“Skin of my eyeteeth,” she said. “A lot of traffic. Been here long?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes. Anything new at the office?”
“No. Drake’s got a lot of men out and is picking up a few details. That must have been vile whiskey. He was taking his third Bromo-Seltzer when I ran in to tell him I was checking out for the night.”
“Didn’t tell him where you were going?”
“No.”
They settled themselves in the comfortable reclining seats of the plane. A few moments later the sign flashed on requesting that passengers cease smoking, that seat belts be fastened, and then the motors, which had been clicking away at idling speed, roared into a deep-throated song of power. The plane taxied down the field, turned into the wind. The pilot applied brakes, tested first the port, then the starboard motor, then sent the plane skimming along the smooth runway.
“Always like to watch them take off,” Mason said, looking out of the window at the ground speeding past.
“They do it so smoothly now you hardly know you’ve left the ground,” she said.
Mason made no reply. He was watching the ground as it suddenly seemed to drop away. The plane was up in the air, smoothly gliding over the roofs of houses, across a railroad track, over a busy street congested with thousands of automobiles fighting their way foot by foot through the rush hour of traffic.
The sun had just set, turning a few streamers of western cloud into long bars of ruddy gold. Down below, lights on automobiles were being turned on. Neon signs began to gleam. Then suddenly all traces of civilization dropped behind. The plane was flying over mountains covered with chaparral and mesquite. The dark shadows of the valleys and canyons were in sharp contrast with the diffused gleam of sunset light which clung to the tops of the high mountains.
Far below, an automobile road wound and twisted its devious way up the mountains. Abruptly it drifted behind. There was a stretch of sagebrush-covered mesa, then more high mountains, this time crested with great pines. Slowly, twilight drew a curtain over the landscape, and lights within the plane blotted out what little view remained.
Mason settled back in his seat, said to Della, “I always like this trip.”
“What’s it all about?” she asked.
Mason said, “After I left you, I ran into Tragg. We had a talk, and then I went out and bought some San Francisco papers.”
“What happened up at Karr’s place?” Della Street asked curiously. “Did the girl make a good impression?”
“Apparently so. At least, on everyone except the Chinese houseboy.”
“What about him?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “You can’t exactly place him. Chinese are rather inscrutable at times.”
“Did you find out anything of what it was all about?”
Mason said, “Evidently this man who was going under the name of Dow Tucker and Elston Karr had a partnership sometime in 1920 and 1921. In the latter part of 1920 a third partner was taken in. He betrayed the outfit. Tucker was evidently captured, either executed or murdered. Karr managed to escape, and evidently he had a portion of the partnership funds with him.”
“Who was the third partner?” she asked. “Anyone important?”
“Robindale E. Hocksley.”
Della Street stared at Mason in surprise. “Surely Karr didn’t admit that, did he?”
“Yes.”
“But, good heavens, if that’s the case — why, Karr’s on the spot. They’ll make him logical suspect number one.”
“Don’t overlook those fingerprints on the telephone,” Mason said. “They’re young Gentrie’s fingerprints all right. Lieutenant Tragg’s in something of a quandary.”
“And this trip is to steal a march on him?” she asked.
Mason said, “Not exactly.”
“What is it for?”
“Oh, just to look up a certain party,” Mason said.
“I suppose that means I’m not to try to worm a more definite answer out of you?”
“Don’t crowd me,” he said, smiling. “If I’m right, I want to do something spectacular. If I’m wrong, I don’t want to lose my reputation.”
“How’s Lieutenant Tragg coming?”
“Right on my tail. I’m not certain but what he may even be a couple of jumps ahead of me by morning, unless I take a short cut.”
“And this is the short cut?”
“Yes.”
Mason settled his head back against the chair cushions and closed his eyes. Della Street studied his profile for a few moments. Then she, too, settled back in her chair. Mason’s hand came over to fold over hers. “Good girl,” he said, and drifted off into dozing slumber.
The plane settled swiftly down on the San Francisco field, gliding in just over the tops of coarse brush grass to settle on the runway and taxi up to the place where passengers were scheduled to disembark. A man in dark blue, wearing a chauffeur’s cap, touched two fingers to the celluloid visor and said, “Mr. Mason?”
Mason nodded.
“The car’s ready.”
Mason said, “We’ll get in it and wait right here. Be ready to start at any minute.”
The man held the door open for them to get in.
Mason said to Della Street, “Well, I guess we have a while to wait.”
“How long?”
“Perhaps an hour, perhaps longer.”
“I suppose,” she said, “this has something to do with our lisping aviator, Rodney Wenston.”
Mason nodded.
“Did you gather the impression that he was pretty much disconcerted when that girl began to produce proofs that she was the daughter of Karr’s former partner?”
“His expression didn’t indicate that he was exactly pleased,” Mason said with a grin.
“I was watching him closely. Would her showing up with the claim which she will probably make against Karr have some effect on Wenston?”
“It might affect the size of the estate he expects to inherit eventually. If there’s any estate, and if he expects to inherit it,” Mason said, smiling. “Come on, Della, let’s move down toward this end of the field. Wait a minute. We may as well be comfortable. Here, driver. How about moving your car down toward this end of the field away from the lights, where we can sit and be comfortable?”
“Okay,” the driver said, “I can move down as far as the edge of this fence.”
“All right, go ahead. Got a radio?”
“Yes, sir. Any particular station you’d like?”
“Just a little organ music, if you can find any.”
The driver moved the car. Mason settled back to the relaxation of a cigarette. The driver, after some dial twisting, found a program in which organ music was blended with that of a steel guitar. The furrows ironed themselves from Mason’s forehead as he sat back and gave himself up to the music.
Half an hour passed. The program changed. The driver looked back at Mason for instructions. Mason said, “Try and find more organ music or some Hawaiian music. Perhaps... hold it.”
A quick change came over the lawyer’s face. He moved forward, dropping to one knee so that he could study the plane which was coming in from the south, a compact monoplane with retractable landing gear.
“Start your motor,” Mason said to the driver as the lowered wheels of the plane slid smoothly on to the cement runway.
The driver obediently stepped on the starting switch. The motor purred into life.
“Switch off the radio,” Mason said.
Della Street turned to look at Mason, then back to the plane again. The relaxation had vanished from Mason’s face. He was as tense now as a runner awaiting the starting gun.