“We fooled them by going right on through and jumping in a cab. There’s a good chance they didn’t even see us take the cab. If they did, they didn’t have a chance to follow us because there’s no one on our tail now, and they certainly don’t have these cabs bugged so they can be followed by electronics — it is, of course, taking a chance but it’s a chance worth taking. If we hit anything, we hit the jackpot. If we lose out, we’re out the price of one taxi trip and we can go back and sit in the cocktail lounge for an hour or so, and then lead Horace Livermore Selkirk’s spies back to the office.”
“They’ll tell him we took a taxi ride?” Della Street asked.
Mason shook his head. “They won’t be certain just what we did. Therefore, they’ll simply state, ‘Subjects parked their car, entered the hotel, went into the cocktail lounge and emerged two hours later to get in their car and drive to the office.’
“Later on, if it should appear that the point was important, they would say, ‘Why, yes, we missed them for half an hour or so but we assumed they were around the hotel somewhere because their car was there so we didn’t consider the matter worthwhile reporting.’ On a shadow job of that kind, you can’t stand right at the subject’s elbow all the time.
“Turn off up here at the right,” Mason said to the cab driver after some ten minutes.
“That road doesn’t go anywhere,” the cab driver said, “except up to some private property. There’s a gate—”
“I know,” Mason told him, “but I’m expecting a person to meet me... slow down... slow down, cabbie. Get over to the side of the road and take it easy.”
Mason nudged Della Street as a cab came down the road headed toward them. The cab passed them and they got a glimpse of a woman and a boy in the back seat.
Mason said to the cab driver, “I think that’s the couple we want but I can’t be certain of it until I get a closer look. Turn around and follow that cab. Let’s see if we can get a closer look and find out where they’re going.”
“Say, what is this?” the cab driver asked.
“It’s all right,” Mason told him, “you’re driving a cab.”
“That’s all I’m doing. I’m not mixing in any rough stuff,” the driver said.
“Neither am I,” Mason assured him. “Just keep that cab in sight. I want to find out where it goes. If you’re really interested, I’m getting evidence in a divorce case. Here’s twenty bucks. Any time you don’t like the job, quit it, but when you get finished, if you make a good job of it, you get another twenty on top of this. Now are you satisfied?”
“I’m satisfied,” the driver said, and accelerated the car.
“Not too fast,” Mason warned. “I don’t want them to get nervous.”
“They’re looking straight ahead,” the driver said, “but the cabbie up front will spot me. A good cab driver keeps his eye on the rearview mirror from time to time.”
“Fix it so he doesn’t notice you,” Mason said. “Don’t drive at a regular distance behind him. Where there’s not much chance he’s going to turn off, drop way behind, then close the gap when you get into traffic.”
The driver handled the car skillfully, keeping some distance behind the car in front until traffic thickened, then moving up and, from time to time, changing lanes so that the relative position of the two cars varied.
The cab ahead eventually came to a stop at a relatively small hotel. The woman and the child got out. The cab driver lifted out suitcases.
“Around the block and stop,” Mason told the driver, handing him another twenty-dollar bill.
As soon as the cab rounded the corner, Mason had the door open. Della Street jumped out and the two hurried around the corner and into the hotel.
The well-tailored blond had just finished registering as Mason and Della Street approached the desk.
The clerk smacked his palm down on a call bell, said, “Front!.. take Mrs. Halton to 619.”
Mason approached the desk. “Do you have a J. C. Endicott in the house?” he asked the clerk.
The clerk frowned at him impatiently and motioned toward the room phone. “Ask the operator,” he said.
Mason went to the room phone, picked up the receiver, said to the operator, “Do you have a Mr. J. C. Endicott in the house?”
“From where?” the operator asked.
“New York,” Mason said.
There was a moment of silence; then she said, “I’m sorry. He doesn’t seem to be registered.”
“Thank you. That’s all right,” Mason said.
The lawyer hung up the telephone and walked across to where Della Street was waiting within earshot of the clerk.
“He’s in,” Mason told her. “He says for us to come right up. Boy, it’s sure going to seem good to see good old Jim and hear all about that hunting trip.”
He led Della Street to the elevators, said, “Seventh floor, please,” and then after the cage came to a stop, led Della Street to the stair door. They opened the door, walked down one flight to the sixth floor.
The bellboy who had taken the woman and the boy up to 619 was just getting aboard the elevator on the way down when Mason and Della Street entered the sixth floor hallway. They walked down to 619 and Mason tapped on the door.
“Say it’s the maid with soap and towels,” Mason said to Della Street in a whisper.
After a moment of silence, a woman’s voice on the other side of the door said, “Who is it, please?”
“Maid, with soap and towels,” Della Street said in a bored voice.
The door was unlocked and opened.
Della Street walked in, followed by Perry Mason.
They found themselves in a two-bedroom suite with a central parlor and two bedrooms.
Mason kicked the door shut and turned the bolt.
The tall blonde moved back, her eyes wide with alarm, alarm.
“Sit down, Mrs. Hallum,” Mason said. “You’re not going to get hurt if you tell the truth. Why didn’t you go to Mexico City the way you were supposed to?”
“I... I... Who are you? What do you want? And—”
“I want to know why you didn’t go to Mexico City,” Mason said.
She bit her lip. “I suppose you’re representing Mrs. Jennings. I... well... I’ve been wondering if what I did was right, but...”
“Go ahead,” Mason said.
“I don’t know as I should tell it to you.”
“Want to talk with the police?” Mason asked, moving toward the telephone.
“No. Heavens, no! That’s the one thing we must avoid at all costs.”
“All right,” Mason told her. “Talk to me.”
He turned to Della Street who had taken a shorthand notebook from her purse. “Sit over at that table,” he said. “Take down what she says. All right, Mrs. Hallum, let’s have it.”
She walked through to the connecting room, said, “Robert, you stay in there for a little while. Just sit down and wait until I come for you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Robert said politely.
Mrs. Hallum came back and closed the door.
“Just what is it you want to know?” she asked.
Mason said, “You were supposed to take Robert to Mexico City. You didn’t do it. Why?”
“Because his grandfather told me I’d be arrested if I did.”
“And what did you do?”
“I accompanied him to his house up on the hill, then a short time ago he told me that I had to leave, that I was to go to this hotel, that rooms had been arranged for me.”
“And why were you to take Robert to Mexico City?” Mason asked.
“Because,” she said, “Robert...”
“Go on,” Mason said.
“Robert may have killed his father,” she said.
“And they want to keep Robert from finding that out?”
“They want to protect Robert until there can be a more complete investigation. Robert knows he shot somebody. It’s a horrible thought for a child to have in his mind. He hasn’t been told that his father is dead.”