Drake grinned. “You’re just describing human nature, Perry. What’s she done now?”
“Nothing,” Mason said. “She was very, very much attached to her brother who was in that automobile accident. He passed away early Friday morning. But up to that point our little Miss Douglas did all kinds of things, or rather didn’t do all kinds of things. She was supposed to go up to San Francisco with me on the plane, but she didn’t make it. She said she had a feeling that someone was following her.
“Ordinarily I’d have accepted that as the gospel truth, but in view of her record I’m inclined to doubt it. Anyway, Paul, we’d better get our double out of the Willatson Hotel, and then we’ll sit tight on the case for a while.”
“Can you tell me any more about it without violating ethics?” Drake asked.
Mason shook his head. “Remember, Paul, I was your client in this case and all that you found out about Diana Douglas came from the detective work you did.
“Let’s give Stella Grimes a jingle. Tell her to pack up and come on home.”
Drake picked up the telephone, said, “Call the Willatson Hotel and get Room Seven-sixty-seven for me.”
A moment later he said, “Hello, Stella. I guess the job’s over. You’d better pack up and — What’s that?... Are you sure...?
“Hold on a minute, Stella.”
Drake looked up at Mason and said, “Stella thinks there’s something funny going on. She went out to get breakfast and a man followed her. She’s pretty certain there’s a man on duty at the end of the seventh-floor corridor keeping an eye on the elevator.”
Mason looked at his watch. “Tell her we’re on our way down there, Paul.”
“Gosh, Perry, I can’t get away. I can send an operative if—”
“I can handle it,” Mason said. “I just thought you might like to go along. I’m free this morning, and if our friend Moray Cassel has got one of his little pimp friends waiting to throw a scare into the occupant of Room Seven-sixty-seven, it’ll be my great pleasure to tell the guy where he gets off.”
“Take it easy, Perry,” Drake warned. “Some of these guys are vicious.”
“I’m vicious myself,” Mason said, “when some pimp starts shoving a woman around.”
Mason left Drake’s office, said to the girl at Drake’s switchboard, “Ring my office, will you please, and tell Della Street that I’m out on an errand for an hour, that I’ll be back then.”
“An errand?” the girl at the switchboard asked. “Just that?”
“Well,” Mason said, grinning, “you can tell her it’s an errand of mercy. Also, if she gets inquisitive, tell her that I’ve had to sit in a position of command and let the troops do the fighting for so long that I’m getting rusty. I think I need to get out on the firing line myself.”
“You want me to tell her that?”
“On second thought.” Mason said, “you’d better not. Tell her that I’ll be back in an hour.”
The lawyer took the elevator to the ground floor, picked up a taxicab, gave the address of the Willatson Hotel, went up to the seventh floor, and noticed a man with a hammer and chisel doing some work at the end of the hall. Otherwise he saw no one.
The lawyer walked down to Room 767, tapped gently on the door, and said, “Oh, Diana.”
Stella Grimes opened the door. “Come in, Mr. Mason. And don’t ever give me any more assignments like this one.”
Mason said, “You mean you’re alarmed because somebody is following you?”
“Heavens, no,” she said, “I’m bored stiff. Did you ever sit in a hotel room hour after hour waiting for something to happen and nothing happens? You turn on the radio and have a choice of two stations. You listen to a lot of inane jabbering until you get tired. You move from one chair to another. You have meals served in your room, and don’t leave the phone because you’re afraid that someone may want you on something important. You don’t dare to call up anyone because you don’t want to tie the telephone line up in case the boss wants you. I’ll bet I’ve slept enough in the last two or three days to last me for a month. I went out this morning for the first time in days. The chambermaid was getting suspicious, so I phoned the office switchboard that I’d be out for forty-five minutes and went out for some air.
“Next time I hope you can give me a job that’s got some action to it.”
“Where you’ll have a chance to use your official bra?” Mason asked.
She smiled and said, “I never have had to actually use it. I’ve pulled it a couple of times when the going got tough. I...” She broke off as knuckles sounded on the door.
“Don’t tell me nothing ever happens,” Mason said. “We’re calling things off too soon. Even money that’s our friend Moray Cassel.”
“And if he finds me here again?”
“Look guilty,” Mason said. “Be the party of the second part in a surreptitious assignation... And then be very careful. The guy will want to sign you up as a part of his stable of call girls.”
Knuckles sounded heavily on the door again. Mason nodded to Stella Grimes. “It’s your room,” he said.
She crossed over and opened the door.
Two men who were standing on the threshold pushed their way into the room. They were not the same officers who had called previously.
“Is this your credit card?” one of the men said. “Did you lose it?”
He handed Stella Grimes a BankAmericard credit card, then saw Mason and said, “Who’s your friend?”
“Better ask your questions one at a time,” Stella Grimes said. “Which comes first?”
One of the men turned belligerently to Perry Mason, said, “Who are you?”
The other man kept pushing the credit card at Stella Grimes. “All right,” he said, “is it your credit card or isn’t it?”
Stella Grimes glanced at Mason, said, “This seems to be a BankAmerica credit card issued to Diana Douglas.”
“Is it yours or isn’t it?”
“I...”
“Don’t answer that,” Mason said, his voice sharp as the crack of a whip.
“Now, just a minute, Mac,” the man said. “you’re sticking your nose into a...”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, Bill,” the second man warned, “this is a lawyer. I recognize him now. This is Perry Mason.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” the man asked.
“What are you doing here?” Mason countered.
“We’re trying to find out whether this credit card is the property of this young woman.”
“A credit card made out to Diana Douglas?” Mason asked.
“That’s right. Diana Douglas.”
Mason, suddenly thoughtful, said, “If you are investigating any crime it is incumbent that you warn the suspect and tell her of her constitutional rights.”
“All right,” the man said, “we’re plain-clothes police. Homicide squad. Here are our credentials.”
He took a leather folder from his pocket, opened it, and displayed a badge and an I.D. card. “Now then, young lady, you’re entitled to remain silent if you want to. If you answer questions anything you say may be used against you. You’re entitled to have an attorney at all stages of the proceedings.”
“She has an attorney,” Mason said. “I’m her lawyer. Now, tell her the specific crime of which she is accused.”
“She isn’t accused of anything yet,” the man said, “but we’re following a hot lead. For your information we want to question her about the murder of Moray Cassel, who lived in the Tallmeyer Apartments in Apartment Nine-o-six. Now then, you want to talk or don’t you?”