Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

Mason said, “Don’t go back to Los Angeles. Catch the first available plane, train or bus for San Francisco, whichever is the first available means of transportation. Go to the San Francisco Airport. Go to the mezzanine floor. Sit there and wait. Now do you understand those instructions?”

“You.”

“Will you do that?”

“I’ll have to ask Aunt Sara.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s right here.”

“Well, ask her,” Mason said impatiently.

He held the phone for a moment, conscious of Della Street’s anxious eyes, then heard Myrna Davenport’s voice, “Very well. We’ll follow your instructions.”

“Don’t talk to anyone. If anyone should ask you questions, don’t answer. That relates to anyone . Do you understand? Anyone.”

“I understand what you’re telling me but I don’t understand why.”

“Never mind understanding why. Do what I tell you,” Mason said.

Mason hung up the phone.

He strode angrily toward the light switch.

“What is it?” Della Street asked anxiously.

“Apparently,” Mason said, “we have been made the victim of a beautiful double cross.”

“And Ed Davenport isn’t dead?” she asked.

“According to the latest report he is very much alive and has disappeared—perhaps he’s on his way up here or he may have been the man who telephoned from Bakersfield leaving the cryptic message.”

“So what is your legal position now?”

“That of having assumed charge of an estate before there was any estate, of having rifled a ‘dead’ man’s effects while the man was still alive.”

Della Street thought that over for a moment, then moved into the kitchen, making certain that things were replaced as they had found them, polishing off fingerprints and turning off lights.

Mason met her at the front door. “Let’s go, Della.”

“Where?”

“Back to Chico, where we turn in this car and catch the first available means of transportation out. We stop over long enough to ring up the Drake Detective Agency and tell Paul Drake to have two operatives cover the Pacific Palisades Motor Court at San Bernardino, to keep an eye on unit thirteen, to report to him as soon as the unit is occupied, by whom, and then keep the place covered. We also have Paul check on Ed Davenport. Come on Della, let’s go.”

Chapter 4

It was two forty-five in the morning when Perry Mason and Della Street walked into the San Francisco Airport.

“You go up first,” Mason said, indicating the mezzanine. “Look around. If they’re up there beckon to me. If anyone seems to be shadowing them, don’t beckon but come downstairs and report. Just take a good look around.”

“How can I tell if anyone is shadowing them?”

“If someone is sitting up there reading a paper or a magazine, apparently completely engrossed in something else, let me know. Let’s not walk into any traps.”

Della Street climbed the stairs, and after a few moments came down to say, “There’s a man sitting there reading a paper, Chief.”

“And the two women are up there?”

“They’re up there, apparently sound asleep. Both of them with their heads back and their eyes closed.”

Mason said, “Della, there’s a three-five plane to Los Angeles. Get four tickets. We can just about make it. I’ll go up and get the women. If they’re being shadowed we can’t help it.”

Mason climbed the stairs. The man who was engrossed in the newspaper casually turned a page, folded it and went on with his reading.

Mason walked partway around the mezzanine, came back, stretched, yawned, settled himself down beside Sara Ansel, who was gently snoring. Myrna Davenport’s head was resting against Sara Ansel’s shoulder. She was sleeping peacefully.

Mason touched Sara Ansel’s arm.

She fidgeted uneasily.

Mason looked over at the man who was reading the newspaper, then touched her again.

Sara Ansel wakened with a start.

“I beg your pardon,” Mason said casually, putting a cigarette in his mouth. “Do you have a match?”

She started to glower, then recognized him and said, “Why, I… I—”

“And may I offer you a cigarette?” Mason asked.

The man with the paper still seemed completely engrossed in his reading.

Myrna Davenport was awakened by the voices.

“Why, how do you do?” she said. “I—”

Mason frowned her into silence. “Do one of you ladies have a match?”

Myrna Davenport produced a lighter.

Mason lit his cigarette. “Thank you very much,” he said. He stretched, yawned, settled back in the chair and said in a low voice to Sara Ansel, “There’s a three-five plane for Los Angeles. Della Street, my secretary, is getting tickets. She’ll meet you at the gate with tickets and gate passes. She’ll hand them to you unobtrusively. Get on that plane. We’ll talk there.”

Mason again yawned, looked at his watch, walked over to the balcony, looked down and received a signal from Della Street that the tickets were all okay.

The lawyer walked casually around to the far side of the balcony, again looked at his wrist watch, settled down in a chair, leaned back and smoked contemplatively while he watched Sara Ansel and Myrna Davenport descend the stairs.

The man who had been reading the newspaper got up, walked to the railing around the mezzanine and casually raised his right hand. Then he returned to his chair.

Mason arose, walked across to the stairs and went down to the main floor, moving slowly, yet timing himself carefully. He reached the gate where the three-five plane was loading two minutes before the time of departure.

Della Street was waiting with a plane ticket and gate pass.

“The two women aboard?” Mason asked.

She nodded.

“Let’s go,” Mason told her.

They boarded the plane and were able to secure seats directly behind Sara Ansel and Myrna Davenport.

Sara Ansel turned to say something to Mason but he almost imperceptibly shook his head and settled back against the seat.

They fastened safety belts. The motors throbbed into life and the big plane taxied slowly down the long runway, wheeled into position and waited while the motors were gunned into life one at a time. Then the four motors simultaneously roared into a cadence of power. The big plane swept down the runway and into the air. A few moments later the lights of San Francisco showed beneath as the plane made a long, banking circle, then swung out on its course.

Sara Ansel turned and said angrily, “It certainly took you long enough to get there!”

“Up in that country,” Mason told her, “they roll up the sidewalks at nine o’clock. We had quite a time.”

“What’s the idea? Having us running around like a couple of criminals.”

“You have your suitcases?”

“No.”

“Where are they?”

“We shipped them by air express. We didn’t know what you wanted.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “If you aren’t encumbered with baggage you can move around a lot more easily. Now tell me what happened. We’d better change seats. Della, you sit over with Mrs. Davenport. Mrs. Ansel, you come back here with me.”

They changed seats without seeming to attract attention from any of the other passengers, most of whom had settled back, trying to get some sleep.

“Put your mouth close to my ear,” Mason said. “Talk low and tell me what happened.”

“Do you want the highlights,” she asked, “or—?”

“Give me the highlights first,” Mason said, “then I’ll ask questions to get the details I want.”

“Well,” she said, “it seems that Ed Davenport left his office in Paradise Sunday noon. He telephoned Myrna that he was driving down, that he would stop overnight along the road.