few questions and got the parking lot attendant to tell me how long the car had been there. The car’s been parked there six hours.
“The other car has license number SFU 804. It’s been there for eight hours.”
Mason nodded to Della Street. “All right, Paul, get in touch with the Nevada police. I want a run-down on those license numbers. Then get in touch with your correspondents in the proper cities in Nevada and get a line on the people who own the cars. I want just the general back ground, nothing too detailed at present. So far I’m doing this on my own, so keep the expenses somewhere within reason.”
“What do you mean, within reason?”
“Well,” Mason said, “Della was pointing out that you probably were on your way to keep date, that you’d dine on filet mignon with all the fixings, washed down with a bottle of vintage wine, and the whole thing would be on the expense account.”
“Not if I’m going to be sitting on a telephone,” Drake said.
“You don’t have to,” Mason told him. “Ring up the Nevada police. Get the names of the owners of the cars and their addresses. I’ll telephone you in about thirty-five or forty minutes. You should be able to have the information by that time. Then get your correspondents working on the case and go out to dinner. By the time they dig out the information and telephone it in, you’ll be back in your office.”
“And dinner’s on the expense account?”
“I reckon.”
Drake grinned. “This is a break! Usually, when I’m on one of your cases, I wind up having a soggy hamburger for dinner with sodium bicarbonate for dessert... I’m on my way.”
Mason nodded to Della Street.
They hurried down to the restaurant where Della picked up the hamburgers, which they ate on their way to the airport.
Chapter Three
From the airport Mason telephoned Paul Drake. “Got the dope on those Nevada cars yet, Paul?”
“Just got it,” Drake said. “Car with license number ATK 205 is registered to Melina Finch, 625 Cypress Avenue, Las Vegas. License number SFU 804 is registered to Harley C. Drexel, 291 Center Street, Carson City. Got that?”
“Give it to me once more,” Mason said. “I want to check and make sure I have it right.”
Drake repeated the names and addresses, together with the license numbers.
Mason snapped his notebook shut, said, “I’ve got it. Now then, Paul, get your correspondents to check on these people.”
“I don’t have any correspondent in Carson City,” Drake said. “Reno is the nearest place. That’s thirty miles away and it’ll take a little while for my correspondents to get a man on the job.”
“Try and have it by midnight, if you can,” Mason said.
He hung up the phone.