Mason moved on through the dining room and into the living room.
Here were bookcases built in on each side of a fireplace, wide windows fronting on the porch. The drapes on these windows seemed relatively new, and Mason realized with some apprehension that while these drapes had been pulled so that they entirely covered the front windows, the material was not heavy enough to shut out all light. The beam of Mason’s flashlight would quite probably show through from the street, and the small rectangular windows placed high in the wall above the bookcases on each side of the fireplace were not curtained at all. Della Street could warn him of any approaching pedestrian, but persons in the adjoining houses would be apt to notice the traveling beam of the flashlight as it moved around the walls.
Mason’s problem was not that of an ordinary prowler. He needed his flashlight for more than mere illumination to enable him to avoid furniture. He wanted to make a detailed study of the things in that room, to segregate those things which had been furnished with the house, so that he could more fully appreciate the significance of those things which had been brought in by the tenant.
Mason hesitated only a moment. Then he walked across toward the front door and pressed the light switch.
Instantly the room was flooded with brilliance. Mason found several floor lamps, turned these on. He opened a book, placed it face down on the table. In case some curious neighbor might be peering in through those uncurtained windows above the fireplace, he removed his hat and slowed down his motions so that they would seem to be the casual moves of a legitimate tenant, rather than the hasty motions of a prowler.
An automobile driven at high speed slewed around the corner. Tires shrilled in protest as the car slid to an abrupt stop. The doorbell rang — once. Mason paused, motionless.
He heard the businesslike slam of a car door. The doorbell rang three short, sharp rings. Mason heard running steps as someone dashed past the living room, running along the cement walk toward the back of the house. Once more there were three rings, then the sound of heavy steps on the porch.
Mason, conscious of Della Street trapped on the front porch, reached an instant decision. He turned the brass knob which released the bolt on the front door, opened the door, said, “Good evening,” to his white-faced secretary who was standing on the threshold. “Was there something I could do for you?” he asked, and then, apparently for the first time, became conscious of the police car at the curb and the broad-shouldered plainclothes officer who was standing just behind Della Street.
“Good evening,” Mason said cheerfully. “Are you together?”
Della Street said quickly, “No. I am soliciting subscriptions for the Chronicle. We have a very attractive—”
“Just a minute, sister. Jus-s-s-s-t a minute!” growled the officer.
Della Street turned to survey him with hostile eyes. “Thank you,” she said acidly. “I’m trying to make a living at this, and I don’t want to see any etchings. Just because I’m unescorted doesn’t mean a thing — to you.”
Mason said, “Won’t you come in?” and to the officer, “And what can I do for you?”
The officer came pushing in on Della Street’s heels.
“Really,” Mason said with the polite indignation of an outraged householder, “My invitation was to...”
The officer threw back his coat, disclosing a badge. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
Mason let his face show startled surprise. “Why!.. That’s what I’d like to know.”
The officer said, “We’re in a radio car. A man who lives a block down the street telephoned that he heard a couple of crooks planning on cracking a joint.”
Mason looked at Della Street. “A couple,” he said. “Have you seen any couple, Miss...”
“Miss Garland.”
“Do sit down, Miss Garland. I take it you’re covering the entire block. Perhaps you’ve seen...”
“Not a couple,” she said. “But I did see a rather suspicious-looking woman. I thought she was just coming down off the porch. I was ringing the bell at the adjoining house, where there seems to be no one home, and I noticed her come up on this porch, pause for a moment, then turn around and go back down. There was a little old man walking past at the time, and I saw him looking at her as though he’d known her.”
“Up on this porch?” Mason asked.
“That’s right, but I don’t think she rang the bell. She walked up on the porch, stood there for a moment, then turned around and went back down the stairs and walked rapidly down toward the corner.”
“Which direction?” the officer asked.
“Down toward the cable car tracks,” Della Street said.
“Did you get a good look at her?”
“She was rather — well, she looked rather — well cheap,” Della Street said. “Something in the way she walked.”
The radio officer frowned, said, “Guess I’ll check up with my partner. How do you get through to the back of the house?”
“This way,” Mason said, walking toward the dining room. “Sit down if you will please, Miss Garland. I’ll be glad to talk with you.”
The officer said, “I can find my way okay.”
“I’ll switch on the lights for you,” Mason said, and added apologetically, “I’m batching here. Engaged in some research work. Afraid I’m not much of a housekeeper when it comes to dusting.”
The light Mason had switched on disclosed what his flashlight had failed to make plain — that the table and chairs were well covered with dust.
The officer, frowning at them, said, “You sure aren’t much on housekeeping. Don’t you eat here?”
Mason laughed. “I’m afraid I’m a typical scholar, the absentminded sort. As a matter of fact, I do most of my eating in the kitchen. And my eating is rather sketchy at that.”
The officer followed Mason on into the kitchen. As Mason switched on the lights, he could see the vague outlines of a burly figure standing on the back porch just outside the back door.
Mason said quite casually, apparently without noticing the man on the porch, “My diet is mostly milk, eggs, and things I can pick up at the delicatessen store. Incidentally, if you’d like a glass of milk, Officer, you’ll find a cold bottle in the icebox.” Mason laughed nervously and said, “I don’t know what the etiquette of the situation calls for, but in view of the fact that you’ve come to protect my property, I...”
The officer who had been looking around the kitchen, walked over to the door of the icebox, jerked it open, looked inside, took a quick mental inventory of the contents, closed the door, and said, “My partner’s out here,” and went to the back door. He opened it, said, “See anything, Jack?”
“No.”
“There was a jane up on the porch,” the first officer said, “soliciting subscriptions. She saw a girl come off this porch and walk around the corner down by the cable car tracks. Guess that was the one the fellow saw.”
“Get a description?”
“No. I’m going back to talk with her. Come on. This is my partner, Mr. — what’s your name?”
“Tragg,” Mason said. “George C. Tragg,” and then added somewhat hopefully, “I have a brother who’s on the police force in Los Angeles.”
“That so?” the officer asked, his manner undergoing a subtle change.