“I haven’t seen nor heard any ambulance.”
“You’ve known her husband long?” Mason asked.
“Oh, ever since he’s been here.”
“Did you see him before... before...?”
“You mean before he got married? Oh, yes, he was in here getting some things and I chatted with him. By the way, how was that picture frame I sent up? Was that what Mrs. Eves wanted? She ordered it over the telephone and I rushed upstairs with it.”
“I think I heard her say it was a little small,” Mason said.
“Well, it was just the size she ordered. She told me to get her an oval frame for a picture which had been trimmed down from an eight by ten print into an oval size.”
Mason said, “I don’t know much about it. After all, I’m just a neighbor.”
She gave him his change and handed Mason the package. Mason thanked her, tucked the package under his arm and stepped out into the drizzle.
“Draw something?” Drake asked, as Mason opened the door of the car.
“I’ll say I did. She not only left her films there but left a mailing address. The chap with the broken neck isn’t Eves.”
Mason entered the car, placed the package on his lap and he and Drake studied the address.
“Know where the place is?” Mason asked.
“Yes. It’s up in the Santa Cruz Mountains.”
“How long will it take us to drive it?”
“An hour and a half probably, maybe a little longer if it rains.”
Mason said, “Okay, let’s go. We’ll mail the photos.”
“We may be taking a detour which ends in a blind road,” Drake told him. “After all, Perry, how do we know she had any connection with Moar?”
“We don’t,” Mason said, “but outside of Moar’s party, she’s the only living person on that ship who knew Carl Moar by sight, and whom Moar knew by sight.”
“How about the Dail girl?”
“The Dail girl evidently found out who he was by tracing Belle. She didn’t know him and therefore Moar didn’t have any idea she was wise to his alias.”
“Think Celinda traced Belle through the stolen picture?” Drake asked.
“Probably. She probably switched pictures, sent Belle’s picture on to Rooney by air mail and had him trace her.”
“That doesn’t coincide with what Rooney said,” Drake remarked.
“I’m thinking of that, too,” Mason said. “Let’s get to a telephone where I can call Della. I have an idea we can get something from this nurse. If she left the note which sent Moar up on deck, I’ll be certain we’re on the right track. Evidently she’s been playing around with a bunch of crooks. She went over to the Islands with her husband. He must have been called back and took a clipper plane. She was coming over to join him, and took a nursing job to pay expenses. On the ship she ran into Carl Moar. She recognized him, but found he was traveling under the name of Newberry. Now, that’s a perfect set-up for blackmail, and, as a blackmail victim, Carl Moar was a natural. Remember, he was carrying at least eighteen thousand dollars in cash in a money belt. That was hot money.”
“What makes you think it was hot money?”
“From the way he acted.”
“He might have won it in a lottery.”
“He might have,” Mason admitted, “but eighteen thousand bucks represented what he had left after a couple of months of playing tourist. He probably started with around twenty-five thousand dollars. Now, a man can’t win twenty-five thousand dollars on a lottery without leaving some sort of a back trail somewhere.”
“Then there’s this other thought you brought up that the money might have been his wife’s,” Drake said.
“Well, I don’t figure that angle so strong right now, ” Mason told him, as the operative pulled in to the curb and said, “Here’s a telephone, Mr. Mason.”
Mason telephoned the hotel, only to learn that Della Street was still absent. He walked back to the automobile, frowning. “I don’t like it, Paul,” he said. “Della’s still out.”
“Maybe she went to get her hair done,” Drake suggested.
“Not that girl,” Mason told him. “When she works on a case she’s like I am, working day and night, grabbing a bite to eat when she can get it. She’s doing something on this case.”
“I wonder if that piece of blue silk cloth has anything to do with it?” Drake asked.
“Now that’s a thought,” Mason said.
“Maybe she’s remembered who wore the gown,” Drake suggested.
“Perhaps,” Mason said, still frowning, “but it’s entirely unlike Della to have left the hotel without letting me know, and making certain it didn’t interfere with any of my plans. It’s equally unlike her not to have telephoned in a report. And I can’t understand what’s keeping her so long.”
“Oh, well, one thing at a time,” Drake told him. “Let’s tackle this place up in the Santa Cruz Mountains.”
“Think we can locate Morgan Eves once we get up there?”
“Sure,” Drake said. “It’s just a little post office, general store and cabin proposition. It won’t be any trouble at all.”
The rain had ceased by the time Drake’s operative pulled the car to a stop and entered the general store and post office. Clouds which had been drab and gray had broken into patches of dazzling white, between which showed the deep blue of a clear California sky. Huge redwoods glistened with moisture as shafts of sunlight streamed through the clouds.
Drake’s operative came out of the store, climbed in behind the wheel and said, “Follow this road half a mile, take the first turn to the left, and it’s the first cabin on the left.”
As they traveled over the dirt road, bits of wet gravel thrown up by the tires clattered against the mud guards. Drake said, “Perry, this is once you do all the talking. I do all the listening. Remember not to take any chances with this chap. He packs a rod and is dangerous.”
Mason nodded.
The driver slowed down, cautiously turned the car, shifted gears and said, “This must be the place.”
They inspected a rustic cabin under the trees, slabs of bark covering the outside.
“There’s a fire in the fireplace,” Drake said, indicating a stream of light blue smoke which drifted upward from the chimney. “Someone’s home.”
“All right,” Mason said, “let’s go.”
“You got a rod?” Drake asked the operative, and when the man nodded, said, “Well, after we go in you move over toward the wall as though you were trying to keep yourself in the background. Be sure you’re where no one can stick a gun in your back. All right. Perry, here we go.”
Evelyn Whiting opened the door in response to Mason’s knock. Her face showed surprise and dismay. “Why...” she said. “Why, you’re Mr. Mason, the lawyer.”
Mason nodded and said, “Do you mind if we come in, Miss Whiting? We want to talk with you.”
She hesitated for a perceptible instant, then held the door open and stood to one side. The three men filed into the cabin.
“You’re alone here?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“I wanted to talk with a Mr. Eves.”
“Well, he isn’t here.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Mason said, seating himself in a chair, “but there’s some information you can give me, and I want it.”
“I don’t know a thing—”
“Let’s go back and begin at the beginning,” Mason said. “You knew Carl Moar, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve known him for some time?”
“Yes.”
“How long since you’d seen him?”
“Do you mean before I left Honolulu?”