And Mason swung about in his chair as an indication that the interview was terminated.
Sylvia Farr crossed over to the desk and stood looking down at him. “Please, Mr. Mason,” she said, with desperation in her voice, “I know it sounds silly. I just couldn’t tell it the way it was. I can’t make you see Sis the way I know her. I tell you I know this is something different. I think — think — that she’s dead, been murdered.”
“What makes you think that?” Mason asked.
“Oh, just several things, knowing her and — because of things she said in that last letter.”
“You didn’t keep that letter?”
“No.”
Mason said, “If you’re absolutely convinced in your own mind that there’s something seriously wrong, go to the police. They’ll investigate. You may not be pleased with what you find out.”
“But I want you to investigate this, Mr. Mason. I want you to...”
“All I could do,” Mason said, “would be to hire a detective agency. You could do that just as well yourself and save yourself money. I presume money means something to you, doesn’t it, Miss Farr?”
“Yes, it does,” she said. “But Sis means more to me than money, and I just know there’s something wrong.”
Mason said, “Go see Paul Drake. In all probability, one of his operatives can locate your sister within twenty-four hours. If it turns out your sister is in any difficulty and she needs legal help, I’ll still be available.”
Della Street said, “This way, Miss Farr. I’ll take you to Mr. Drake’s office.”
Chapter 2
Paul Drake, long and loose jointed, entered Mason’s private office with the familiarity born of years of intimate association, and said, “Hi, Perry. Hi, Della. How’s tricks?”
He crossed over to the client’s chair, swung around so he was seated crosswise in the seat, and let his legs hang over one of the arms. “Thanks for the case, Perry,” he said.
“What case?”
“The girl you sent me yesterday.”
“Oh, you mean Miss Farr?”
“Uh huh.”
“Any money in it?” Mason asked.
“Oh, so so. Enough to cover a preliminary investigation and report. I figured it shouldn’t take over three or four hours to locate the girl.”
“Find her?” Mason asked.
“No, but I found out a lot about her.”
Mason grinned and reached for the cigarette humidor. “Smoke, Paul?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” Drake said. “I’m chewing gum today.”
Mason turned to Della Street. “He has something on his mind, Della. When things are coasting along, he smokes cigarettes and sits in the chair like a civilized human being. When you see him tie himself up in knots like a snake with a stomach ache, you know he has something on his mind. And chewing gum is another infallible sign.”
Drake tore the cellophane end off a package of gum and fed three sticks into his mouth, one after another, rolled the wrappers into a tight ball, and tossed them into Mason’s wastebasket. “Perry,” he said, “I want to ask you a question.”
Mason flashed Della Street an obvious wink. “Here it comes, Della,” he said.
Drake said, “No kidding, Perry, you did call the turn on me.”
“I know I did,” Mason said. “What is it, Paul?”
“Why the devil did you interest yourself in that girl’s case?”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t take it,” Drake said, “but from what she told me, you must have given her quite a bit of time.”
“Did she think so?” Mason asked.
“No,” Drake said. “She was sore. She thought you’d thrown her out on her ear. I explained to her that you were one of the highest-priced trial lawyers in the city and that darn few people ever got as far as your private office. That smoothed her down some.”
Mason said, “I darn near took her case at that, Paul.”
“That’s the way I figured it. Why?”
“Mason grinned and said, “You found the sister was in a fair-sized mess of trouble, didn’t you, Paul?”
The detective nodded, watching Mason warily.
“A fugitive from justice?” Mason asked.
“Nope,” Drake said. “Forgery.”
“I thought so,” Mason said.
Della Street looked at the lawyer curiously. Drake said, “Come on, Perry. Give me a break. How did you figure it?”
The lawyer’s eyes narrowed somewhat as they looked past the detective. “Darn it, Paul,” he said. “I wish I didn’t take such a keen interest in people and in mysteries. If there’d been just a little more mystery about that case, I’d have taken it and found myself donating five thousand dollars’ worth of work for a fifty dollar fee.”
“What was the mystery?” Drake asked.
“Did you locate Mae Farr?” Mason countered.
“No, we can’t find her.”
Mason made a gesture with his hand as though tossing something onto the big desk in front of him. “There,” he said, “is your answer.”
“What do you mean, Perry?”
Mason said, “Look at the setup. This girl comes to see us about her sister. Her sister has disappeared. She thinks her sister is in some sort of trouble, doesn’t know anything at all about what it might be, but is filled with vague forebodings.
“Notice the way she’s dressed — shoes that are the best on the market, a skirt and jacket smart in design but not new, a coat that apparently is new, of the cheapest sort of material cut along flashy lines with a fur collar and trim which looks as though it came direct from an alley cat.”
“Well,” Drake asked as Mason hesitated, “what’s the answer?”
Mason waved back the question with a quick gesture. “Her nails,” he said, “were manicured carefully. Her hair was slicked back. Her face had very little makeup on it. There was virtually no lipstick on her mouth, and then to clinch matters, her purse was full of money — and pawn tickets.”
Drake, nervously chewing away at his gum, looked across at Della Street, then back to Mason, and said, “I don’t get you, Perry. You’re leading up to something, but hanged if I know what.”
Mason said, “It’s a column of figures that doesn’t add up, that’s all. What does a country girl do when she goes to the city? Puts on her best clothes, tries to look her best. The country girls — the good looking ones — are the ones who try to look sophisticated. They’re the ones who go heavy on makeup when they’re calling on a lawyer. They’re particularly careful to have their hair done as soon as they get to the city.”
“She was worried,” Drake said. “She didn’t have time to go to a hairdresser.”
“She had had time to get her nails manicured,” Mason said, “and she’d been to a hairdresser. Her hair was pulled back to make her look as plain and unsophisticated as possible. A country girl would have economized on shoes, and put what she saved into getting a better coat, unless she was the type who liked that kind of a coat. In that event, she wouldn’t have ever had the shoes Miss Farr was wearing. The coat didn’t go with the clothes. The coat didn’t go with the shoes. The hair didn’t go with the nails. The face didn’t go with the story.”
Drake chewed away at the gum with nervous rapidity, then suddenly straightened in the chair. “Cripes, Perry, you don’t mean that she... that she was...”
“Sure, she was,” Mason said. “She was a fugitive from justice. She wanted a lawyer to pull some chestnuts out of the fire. She didn’t dare use her right name, so she posed as sister Sylvia.”