“I think that was all done deliberately,” she said.
“That’s not the point,” Mason said. “The point is that the whole thing is going to be rehashed at great length in the press.”
She started to say something, then suddenly the full impact of the lawyer’s words dawned on her. Her eyes widened. “You mean they’re going to bring it all up again about the weekend trips?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, Lord,” she moaned.
Mason said, “Therefore, I felt that you might care to make some plans in advance. If you want to meet the press, you might care to hand out a written statement so that you wouldn’t be misquoted. If, on the other hand, you don’t want to meet the press, this might be a good time for you to be hard to find.”
She hesitated only a moment, said, “I’m going to be hard to find. When is all this going to break?”
“Probably within the next hour.”
She got to her feet, said, “Look here, Mr. Mason, do you have any objection to being quoted?”
“What do you mean?”
“That you advised me to make myself hard to find.”
Mason thought for a moment, shook his head. “I’m not in a position to advise you. You’re not my client. I already have one client in the case. I’m simply trying to give you a friendly tip.”
“All right. Will you remember that you gave me a friendly tip and told me to make myself scarce?”
“That was one of the alternatives I suggested might be wise.”
“It’s the alternative I want to take,” she said. “You wait there just a moment. I’m going to crawl in a hole and pull the hole in after me. What’s more, I’m going out with you. You can drive me downtown.”
She hurried across the apartment, opened a door, and just before she slammed it shut behind her called over her shoulder, “Wait there until I can get dressed and throw some things in a bag. I’m getting out of here.”
The lawyer seated himself, consulted his wristwatch, frowned thoughtfully, reached for the cigarette case in his pocket and found that he was out of cigarettes. He waited another minute, then called out through the door, “Are there any cigarettes in here, Mrs. Palmer?”
Her voice sounded startlingly clear through the thin door. “In my purse there’s a pack. The purse is on the table.”
The lawyer moved over to the open purse, noticed a pack of cigarettes, took one out, snapped his lighter into flame and suddenly paused as he realized the cigarette was limp with moisture.
Abruptly the door from the bedroom flew open. Nadine Palmer, trailing an almost transparent negligee through which could be seen her figure in the scantiest of lingerie, came hurrying into the room.
“I hope you found it all right,” she said.
She grabbed up her purse, fumbled inside of it for a moment, then produced a pack of cigarettes and extended it to the lawyer.
Mason shifted his position.
“Now wait a minute, that’s not fair,” she said, laughing. “You’re jockeying me between you and the light. I’m not dressed to be silhouetted right at the moment. I’m just trying to be hospitable. Here.”
Mason took one of the cigarettes from the package she handed him, surreptitiously dropping the first cigarette into the side pocket of his coat.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I should have put you on your honor to close your eyes,” she said. “Now just be patient for a minute. I’m going to let you drive me to the nearest downtown bus stop.”
She whirled and, making a feeble and somewhat futile attempt to grab the negligee around her, hurried back to the bedroom.
The lawyer again snapped his lighter into flame. The new cigarette which she had handed him caught instantly and burned slowly. Mason looked in the open purse. The package of cigarettes in the purse seemed to be exactly the same as the package from which he had extracted the damp cigarette. Examining the pack, however, he found each cigarette was perfectly dry.
Puzzled, Mason withdrew the other cigarette from his side pocket, felt it with an exploring thumb and forefinger. That cigarette was definitely water-soaked.
Mason sat in thoughtful silence smoking the cigarette, from time to time watching the smoke eddying up from the smoldering tip.
Before the cigarette was entirely finished, Nadine Palmer, attired in a neat, well-tailored suit, was in the room carrying an overnight bag, her purse and a small suitcase.
“I’ll let you do the honors with the suitcase,” she said. “Do you have a car here?”
“I have a car.”
“Then may I ride with you until I can get a bus?”
“Certainly,” Mason said.
“Which way are you going?”
“I’m on my way to see my client, Morley Eden. He’s the one who purchased the Loring Carson property and had Carson build the house.”
“You’re on your way out there now?” she asked, almost, it seemed, in dismay.
“Yes.”
“I’ll ride part way with you,” she said. “I’ll get off at the first through bus line we encounter.”
“You don’t want a cab to come here?”
“I want to leave here with you because I don’t want to be traced,” she said, “and when the reporters get on the track of a spicy story of this sort they are veritable demons. They can ask the most embarrassing questions.”
“I take it,” Mason said, “that the registration was not in the name of Mr and Mrs. Norbert Jennings, but was in your own name, at least as far as you’re concerned.”
“The registrations were okay,” she said, “but they were very definitely weekend trips, and just as I told you, Mr. Mason, I’m not a girl, I’m a woman. People have a tendency to draw their own conclusions when they’re dealing with a divorcée — and I’m a divorcee. Shall we go?”
Mason picked up the suitcase, led the way to the elevator, then out to his car. He saw Nadine Palmer give a hasty, apprehensive look over her shoulder as he held the car door open. She jumped in with a flash of graceful legs and a dazzling smile.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Mason,” she said. “You’re a help, a big help — perhaps more of a help than you realize at the moment.”
“Well,” Mason said somewhat awkwardly, “it occurred to me that Judge Goodwin was thinking entirely of Vivian Carson and I thought that someone should think of you because, after all, you’re just as much of an innocent victim as Vivian Carson.”
“Not in the judicial mind,” she said. “After all, I did permit myself to become interested in Norbert Jennings. I did go on various weekend trips with him.”
“Where?” Mason asked.
“All sorts of places. You’ll be reading about it in the papers. I’m afraid I was — oh, damn it, ‘indiscreet’ sounds like such a prissy word. I will put it this way: I was uncareful. I naturally didn’t expect that a detective would be following along behind, keeping notes on everything I did.”
“Was it so terrible?” Mason asked.
“It could be made to appear that way. After a floor show in Las Vegas Norbert escorted me to my room. We had some drinks there and talked. I guess it was two-thirty in the morning when he left. And, of course, there was this sneaky detective parked around the corner with a notebook and a stopwatch, keeping track of the time — and, of course, drawing his own conclusions.”
Mason started the car, drove slowly down the street. “Did you,” he asked, “ever know a woman in Las Vegas, a hostess by the name of Genevieve Hyde?”
“Why?” she asked.
“She seems to have been the girlfriend of Loring Carson,” Mason said. “As such she might be of some importance. Did you know her — ever meet her personally?”
She frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. I saw some of the hostesses, of course, and have talked with many of them without knowing their names. I’ve been to Las Vegas quite frequently.”