“How come?” Mason asked.
“I rang the unlisted phone in your apartment, no answer. I rang Paul and he said you were out on a hot lead. I thought I’d come up and see if you needed anything.”
“Good girl,” Mason told her. “We’re working on something hot.”
“What is it?”
“Robert Selkirk. The way things look now, his mother and his stepfather left him alone while they went to the airport to meet Norda Allison. Robert was sleeping in a tent in the patio. It’s beginning to look as though Robert got frightened, sneaked into the house, took possession of that .22 Colt Woodsman, then went back to bed in his tent in the patio. Sometime in the night he was aroused by someone prowling around. That just could have been Mervin Selkirk who was engaged in planting that printing press in the Jennings’ storeroom.
“Evidently the dog they keep knew Mervin Selkirk well enough so he let Selkirk prowl around the place as a friend. Whoever it was, it was someone the dog knew.
“Robert got frightened and took a shot in the dark. That shot probably hit the boy’s father. He left a blood trail all the way to his automobile, drove to the country club and died before he could get out of the car.
“Barton Jennings was supposed to take Robert to this camping expedition where the boys were going with their dogs. So he was able to ditch the dog somewhere, probably at a boarding kennel, and take Robert up to another baby sitter the boy knew. He did all that before five o’clock in the morning.”
“Good heavens,” Della Street said, “you mean the boy killed his own father?”
“It was an accident,” Mason said. “Now then, Barton Jennings is giving the boy a good brain-washing. He’s making Robert think it was all a nightmare, some hideous dream that he had in which he dreamed that he had pulled the trigger on the gun.
“In order to keep the boy from being called as a witness, they’re trying to spirit him out of the country. By the time anyone can get the boy back as a witness, the kid will be convinced he may have had a nightmare but that he didn’t actually pull the trigger on the gun.”
Della Street watched Mason for a moment with thoughtful eyes. “So what do you do?” she asked.
Mason said, “I block the attempt. I get hold of the boy before his brain has been washed, and...” Suddenly his voice trailed off into silence.
“Exactly,” Della Street said. “What’s it going to do to a seven-year-old boy if he believes that he has killed his father?”
Mason started pacing the floor. “Hang it, Della,” he said, “my duty is to my client. I can’t sit back and let a client take a murder rap simply to spare the feelings of a seven-year-old boy... And yet I can’t have that seven-year-old boy dragged up in front of the authorities.”
“As far as that’s concerned, how are we going to prove our contention once we get him picked up?” Della Street asked.
Mason paced the floor, saying nothing.
“Can’t you,” she asked, “use the knowledge you have so you can drop a monkey wrench in the prosecutor’s machinery and get Norda Allison acquitted without dragging the boy into it?”
“I’m darned if I know,” Mason admitted, and then added, grinning, “of course, you would look at it from a woman’s viewpoint and want to protect the child regardless of anything else.”
“It’s the right viewpoint,” Della Street said.
“Come on,” Mason said, changing the subject, “let’s go down to Paul Drake’s office and see what he’s discovered.”
He held the door open and the two of them walked down the echoing corridor of the deserted building to enter the offices of the Drake Detective Agency. Mason waved a greeting to the girl who was busy at the switchboard, held the gate open for Della Street and they walked down to Drake’s office.
Drake was just hanging up one of his telephones as Mason and Della Street entered the office. Smithy was sitting in a corner of the office, scribbling in a notebook.
Drake said, “Well, we’ve traced your taxicab, Perry, we were lucky. One of my operatives picked up the trip on the dispatcher’s records and managed to interview the driver. He was particularly impressed with the little boy. It happens he has a kid of his own and the youngster made quite an impression.
“Here’s what happened: On the trip out to the airport the woman was telling the boy about going to Mexico City, all about Mexico and something about the history of Mexico City. She told him he’d see the famous Calendar Stone in the museum and quite a few things of that sort. The boy seemed to have something on his mind and she kept up quite a steady stream of conversation.
“They were going to take an American Airlines plane to Dallas and then from Dallas to Mexico City. He took them to the American Airlines.
“Now here’s a peculiar thing. They never got on that plane.”
“What plane?”
“The one on which they had reservations. Reservations had been made over the telephone for Mrs. Hallum and son. The reservations were confirmed all the way to Mexico City. They were told they would have to pick up their tickets thirty minutes before plane time and they promised to be there. They never showed up.
“The airlines felt certain there had been some unexpected delay in transportation to the airport and actually didn’t sell out the reservations until the last minute. Then about five minutes before time of departure they had a couple of stand-bys and they put the stand-bys aboard the plane and wired Dallas to cancel the two tickets on the Mexico City flight unless other information was received.”
“Then what happened to the woman and the child?” Mason asked. “Was it just an elaborate plant to throw us off the trail?”
“It could have been,” Drake said, “but somehow I’m not so certain.”
“Wasn’t it unusual for the woman to be talking so much about Mexico City in the taxicab?” Della Street asked. “Wouldn’t that indicate it was a plant?”
“It might,” Drake said, “but the taxi driver felt certain it was on the up and up. Those taxi drivers get to handle a lot of people and become pretty darn good judges of human nature.”
Mason nodded.
“Well,” Drake asked, “what do we do?”
“Cover all the other airline offices,” Mason said, “and see if the pair switched to another airline, and—”
“That’s being done,” Drake said, “but it’s quite a job. I thought you’d want to know about the taxi driver right away.”
Mason nodded.
One of the telephones on Drake’s desk rang sharply. Drake picked up the receiver, said, “Paul Drake talking,” then frowned in thoughtful concentration as the receiver made a series of squawking noises which were audible throughout the room.
“Okay,” he said, “that’s a lead. Stay with it. Have you got a description of that man?”
Again Drake listened and then said, “See what you can do.”
He hung up the phone, turned to Mason and Della Street and said, “Well, part of the mystery is clearing up.
“One of my operatives scouting for leads around the place found that a porter remembered the woman and the boy. He took their baggage to the weighing-in scales at the American Airlines desk. The woman and the boy went up to the ticket counter, then two men came up and talked with the woman — one man did most of the talking. He had an air of authority. Then they took the two suitcases off the weighing scales, and the two men, the woman and the boy walked out toward the curb.
“The porter didn’t know what happened after that. He was hanging around because he expected a tip for handling the baggage and no one offered to tip him. Naturally he remembered the transaction.”
“The devil!” Mason exclaimed.
“Police?” Smith asked.