“How positive are you?”
“Pretty positive. I remember that hot dog stand across the road behind us. I think we’d passed it just about fifty yards.”
Mason looked back at the white building. “It’s dark now,” he said. “Was there a light in it then?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?” Mason asked. “Stand here and toss the gun, or did he throw it, or did he just open the door of the car and drop it out?”
“No. He got out, stood by the car, held the muzzle of the gun in his hand, and threw it as far as he could throw it.”
“Over that fence?”
“Yes.”
Mason stared for a moment at the ditch which had already commenced to collect drainage water, and said, “All right. Wait here,” walked back to his car, took a flashlight from the glove compartment, climbed over the barbed wire fence, and started searching through the wet grass, playing the beam of his flashlight around in circles. Whenever other cars approached, he switched out the flashlight and remained motionless until they had passed.
At the end of fifteen minutes, with the batteries in his flashlight running down, Mason climbed back over the fence, fought his way up the slippery embankment at the side of the road, and said to Mae Farr, “It’s no use. I can’t find it. I’m afraid to hunt any longer.”
“I’m quite certain it was right near here.”
“Well, we’ll know more in the morning.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Where have you been staying?”
“At the address I gave you, the Palmcrest Rooms.”
“And we have your telephone number?”
“Yes. I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Mason, that I tried to deceive you. You know, about telling you that I was Sylvia and...”
“You’ll have a lot of time to make those apologies,” Mason said, “when I’m not standing out in the rain listening to them. I feel a lot more forgiving when cold rainwater isn’t dribbling down the back of my neck and when my feet are dry.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Mason said, “You have Della Street’s telephone number.”
“No. We called the office and...”
“It’s all the same,” Mason said. “There’s a day number and a night number. The night number is Della Street’s apartment. I have an unlisted telephone. She’s the only one who has my number. You drive on back to town. Go to the Palmcrest Rooms and go to bed just as though nothing had happened. If anyone drags you out of bed and starts asking questions, don’t answer. Don’t say a word. Don’t admit, don’t deny, and don’t explain. Insist that you be allowed to call me. I’ll do all the talking.”
“And if... well, suppose no one does say anything?”
Mason said, “Get up, have breakfast, and get in touch with me in the morning. And for God’s sake, keep out of trouble between now and then.”
“What do you mean?”
Mason said, “Lay off of Harold Anders. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.”
She placed her hand on his. “Thank you so much, Mr. Mason,” she said. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”
“That also can keep,” Mason said. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Mason.”
The lawyer turned and his wet feet pumped water with every step back to the automobile.
Della opened the car door for him. “Find it?” she asked.
Mason shook his head.
Mae Farr started her car, pulled around them, sounded her horn in two quick blasts by way of farewell, and accelerated down the black ribbon of road.
Della Street opened her purse and took out a small flask of whiskey.
“Where did this come from?” Mason asked.
“Out of my private cellar,” Della said. “I figured you might need it. Gosh, Chief, you’re soaking wet.”
Mason offered her the flask. She shook her head and said, “You need it more than I do, Chief. Drink it down.”
Mason tilted the flask to his lips, then handed it back.
“Better take some, Della.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine. You certainly were out there long enough.”
“I wanted to find that gun,” Mason said.
“Think she remembered just where it was?”
“She should have. That hot dog stand was her landmark.”
“It’s hard to find anything like that in the dark.”
“I know,” Mason said, “but I made a pretty thorough search, covered an area seventy-five paces wide by seventy-five long, and what I mean is, I covered it, darn near every inch of it.”
“Gosh, you certainly are sopping.”
Mason started the car and threw it into gear. “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”
“Make anything of it?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “not yet. That whiskey certainly was a lifesaver, Della.”
“Where do we go now?”
“To a telephone,” Mason said, “and call Hal Anders at the Fairview Hotel.”
They drove for miles in silence. The rain became a drizzle, then finally stopped. They found a telephone in an all night restaurant on the outskirts of the city, and Mason called the Fairview Hotel. “I know it’s rather late,” he said, “but I’d like to have you ring Mr. Anders. I believe he’s in room three nineteen.”
“Was he expecting a call?” the clerk asked.
“It will be quite all right if you ring him,” Mason said. “It’s a matter of business.”
There was an interval of silence, and then the clerk said, “I’m very sorry, but Mr. Anders doesn’t answer.”
“Perhaps he’s in the lobby,” Mason said. “You might have him paged.”
“No, he isn’t here. There’s no one in the lobby. I haven’t seen Mr. Anders since early this evening.”
“You know him?”
“Yes. I didn’t think he was in, but I rang his room to make sure.”
“Is his key there?”
“No.”
“Ring the room again, will you, please? Push down hard on the bell button. He may be asleep.”
Again there was an interval of silence. Then the clerk said, “No, sir, he doesn’t answer. I’ve called repeatedly.”
Mason said, “Thanks.”
He hung up as the clerk started to say, “Any message?”
Mason beckoned Della Street from the automobile. They had a cup of hot coffee at the lunch counter. “Any luck?” she asked.
“None whatever,” Mason said. “He wasn’t in.”
“Wasn’t in?”
“No.”
“But you told him particularly...”
“I know,” Mason said grimly. “He wasn’t in. I think I’ll have some ham and eggs, Della. How about it?”
“Sold,” she said.
Mason ordered the ham and eggs. While they were waiting for their order, they sat side by side in silence, sipping coffee. Della Street’s eyes were frankly troubled. Mason’s profile showed patience, grim determination, and thoughtful concentration.
Chapter 6
Mason entered his office to find Paul Drake and Della Street in conference.
“Hello, gang,” he said, scaling his hat onto the bust of Blackstone by the door. “Why the gloom?”
Drake, looking at the lawyer with eyes that were expressionless, said, “Wentworth is dead.”
“The deuce he is,” Mason observed cheerfully. “Well, that would seem to simplify matters as far as Mae Farr is concerned.”
“Or complicate them,” the detective said.
Mason walked over to his desk, sat down on the swivel chair, flashed a swift glance at Della, and received by way of reply a cautious wink.
“Well,” Mason said, “let’s take a look through the mail. Anything important, Della?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
Mason riffled through the stack of letters and shoved them to one side of his desk. “Well, Paul,” he said, “what’s the dope? How did Wentworth die?”