“It means you’ll be the number one suspect.”
“All right,” she said. “Then there’s nothing to do now, except to try to cover up. Besides no one can ever prove I was out there with Lutts.”
Mason regarded her thoughtfully. “Where’s that gun you had?”
“In the glove compartment of my car.”
“You had it in your purse.”
“I know, but I put it back in the glove compartment of the car when I went to the beauty shop.”
“It’s there now?”
“Heavens, I hope so. I locked the glove compartment and put the car in the parking lot. Of course, I suppose sometimes thieves do get at locked glove compartments.”
Mason pursed his lips in thought.
“So, Mr. Attorney,” she said, “I’m in your hands. What do we do now?”
“First, we’ll go look at that gun in the glove compartment of your car.”
“And then?”
Mason said, “Wait a minute.” He stood by the desk, his eyes narrowed.
She started to say something, and Mason impatiently motioned her to silence.
“The cab driver noticed you particularly?” Mason asked.
“I feel certain he did.”
“You had on that white outfit?”
“Yes. I was dressed just the way I am now.”
Mason said, “That’s a hell of a way to be walking along a road that far out in the country.”
“I know.”
“The cab driver will remember you.”
“Of course.”
“What kind of a cab was it?”
“The Red Line.”
“You don’t know the number?”
“Heavens, no.”
“And you stayed with that same cab until you got to the Union Station?”
“Yes.”
Mason shrugged his shoulders. “Well, there’s nothing we can — wait a minute. What happened when you paid the meter?”
“The meter was two dollars and ninety-five cents. I gave him three and a half.”
“He rang up the meter?”
“Yes.”
“A slip of paper came out?”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. The receipt.”
“And I suppose you threw that away?” Mason asked.
“No. I have it.”
Mason said, “That’s fine. Let me take a look at it.”
“What does it show?”
“It shows the number of the cab, it shows the number of the trip, and the amount that was paid,” Mason said, unfolding the crumpled piece of paper.
Abruptly, he put the paper in his wallet, turned to Della Street and said, “Della, get Paul Drake busy. The cab number is seven-sixty-one. It’s a Red Line cab. Find out where that cab is now. Have Drake put a man in a car and trail that cab. I want to know where it is every minute of the day and night until that driver goes off duty.”
“I don’t see what good that’s going to do,” Mrs. Harlan said. “What are you trying to accomplish, Mr. Mason?”
Mason brushed the question aside, said to Mrs. Harlan, “Let’s go. You wait here, Della.”
Della Street nodded. “I’ll get your hat, Chief.”
She walked to the closet, handed him his hat. “Be sure about the paper in the band,” she said. “That’s the hat which was too tight, you know.”
Mason looked at her, nodded absently, his mind on the problem before him.
“The band,” Della Street said.
Mason ran his fingers around the hat band, found the note Della Street had placed there. “Yes, yes. Thank you, Della.”
Mason held the hat in his hand, pressing the note against the interior of the crown. In the elevator he had a chance to read the note:
Chief, those aren’t the same shoes and stockings she was wearing this morning. Watch out.
Mason crumpled the note in his pocket, escorted his client from the elevator.
He picked up his car at the parking lot. “Tell me which way to go.”
“Straight out Seventh Street, then turn left and go two blocks.”
“Your car’s in a parking lot out there?”
“Yes.”
“You have the ticket?”
“Yes.”
Mason said, “I’m going to drive you on by the entrance to the parking lot. I’ll stop. You walk back, get in the car, drive around the block and meet me.”
“Anything else?”
“Follow me,” Mason said, “until I find a place where we can both pull in to the curb and — Let me see your bag.”
She opened her bag.
Mason found a place by a fireplug and pulled in to the curb. He looked through the contents of the opened handbag.
“You don’t believe me, do you, Mr. Mason?”
“I’m making sure,” Mason said. “Now, look. You won’t like this, but you’ve got to give me some assurance against a double-cross.”
“How?”
“I have to make certain you haven’t got a gun,” Mason told her. “I’m not going to let you get in the car, pull a gun out of your clothes somewhere, put it in the glove compartment, and then—”
“But you can go in there with me, if you don’t trust me.”
“We can’t afford to do that, neither of us. Later on, someone will recall seeing me there with you. I’m not entirely unknown, you know. My picture gets in the paper a lot. The parking attendant may recognize me.”
“How much of a search would you have to make?”
“Just enough to find out that you haven’t got a gun on you.”
She clenched her fists. “Go ahead.”
Mason felt along the lines of her rigid body.
“Satisfied?”
Mason nodded.
“I’m telling you the truth. I wouldn’t lie to my lawyer.”
“It’s a hell of a story,” Mason said, and eased the car away from the curb.
They drove in silence until Mason came to the parking lot.
“This is it.”
Mason said, “I’ll run down here a half a block and let you out. You walk back. I’ll double-park if I can get away with it. There doesn’t seem to be any place where I can park here. Get your car, drive out and follow me.”
She nodded.
Mason slid the car to a stop. She jerked open the door and jumped out. Mason sat there waiting, watching in the rearview mirror.
A car some thirty yards ahead pulled out from its place at the curb, and Mason moved on, making an awkward attempt to park his car. In that way he was able to keep it pointed out in traffic, yet couldn’t have been ticketed for double-parking.
Sybil Harlan drove her car out of the parking lot, came speeding down the street.
Mason gunned his car out into traffic, waved her a signal, then slowed, drove down the boulevard, turned to the right on a cross-street, then finally found a place where there was room for two cars. Mason pulled his car to a stop, and Sybil pulled in behind him. The lawyer got out of his car and walked back to her car.
“Mr. Mason, look,” she said, indicating the door of the glove compartment.
The door was warped back. The catch on the lock had been broken out of its seat.
Mason’s voice was hard. “I’m looking.”
“Someone broke in here.”
“I see,” the lawyer said coldly. “I suppose the only thing missing is the gun?”
She nodded. “It must have happened just minutes ago. It must have been the police.”
Mason’s voice was level. “You didn’t say anything to the parking attendant?”
“Heavens no.”
“Where did you get the screwdriver?”
“What screwdriver?”
“The one you used to pry open the door?”
“I didn’t do it, Mr. Mason. Honestly, I didn’t do it. Look, if I’d done it I’d have the gun, wouldn’t I? Or I’d... well, anyway, I’d have the screwdriver. Search me. Go ahead, search me.”
Mason shook his head. “The time’s past for that. You’re a client. I’m your lawyer. If you want to lie to me, go ahead. I can tell you one thing, lying to your lawyer or your doctor is an expensive and sometimes a fatal pastime.”