woman before Mason has a chance to tip her off to clam up and say nothing. As I see it, she’s the most valuable witness we are going to find.”
Mason said, “I’m afraid. Sergeant, you don’t understand how I work.”
“I know all about how you work,” Holcomb told him. “Keep them here, Ray. In exactly ten minutes you may let them go.” Sgt. Holcomb hurried away.
Mason looked at his wrist watch, stretched, yawned, lit a cigarette, put his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes.
Dr. Arlington, taking his cue from Perry Mason, went over to his car, opened the door and started to get in.
“Stay right here for ten minutes,” the officer warned.
“Nine minutes now,” Dr. Arlington said, climbing into his car and slamming the door shut.
Della Street, with an eye on her wrist watch, counted off the minutes.
“All right, Chief,” she said, “nine and a half minutes.” At Mason’s nod, she started the motor.
“Hold it,” the officer said. “You have thirty seconds to go.”
“Just warming the car up,” Mason told him.
The officer seemed uneasy. “I’d like to get word from Sgt. Holcomb.
He could communicate with us through the car radio.”
“I know he could,” Mason said, “but he said ten minutes, and ten minutes it is.”
The officer seemed undecided.
“Okay, Della,” Mason said.
Della Street in the driver’s seat eased the car into gear.
Dr. Arlington’s car slid out behind them.
“Now where?” Della asked.
“Drake Detective Agency,” Mason said, “but first signal Dr. Arlington to come alongside.”
Della Street drove for a block, then pulled off to the side of the road, motioned with her arm for Dr. Arlington to come alongside on the one-way street.
When Dr. Arlington was running abreast Mason said, “Go on home, Doctor, and don’t answer questions.”
Dr. Arlington nodded to show that he understood and shot ahead.
Della Street said, “I think Paul Drake is in the office tonight. He told me he was working on a case and expected to be there until nearly midnight.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “We’ll talk with Paul personally. Swing over to the right and turn a corner, Della. I presume that officer is still watching our tail-light and it’s quite possible Sgt. Holcomb might relay a radio message to him asking him to hold us for another inquiry.”
Chapter 9
THE NIGHT switchboard operator at the Drake Detective Agency offices looked up as Mason held the office door open for Della Street.
She nodded and smiled.
“Anybody in with Paul?” Mason asked.
“No, Mr. Mason, he’s alone.”
“Tell him we’re on our way,” Mason said.
The operator nodded and plugged in a telephone line. Mason opened the gate which led to a corridor lined with doors opening into small cubbyhole offices. Paul Drake’s private office was at the end of the corridor. Mason opened the door.
“Hi, Perry!” the detective said. “Hi, Della. What brings you out at this time of night?—Oh-oh, I’ll bet I don’t want to know the answer.” Mason pulled up a chair for Della Street, then sat down next to Drake’s desk. “Paul, we’re mixed up in a case that I can’t figure out. I want a lot of research work done and I want it done fast.” Drake picked up a pencil and moved a pad of paper toward him. Tall, long—limbed, poker—faced, he moved with an easy, double-jointed rhythm which seemed awkward, yet eliminated all waste motion.
“Shoot.”
“A girl using the name of Fern Driscoll, 309 Rexmore Apartments. I want everything you can get on Fern Driscoll. She was working in Lansing, Michigan, and left suddenly. Now, this girl who’s using Fern Driscoll’s name has a job with the Consolidated Sales and Distribution Company.”
“This floor?” Drake asked, looking up.
“This floor.”
“I know the head of that concern pretty well,” Drake said. “I can get a line on her.”
“She’s only been here ten days or two weeks. I want to get her
Mason said, “I’m afraid. Sergeant, you don’t understand how I work.”
“I know all about how you work,” Holcomb told him. “Keep them here, Ray. In exactly ten minutes you may let them go.” Sgt. Holcomb hurried away.
Mason looked at his wrist watch, stretched, yawned, lit a cigarette, put his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes.
Dr. Arlington, taking his cue from Perry Mason, went over to his car, opened the door and started to get in.
“Stay right here for ten minutes,” the officer warned.
“Nine minutes now,” Dr. Arlington said, climbing into his car and slamming the door shut.
Della Street, with an eye on her wrist watch, counted off the minutes.
“All right, Chief,” she said, “nine and a half minutes.” At Mason’s nod, she started the motor.
“Hold it,” the officer said. “You have thirty seconds to go.”
“Just warming the car up,” Mason told him.
The officer seemed uneasy. “I’d like to get word from Sgt. Holcomb.
He could communicate with us through the car radio.”
“I know he could,” Mason said, “but he said ten minutes, and ten minutes it is.”
The officer seemed undecided.
“Okay, Della,” Mason said.
Della Street in the driver’s seat eased the car into gear.
Dr. Arlington’s car slid out behind them.
“Now where?” Della asked.
“Drake Detective Agency,” Mason said, “but first signal Dr. Arlington to come alongside.”
Della Street drove for a block, then pulled off to the side of the road, motioned with her arm for Dr. Arlington to come alongside on the one-way street.
When Dr. Arlington was running abreast Mason said, “Go on home, Doctor, and don’t answer questions.”
Dr. Arlington nodded to show that he understood and shot ahead.
Della Street said, “I think Paul Drake is in the office tonight. He told me he was working on a case and expected to be there until nearly midnight.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “We’ll talk with Paul personally. Swing over to the right and turn a corner, Della. I presume that officer is still watching our tail-light and it’s quite possible Sgt. Holcomb might relay a radio message to him asking him to hold us for another inquiry.”
Chapter 9
THE NIGHT switchboard operator at the Drake Detective Agency offices looked up as Mason held the office door open for Della Street.
She nodded and smiled.
“Anybody in with Paul?” Mason asked.
“No, Mr. Mason, he’s alone.”
“Tell him we’re on our way,” Mason said.
The operator nodded and plugged in a telephone line. Mason opened the gate which led to a corridor lined with doors opening into small cubbyhole offices. Paul Drake’s private office was at the end of the corridor. Mason opened the door.
“Hi, Perry!” the detective said. “Hi, Della. What brings you out at this time of night?—Oh-oh, I’ll bet I don’t want to know the answer.” Mason pulled up a chair for Della Street, then sat down next to Drake’s desk. “Paul, we’re mixed up in a case that I can’t figure out. I want a lot of research work done and I want it done fast.” Drake picked up a pencil and moved a pad of paper toward him. Tall, long—limbed, poker—faced, he moved with an easy, double-jointed rhythm which seemed awkward, yet eliminated all waste motion.
“Shoot.”
“A girl using the name of Fern Driscoll, 309 Rexmore Apartments. I want everything you can get on Fern Driscoll. She was working in Lansing, Michigan, and left suddenly. Now, this girl who’s using Fern Driscoll’s name has a job with the Consolidated Sales and Distribution Company.”
“This floor?” Drake asked, looking up.
“This floor.”
“I know the head of that concern pretty well,” Drake said. “I can get a line on her.”
“She’s only been here ten days or two weeks. I want to get her
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