Della Street said, “The pilot’s all ready.”
Mason and Della Street hurried over to the twin-engine charter plane.
Mason said to the pilot, “We want to go to Las Vegas. You can wait for us there. We’ll be coming back tonight. Everything okay?”
“Roger,” the pilot said.
They fastened their seat belts, the motors revved up, and the pilot, getting clearance from the tower, swept down the runway into the air and after climbing to elevation set a course for Las Vegas.
The sun, low in the west, illuminated the mountains as they flew high over the cities in the valley. They encountered turbulence over the mountains and leaving the timbered peaks behind, flew high over ‘the purple shadows of the desert.
It was dark by the time they landed in Las Vegas.
“You wait,” Mason said. “I’m sorry I can’t give you any definite time of departure. It’ll be more than an hour and it may be longer, but have it all gassed up and ready to go.”
“Will do,” the pilot said. “I’d like to start before midnight, if possible.”
“Flying difficulties?” Mason asked.
“Marital difficulties,” the pilot said. “My wife takes a dim view of these trips to Las Vegas — if I don’t get back before morning.”
“Get many such trips?” Mason asked.
“Well, it depends,” the pilot said, grinning. “From my viewpoint, I don’t get enough. From the wife’s viewpoint I get a lot too many.”
“We’ll let you know,” Mason said, “as soon as we know. But I feel certain we’ll be underway before midnight.”
A taxicab took them to 721 Northwest Firston Avenue.
As Mason had surmised, it was an apartment house.
He looked at the directory, found the name Adelle S. Hastings, and rang the bell.
There was no answer.
“Now what?” Della Street asked.
Mason said, “Under the circumstances I think we’re justified in just trying the keys.”
Della Street said uneasily, “I feel that we should have some sort of an official status here. How about calling the police — just asking them to stand by?”
Mason shook his head. “Not yet, Della. Our client— Well, when you come right down to it, she isn’t a client but we are protecting her to the best of our ability anyway.”
“Protecting her from what?” Della Street asked.
“That,” Mason said, “is one of the things we’re trying to find out. We may be protecting her from herself.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“I don’t know.”
Mason opened his brief case, took out the two key containers, started fitting keys to the outer door of the apartment house.
Key after key proved unavailing.
“Looks like we’ve drawn a blank,” Della Street said.
“We have one last one,” Mason said.
He inserted the key and the lock clicked back.
“Well,” Mason said, “this seems to be it.”
Della Street hesitated as Mason held the door of the apartment house open for her.
“Go on,” the lawyer told her, “it’s Apartment 289.”
“But why go up?” Della Street said. “We know now that the key fits. We know it’s her purse. We know she isn’t home and—”
“How do we know she isn’t home?” Mason asked.
“Because she doesn’t answer the doorbell.”
Mason said, “She might not care to have visitors or she might not be able to answer the doorbell.”
Della Street thought that over for a moment, then marched through the open door and down the corridor to the elevator.
They took the elevator to the second floor, found Apartment 289, and Mason pressed the mother-of-pearl button by the side of the door. They heard chimes on the inside but there was no sound of answering motion from within the apartment.
Mason tapped on the door with his knuckles.
After a moment the lawyer said, “Della, I know how irregular this is, but I’m going in. Perhaps you’d better wait here.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m just going to make sure that there isn’t a body in there.”
“You mean hers?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “Those two bullets that had been fired from that revolver must have hit something.”
The lawyer, using the same key which had fit the lock on the outside door, clicked back the latch lock and opened the door. He groped for and found the light switch. He turned on the lights.
It was apparently a three-room apartment with the living room in front, a door on the side evidently opening into a bedroom, while another door — which was standing open — disclosed a small kitchen. Apparently the apartment had been rented furnished but was considerably above the average run of furnished apartments rented to persons who came to Nevada to take up a brief residence, secure a divorce and then leave.
“Well,” Mason said, “so far no bodies — and very little indicating the personality of the occupant.
“There are a few books over there and the usual run of magazines on the table — an ash tray with two cigarette stubs in it and one glass with— The devil!”
“What?” Della Street exclaimed, at the tone of Mason’s voice.
Mason pointed to the glass. “Ice cubes,” he said.
“Good heavens! Then somebody has been here and—”
The door from the bedroom opened. A woman wearing a bathing cap with a robe draped around her stood looking at them with indignant eyes.
“Go right ahead,” she said. “Make yourself right at home! Don’t mind me.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Mason said, “but I had no idea you were home. I knocked and rang the bell. I telephoned you earlier in the day and had no answer.”
“I’ve been in Los Angeles all day,” she said. “Now will you kindly tell me who you are, how you got in and what you want, or shall I call the police?”
Mason said, “I’m Perry Mason, an attorney in Los Angeles. Why didn’t you return to my office?”
“Return to your office?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She said, “I’ve never been in your office in my life and I have an idea that you’re not a lawyer at all. Who’s that with you?”
“Miss Della Street, my secretary,” Mason said.
“How did you get in?”
“We used your key,” Mason said.
“What do you mean, my key?”
“Exactly what I said. You left your key in my office — together with some other things.”
She said, “If you don’t get out of here I’m going to—”
Abruptly she turned and raced into the bedroom, leaving the bedroom door open.
Mason saw her whip open a drawer in a bed-stand, then plunge her hand inside, grope around for a moment, then turn back to the door with an expression of amazement on her face.
She whirled and picked up a telephone by the side of the bed.
“I think I’d better get the police after all,” she said.
“Wait a minute,” Mason told her, “are you quite sure you want the police?”
“Why not?”
Mason said, “You left your handbag in my office, you know. There were quite a few things in it.”
“My handbag in your office?”
“Yes. Didn’t you miss it?”
Slowly she lowered her hand and dropped the telephone back into its cradle.
“Now,” she said, “I think you had better start talking.”
Mason said, “I think you’d better take the initiative, Mrs. Hastings. I can assure you that I’m here because I was trying to help you. I was very much concerned about you when you didn’t return to my office and I found that you had left your handbag, your purse, driving licenses, keys and... that other thing.”