“Do you mean she’s paid him money to...”
“Not yet,” Mason said. “He’s still here. Once he gets the dough, he’ll get out. He may be closing the deal but he hasn’t got it completely closed — not yet. I presume there was some legal red tape to unwind before Lois got that inheritance. Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She went out.”
“I want to talk to her just as soon as she comes in.”
Witherspoon said, “If that man tries to blackmail Lois, I’ll...”
Mason interrupted him. “Take a lawyer’s advice, Witherspoon, and quit that habit of mentioning the things you’ll do... It looks as though Milter were the key to the whole business. I’m going to have an interview with Mr. Milter. When I get done with him, he’ll be sneaking out of town with his tail between his legs.”
“I’ll go along with you,” Witherspoon said. “When I think of Lois getting into the clutches of a blackmailer... I’m going to see him.”
“Not with me, you aren’t. There won’t be any witnesses to this interview. You don’t wear kid gloves when you’re dealing with a blackmailer. Della, stay here and hold the fort. If Paul Drake telephones any information, make a note of it.”
“How about that girl from the detective agency?” Della Street asked. “She was on her way down here on the bus, and...”
Mason looked at his watch. “She should have arrived — unless the bus was late. That’s fine! I’ll have a chance to talk to both of them together.”
Witherspoon darted out of the door. “The dogs,” he said. “Wait here a few seconds, until I can get those damn dogs tied up.”
Mason looked at his watch. “That bus should be here by now — won’t that blonde be glad to see me come walking in!”
Chapter 9
Mason sent his car skimming along the desert highway. The lights of El Templo showed as a halo beneath steady, unwinking stars. The speedometer needle quivered around the seventy mark.
An irregularity in the road sent the car into a slight sway. Mason straightened it out and slowed his speed. Again a slight dip in the road swung the rear end over. This time, after Mason straightened the car out, he slowed to thirty miles an hour, deliberately twisted the wheel.
The rear of the car gave a wide swing.
Mason took his foot off the throttle, was careful not to use the brakes, swung over to the side of the road. Just before he reached the shoulder, he heard the unmistakable thump-ker-thumpety-thump, thump-ker-thumpety-thump of a flat tire.
It was the right rear tire. Mason looked at it ruefully, took off his coat, folded it, and tossed it on the back of the front seat. He rolled up his sleeves, removed the ignition key from the lock, took a flashlight from the glove compartment, and walked to the rear of the car, where he unlocked and opened the trunk. His suitcases, as well as those of Della Street, were in the trunk. He had to remove them, and then rummage around, finding the tools with which to make the tire change. With the aid of his flashlight, he assembled the bumper jack, got it into place, and started jacking the car up.
He saw headlights in the distance behind him, headlights that came swooping down the long, straight stretch of road at high speed.
As Mason raised the car so the flat tire was clearing the ground, he heard the whine of the tires on the other car, the sound of the motor; then, with a roar, the car swept on past, the current of wind created by its passage causing the jacked-up car to sway slightly on its springs. Mason watched the tail light vanishing into the distance at a rate of speed which he estimated must have been around eighty.
Mason got out the lug wrench, pried off the hub cap, got off the flat tire, and dragged the spare tire out from the trunk.
He rolled the wheel into position, lifted it, got it fitted on the lugs, and completed the chore of carefully tightening them and put the hub cap back into position. Then he released the jack, got the tools back into the trunk, and then had to replace the various bags and suitcases before he could get under way once more.
He found the address he wanted without much difficulty. Milter had not even bothered to assume an alias, but a printed section torn from a business card and placed in the little holder over the doorbell said simply, “Leslie L. Milter.”
Mason rang the doorbell twice. There was no response. He pounded on the door.
He heard the sound of steps on the stairs to his left. The door opened. A young, attractive brunette in a rakish hat and glossy fur coat started across the porch, saw him standing there, hesitated a moment, then turned for a frankly curious appraisal.
The lawyer smiled and raised his hat.
She answered his smile. “I don’t think he’s in.”
“You haven’t any idea where I might find him?”
“No. I haven’t.” She laughed slightly and said, “I hardly know him. I have the apartment which adjoins his. Several people have been in to see him tonight — quite a procession. You weren’t — didn’t have an appointment?”
Mason reached a prompt decision. “If he isn’t home,” he said, “there’s no use of my waiting.” He peered at the name card on her doorbell. “You must be Miss Alberta Cromwell — if, as you say, you live in the adjoining apartment. I have a car here, Miss Cromwell, perhaps I can drop you somewhere?”
“No, thanks. It’s only a block to the main street.”
Mason said, “I rather expected Mr. Milter to be home. I understood he was expecting someone to call, that he had an appointment.”
Her eyes flashed a quick glance at him. “A young lady?”
Mason said cautiously, “I wouldn’t know. I only understood that he had an appointment and that I would find him at home.”
“I think there was a young woman called, and I saw a man leaving the house shortly before you came up. I thought at first the man had rung my bell. I was in the kitchen with some water running, and I certainly thought I heard my bell ring.”
She laughed, an embarrassed little laugh which showed how nervous she was.
“I pressed the buzzer for my visitor to come up. Nothing happened, and then I heard steps on the stairs which went to Mr. Milter’s apartment, so I guess it wasn’t my bell at all.”
“Long ago?”
“No. Within the last fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Do you know how long this visitor stayed?”
She laughed and said, “My, you talk as though you were a detective — or a lawyer. You don’t know who this girl was, do you?”
“I just happen to be very interested in Mr. Milter.”
“Why?”
“Do you know anything about him?”
She waited for a perceptible interval before answering that question. “Not very much.”
“I understand he used to be a detective.”
“Oh, did he?”
“I wanted to talk with him about a case on which he’d worked.”
“Oh.”
The young woman hesitated. “Something he’d been working on recently?” she asked.
Mason met her eyes. “Yes.”
She laughed suddenly and said, “Well, I’ve got to be getting on up to town. Sorry I can’t help you. Good night.”
Mason raised his hat and watched her walk away.
From a telephone booth in a drugstore Mason called Witherspoon’s house and asked for Della Street. When he had her on the line, he said, “Anything new from Paul Drake, Della?”
“Yes. Drake’s operative telephoned.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the bus had got in right on time, that the girl had got off and gone directly to Milter’s apartment. She had a key.”