“Yes.”
“All right,” Mason said, indicating a door at the other side of the parlor. “There’s another bedroom there. Try that.”
Della Street hurriedly opened the door, this time without knocking, again made an exploration and returned. “No one,” she said.
“No wheelchair?”
She shook her head.
“How many suitcases?” Mason asked.
“I didn’t notice particularly. I think there are... wait a minute, let me think. That’s right, two suitcases and a bag.”
Mason said, “I guess we wait.”
Della Street seated herself. “Couldn’t we ask the elevator operators?” she asked.
“We could,” Mason said, “but we won’t. Not right at the moment.”
“One would have thought she’d have left a note,” Della Street said.
“Well,” Mason said, “she left the door open and—” He broke off as they heard the sound of voices.
“Someone corning down the corridor now,” Mason said.
A rather portly woman in the middle forties appeared in the doorway. Behind her was a dapper individual with dark hair, dark eyes, and a short mustache. Behind them were two bellboys with bags.
Mason got to his feet.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said. “I thought this was Amelia Corning’s suite.”
“It is,” Mason said. “We are waiting for her.”
“She isn’t here?”
“Not at the moment,” Mason said. “We had an appointment and found the door open. We assumed it was an invitation to come in and be seated. Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Perry Mason, an attorney, and this is Miss Street, my secretary. And you are...?”
“I’m Sophia Elliott,” she said. “I’m Amelia’s sister. And this is Alfredo Gomez, her business agent.”
“Oh, yes,” Mason said affably. “I understand she was expecting you. She told me over the phone you were arriving, but I didn’t think you were corning until later.”
“We found we could catch an earlier plane,” Sophia Elliott said, and turned to the bellboy. “All right,” she said, “just bring the suitcases in.”
Alfredo Gomez, slim-waisted, quick, and catlike in his motions, came forward to bow low in front of Della Street, holding her hand in his for a moment, then crossed over to shake hands with Perry Mason.
“With much pleasure,” he said.
Della Street glanced quickly at Perry Mason.
“I presume you talked with Miss Corning over the phone from Miami?” Mason said.
“We sent her a wire,” Sophia Elliott said.
“Is it Miss or Mrs. Elliott?” Mason asked.
“It’s Mrs. Elliott!” she snapped. “And I’m a widow, if it’s any of your business — which it isn’t.”
Mason said, “I am representing a client who has had some dealings with Miss Corning, and Miss Corning asked me to meet her here.” Mason looked at his watch and said, “Nearly ten minutes ago.”
“Well, if she told you to be here ten minutes ago and she isn’t here, she isn’t intending to meet you here,” Sophia Elliott said. “She keeps her watch accurate to the second and when she makes an appointment she keeps it. Now, where are we going to put these things?”
The question was addressed not to Mason but to the bellboy.
“There are two bedrooms in the suite,” one of the boys said.
Sophia Elliott strode across the parlor to the bedroom door on the north, pushed it open, looked inside, came back to the parlor and without a word strode across to the other door, pushed it open, looked around, came back and said, “All right, Alfredo, you take that bedroom. Have the boy put your bags in there. There are twin beds in this other bedroom. I’ll move in with Amelia.”
Alfredo Gomez bowed his acquiescence, indicated a suitcase and a bag. “Those are mine,” he said to the bellboy in a somewhat stilted English that was pronounced quite distinctly and without accent.
The bellboys took the baggage into the bedrooms. Sophia Elliott supervised the placing of the baggage in the one bedroom but Alfredo Gomez stood waiting, silently watchful while the boy deposited his bags in the other room.
Sophia Elliott returned, said to Gomez, “Tip the boys.”
Gomez reached in his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills.
“That’s Brazilian money. It’s no good here,” Sophia Elliott said.
Gomez let his white teeth flash in a smile at the bellboys as he replaced the currency in his pocket, reached into another pocket, took out a billfold and solemnly extracted a dollar bill which he tendered to one of the bellboys.
“That’s not enough,” Sophia Elliott said.
Gomez took out two more bills.
“That’s too much,” the woman remarked. “Give each of them one dollar.”
Gomez gravely complied.
The bellboys, with impassive faces, muttered their thanks and left the room.
“I gathered,” Mason said to Sophia Elliott, “that your wire came as something of a surprise to Miss Corning.”
She pivoted slowly to regard Mason with an appraisal which lacked cordiality.
“You say you’re an attorney?”
“Yes.”
“Representing my sister?”
“No, representing someone who has business dealings with your sister.”
“Were you invited in here?”
“I was told to be here at seven-thirty.”
“That’s not answering my question. Were you specifically invited in here? I mean, right here in this room?”
“We found the door standing wide open,” Mason said. “I took that as a silent invitation.”
“What time is it now?”
“Nearly seven forty-five.”
“All right,” Sophia Elliott said. “She isn’t here, she didn’t leave any note for you. I’ll tell her you called. If she wants to see you again she’ll send for you.”
“I beg your pardon,” Mason said. “No one sends for me. I am an attorney.”
Alfredo Gomez came gliding up to stand at Sophia Elliott’s side.
“She sent for you this time, didn’t she?”
“She asked me to call and I agreed to be here.”
“All right. If you’re so touchy about it,” Sophia Elliott said, “if she wants to see you again she’ll ask for you to call and you can agree to be here. That’s all now. I’m moving in.”
She walked over to stand by the door, holding it open.
Mason bowed. “It was a very great pleasure to meet both of you,” he said, and stood aside for Della Street to precede him into the corridor.
“Humph!” Sophia Elliott grunted.
“And,” Mason said, “you might tell Miss Corning that if she wishes to see me, I will be in my office at nine-thirty tomorrow and she can telephone for an appointment.”
They stepped out into the corridor and Sophia Elliott pushed the door shut.
Della Street raised quizzical eyebrows.
The lawyer smiled, took Della Street’s arm, and started with her towards the elevator.
“What one would call a rather dominating personality,” Mason said.
“That,” Della Street observed, “is quite an understatement. One wonders how Amelia Corning reacts to all this.”
“One really wonders,” Mason said. “Quite apparently she didn’t send for her sister and the dashing Alfredo. They came of their own accord and presumably at their own invitation, and quite probably to protect their own interests.”
“Evidently didn’t want Miss Money Bags out of their sight,” Della Street said.
Mason rang for the elevator. “One would gather that Miss Corning’s sister has all the answers. Notice that she didn’t ask the bellboy to put the bags in the parlor until Amelia Corning showed up. She simply moved right in.”
“And proceeded to take charge,” Della Street said.
The elevator cage slid to a stop and the door opened.
“Where now?” she asked.