A feminine voice said, “Mr. Perry Mason, the attorney?”
“Yes speaking. Who is this talking?”
“Long distance. San Francisco is calling you.”
Mason frowned at the telephone and said, “And how did you know that my office hours were from six P.M. until two A.M.?”
The long distance operator ignored the sally. Her voice was crisp and businesslike. “I tried your apartment, Mr. Mason, and then called the office. Just a moment, please... Go ahead. We’re ready with your call to Mr. Mason.”
A woman’s voice, sounding thin and frightened, said, “Mr. Mason, this is Miss Whittaker. Do you remember me, Marcia Whittaker?”
“Certainly,” Mason said. “Where are you now?”
“San Francisco.”
“How did you get there? You were here around ten o’clock, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I came up on a late plane. I’m calling from the airport now.”
“All right,” Mason said, “what is it?”
Her voice showed traces of hysteria. “I can’t do it,” she sobbed. “I can’t run away from it. I thought I could, but I can’t.”
“Run away from what?” Mason asked.
“From what happened.”
Her voice became almost a whisper. “I can’t tell you — over the phone,” she said.
Mason said, “Now listen carefully, Marcia, watch your answers. Does anyone know you’re in San Francisco?”
“No.”
“Have you quarreled with your boy friend?”
“No... not a quarrel... I can’t...”
“Is he angry?”
“No, no! Can’t you understand? He isn’t...”
“And he won’t be angry?” Mason interrupted. “Never be angry again?”
“That’s — that’s right.”
“We’re representing Alden Leeds, you know,” Mason said.
“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m calling you. I have... have something for you... and you can help me.”
“But only if it helps Leeds.”
“I understand.”
“This thing you have — is it important?”
“Very.”
Mason thought rapidly. “You went to his apartment around ten-thirty tonight?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
Mason said, “Never mind that. Can you get a plane back?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any way I can get a key to your apartment?”
“Yes, I keep my mailbox unlocked and there’s an extra key in the bottom of the mailbox.”
Mason said, “Get back here just as quickly as you can. Is there a telephone in your flat?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the number?”
“Graymore six-nine-four-seven.”
“All right,” Mason said. “Don’t tell anyone about this conversation with me, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Be seeing you,” Mason said, and hung up.
He turned to Della Street. “You probably got most of it,” he said, “from what I said at this end. Marcia Whittaker. It’s an even money bet that John Milicant has either committed suicide or been murdered. I’m inclined right now to the suicide angle.”
Della Street, with calm competence, took a notebook from her purse.
“I took down the schedule as Paul Drake read it off,” she said. “Do you want to know the people who came in during the evening?”
“No,” Mason said, “they’re not important. Serle had dinner with him. A man who answers the description of Alden Leeds was in at ten-five. The girl was there at ten-twenty-one. The man left just before the girl came. That’s the picture. Whatever happened, happened late.
“These people stayed too long to have been standing in front of the door, knocking and waiting for an answer. It’s hardly likely that both Leeds and Marcia would have stumbled on a dead body and said nothing about it... Come on, Della, we’re going to see Paul Drake.”
They trooped back to Drake’s office. Drake was just struggling into his overcoat.
“You again!” he said. “Why don’t you go on out and make whoopee? — In other words, why don’t you get the hell out of here and let working men get a decent night’s sleep?”
Mason said, “Listen, Paul. You’re not going home.”
“That’s what you think,” Drake said. “It’s after one.”
Mason shook his head. “You’re going right back and sit at that desk,” he said. “You’re going to keep on the telephone, in direct communication with your men who are watching Conway’s apartment. If there’s anything unusual, any sign of activity, you’re to telephone me at Graymore six-nine-four-seven. You’re to memorize that number and not leave it hanging around on any slips of paper, and you’re to forget this whole business tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
Drake frowned. “What’s the matter, Perry?” he asked.
Mason said, “Those are instructions, Paul. That’s all you need to know. You won’t want to know any more.”
“Do I wait here all night?”
“All night or until we telephone you.”
Drake slipped out of his overcoat, said to the man behind the arch-shaped window, “Go down to the all-night drugstore and get me four bits’ worth of chewing gum.”
Mason nodded to Della Street. “Come on, Della. We go within about three blocks of the place and walk the rest of the way.”
Twenty minutes later, Mason’s groping fingers encountered a key in the bottom of the mailbox marked “Marcia Whittaker.” He latch-keyed the front door, switched on the stair lights, and noiselessly climbed the carpeted treads.
“Just what I was afraid of,” Mason growled as he switched on lights in the flat and entered the bedroom.
Everywhere were evidences of hurried flight. The imprints of a suitcase showed on the white counterpane of the bed. Clothes had been laid out and discarded. Drawers had been opened and ransacked.
Mason glanced at Della Street. “How about it, Della,” he asked, “can you put this place in order?”
“So the police won’t know she packed to skip out?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that suppressing evidence, Chief?”
He said, “You’re acting under my instructions. If anything goes wrong. I take the rap.”
“Nothing doing,” she said, slipping out of her coat. “We’re in it together. Go out in the other room and sit down. Let me have a free hand here.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “Remember to keep your gloves on.”
Thirty minutes later she joined him in the outer room. They sat together by the little fireplace talking in low tones and waiting for the phone to ring. Perry Mason’s hand unconsciously sought Della Street’s, gently imprisoned the fingers. “Gosh, Della,” he said, “I’m getting sentimental. It almost seems as though this place had been made for us.”
She moved her other hand to gently stroke the back of his well-shaped, strong fingers. “Nix on it, Chief,” she said softly. “You could no more live a domestic life than you could fly. You’re a free-lance, happy-go-lucky, carefree, two-fisted fighter. You might like a home for about two weeks, and then it would bore you stiff. At the end of four months, you’d feel it was a prison.”
“Well,” Mason said, “this is part of the first two weeks.”
It seemed but a few minutes before they heard the click of a key in the lock. Mason glanced at his wrist watch. It was four-forty-five. Della Street, with a quick intake of breath, said, “I don’t want her to see me until I powder my nose,” and dashed for the bathroom.
The door slowly swung back. Marcia Whittaker, looking as though she’d been seeing a steady procession of ghosts, came wearily into the room, lugging a Gladstone bag. She dropped the bag to the floor, came across the room, and held his arms with quivering fingers. “It’s so darn square of you!” she said.
Mason patted her shoulder. “Nix,” he said. “Get that bag unpacked.”