“Bob Fleetwood is a good kid. Allred says Bob ran away with his wife. If you ask me, I think it was something that was wished off on Bob. I think that Mrs. Allred may have gone for him pretty strong and, the first thing the kid knew, he was being taken for a ride. I’m not saying so, you understand, but that’s one explanation.”
“Is there another?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“The other explanation is that Mrs. Allred isn’t alive at all, and Bert is trying to account for her disappearance. You’re a lawyer. I don’t need to dot the i’s or cross the t’s with you, Mason. I’m giving you an idea.”
“And in that event, where would Fleetwood be?”
“Now then,” Jerome said, “you’re beginning to talk the way I want to hear you talk.”
“Yes?” Mason asked.
Jerome said, “I’m making you a proposition, Mason. If you can get me a chance to talk with Bob Fleetwood before Allred sees him, I’ll pay you a thousand dollars. And if Fleetwood sees things my way, and I’m satisfied he will, you get two thousand dollars. You hire detectives if you have to. I’ll stand their charges, anything up to a thousand dollars.”
“That’s all right,” Mason said, “but I can’t accept any employment from you which might be adverse to the best interests of my client.”
“I know you can’t. I know your reputation, Mason. You’re just as clean as a hound’s tooth and as smart as a steel trap. That’s why I came to you. Forget it, unless it turns out that you can do it without interfering with the interests of your client. You’re representing Mrs. Allred. You go ahead and represent her, but if you find that you can give me a break on this thing, you’ve had my proposition.
“If you’re Mrs. Allred’s attorney, she’s going to get in touch with you sooner or later. If Bob Fleetwood is running away with her, you’ll have a chance to get word to him through her, or directly to him, that I’ve got to see him. That’s all there is to it. And if Lola Allred isn’t alive, then you’re going to find that out, and when you do, you may find Fleetwood. The proposition stands win, lose or draw.”
“What makes you think that Mrs. Allred may not be alive?”
Jerome looked steadily at Mason, then he closed one eye in a slow, calculating wink.
He got up from the chair, said, “I think I’ve made my proposition plain, Mr. Mason.”
He turned to Della Street. “You’ve got all this straight, young lady?”
She nodded.
“Good. How do I get out of here?”
Mason indicated the exit door.
Jerome said, “Here’s my card, Mason. There’s a number on there you can call. I’ll have someone at that phone day and night, twenty-four hours a day. The minute you call that number, you’re in touch with me. And you can tell Fleetwood that well, damn it, tell him what I want. Fleetwood knows me and he knows Allred. Thank you, Mr. Mason. Good day.”
And Jerome strode out of the office without bothering to shake hands or to even look back over his shoulder.
Mason turned to Della Street, but before he spoke the unlisted phone rang sharply.
Della Street picked up the receiver, said, “Hello... yes, hold the line, Paul.”
Mason grabbed the phone.
“Just had a report from my men who trailed this auto-rental girl, Perry.”
“Good! What happened?”
“She went directly to Las Olitas, stopped in at a garage there, the Central Garage & Machine Works on Eighth Street, was in there about five minutes, then she came out and drove to the Westwick. That’s an exclusive apartment hotel.”
“Calling on someone there?” Mason asked.
“She lives there, Perry.”
“The devil she does!”
“That’s right.”
“What name? Jane Smith?”
“No, Maurine Milford. She rented apartment 802 there recently, and she’s expecting her aunt to come from the East and join her. Tells a perfectly straightforward story. She put the rented car in the garage at the Westwick and tipped the attendant at the apartment garage five bucks, and told him her aunt was coming to visit her, that she was going to be doing quite a bit of running around, that she had rented this car, that she’d like to have it kept dusted off and the windshield cleaned.”
“How long does she intend to be there?”
“She told the management about thirty days.”
“Why did she stop at the Central Garage & Machine Works, Paul?”
“I don’t know. Probably some minor trouble with the car, a spark plug or something. My man didn’t try to go in there and find out. He just stuck around the entrance and waited for her to come out; then he followed her to the Westwick.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “That’s fine. What else is new? Anything?”
“Nope. Still working on the runaway couple,” Drake said. “Here’s a funny one, Perry. There’s another detective agency on the job.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s hired them?”
“I don’t know, but there are private detectives combing the country. Somehow I have an idea they’re after the man instead of the woman.”
“You mean Fleetwood?”
“That’s right.”
“Any idea why?”
“Only that they’ve been paid by someone to get information on him. When they ask questions, they ask about Fleetwood first and describe the man before they describe the woman.”
“What’s Fleetwood’s description?” Mason asked.
“Around five foot seven or seven and a half. Weight about a hundred thirty-five pounds. Dark eyes, wavy hair, rather romantic looking.”
“No wonder Mrs. Allred is supposed to have gone overboard for him,” Mason said.
“That’s the way it looks,” Drake said, “but this Mrs. Allred is quite a dish herself. She may be forty-two, but from all the dope I can get, she looks around thirty.”
“Any pictures yet?”
“I’ve got one of her in a bathing suit that isn’t too good as far as the face is concerned, but it’s swell for the figure. And believe me, she’s got one!”
“Have you been able to find Patricia yet?”
“No. She dusted out shortly after breakfast and hasn’t been back since.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “keep plugging. I’ll go see this Milford gal. Keep your man on the job until I get there, then he can go.”
7
Mason circled the block which contained the Westwick Apartment Hotel, a twelve-story, commodious building with wide, individual balconies and sun porches for the front apartments, a modern building streamlined in appearance and thoroughly in keeping with the quiet, aristocratic atmosphere of Las Olitas.
Mason kept on driving, his forehead creased in thought. He turned down Eighth Street, found the Central Garage & Machine Works and went in.
It was a big garage with more than a dozen mechanics working in busy efficiency.
A workman was buffing a fender with a portable wheel from which sparks were fanning out in a stream. Over in a corner a man with a paint gun was spraying a fog of paint over the side of a car. The sound of hammers kept up an intermittent tattoo.
Mason found the manager, said, “I’m trying to find a witness.”
“Lots of people are. Mean anything for me?”
“It might.”
“What’s the name?”
“Jane Smith mean anything to you?”
“I’d have to look in the books. I don’t recall a Jane Smith offhand.”
“Doing anything right now for a Jane Smith?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She was in here this morning.”
“I don’t place her.”
“How about a Maurine Milford?”