Erle Gardner - The Case of the Runaway

And with that Mason touched the button which slid the seat back into a reclining position.

“Now,” Della Street complained, “you’ve got me wide awake.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking over what’s happened.”

Mason said sleepily, “Wait an hour and a half and you may have a lot more to think over.”

Chapter 5

The plane glided to a landing, then taxied up to the airport.

Mason and Della Street watched Sara Ansel and Myrna Davenport walk through the terminal and enter a taxicab.

The cab swung out into the driveway and then into the traffic.

A businesslike car with a tall aerial in the rear pulled out of a parking position and swung in behind the taxicab.

“Well, that does it,” Mason said.

“Police?” Della Street asked.

Mason nodded.

“What are they waiting for, why don’t they go ahead and make an arrest?” Della Street asked.

“They’re trying to establish a pattern of action.”

“So what do we do?”

“We now get two taxicabs.”

“Two?”

Mason nodded.

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to take one until we get to town?”

“Exactly,” Mason said, “but this way is more confusing.”

“Do I try to see if I’m being followed?”

“Definitely not,” Mason told her. “You’re the soul of innocence. You settle back in the cushions. You’ve had a long, hard day, and you’re going home, take a bath and get a few hours’ sleep until you feel like coming to the office, or until I call you.”

“And in the meantime what will you be doing?”

Mason said, “I’ll bathe, shave, change clothes and see what happens.”

“You think something is going to happen?”

“I wouldn’t be too surprised.”

“What?”

Mason said, “Well, I might—just might—run out to the Pacific Palisades Motor Court at San Bernardino”

“Why?”

Mason said, “The man in unit thirteen might turn out to know something about Ed Davenport.”

“Oh-oh!” she said, and then, after a moment, “Suppose he does. Then what?”

Mason said, “I might talk with him. I’d like to establish a pattern of action myself.”

“Won’t you be able to get any sleep?”

“I won’t if I go out there, but I won’t go out there unless Paul Drake reports the cabin is occupied.”

“Why not take me with you?”

Mason shook his head firmly. “You, young lady, are going to get a little shut-eye. The party may get rough from now on.”

“You don’t think there’s a simple explanation for this, that Ed Davenport went on a bust and—?”

“There may be a simple explanation,” Mason said, “but there are complicating factors. Here’s a taxicab, Della. In you go. You have enough money for expenses?”

“Plenty.”

“Okay. See you later.”

Mason waved good-by to her and stood stretching and yawning, looking at the glow of light above the city.

Another businesslike car with an aerial in the rear slid out from the parking place and followed Della Street’s taxicab.

Mason took another cab and, fighting back in almost irresistible impulse, determinedly kept his eyes to the front and never once looked back to see whether or not a police car was following.

Mason paid off the taxi driver in front of his apartment house, went in and took a shower. Then, wrapped in his bathrobe, called the Drake Detective Agency.

The night operator answered the phone.

“This is Perry Mason,” he said. “I suppose Paul Drake is wrapped in the arms of Morpheus.”

“He was up here until well after midnight,” the operator said. “He said that if you called we were to relay reports that have come in on that San Bernardino job.”

“Let’s have them,” Mason said.

“Unit thirteen,” the operator said, “according to the data made available by our operatives in a telephone report, was rented over the telephone from Fresno Sunday night by a man who identified himself as Frank L. Stanton. He said that he was going to be in late Monday, that he wanted a unit and specifically instructed that the unit be left unlocked so he wouldn’t have to bother waking the manager and getting a key. He said he might not get in until between two and three o’clock Tuesday morning, that he would want the unit for two consecutive days. He asked how much the price was, was informed that it was six dollars per day, and said that he would go to the telegraph office and wire twelve dollars for two days.”

“That was done?” Mason asked.

“That was done.”

“And what about Stanton?”

“Up until thirty minutes ago, when the operative telephoned in a report. Stanton hadn’t shown up, but here’s a development that you’ll probably be interested in.”

“What is it?”

“Another detective agency is on the job.”

“Watching for Stanton?”

“Apparently.”

“Who is it?”

“We’re not certain yet but we think it’s Jason L. Beckemeyer, a private detective from Bakersfield.”

“How are you making your identification?” Mason asked.

“By the license number of the automobile. That gave our men the first lead. Then I telephoned in for a description of Beckemeyer and he answers the description of the driver. Fifty-two, five feet seven, weight a hundred and eighty pounds. A short, chunky, barrel-chested individual.”

“Any idea what he’s after?”

“Apparently just trying to get a line on who comes to unit thirteen.”

“They think that’s the one he’s watching?”

“They can’t be certain but they think so. The other units are all occupied.”

“Have the men keep on the job,” Mason said. “Also send out another operative to tail Beckemeyer. When he quits he’ll probably go to a telephone to report. I’d like very much to find out what number he calls. It’ll be from a pay station and your man may be able to do something.”

“It’s pretty difficult to get those telephone numbers, but we’ll try.”

“Give it a try,” Mason said. “Now here’s something else. I’m working on a case involving a man by the name of Ed Davenport. He was supposed to have died in Crampton yesterday. The only trouble with that theory is that the corpse climbed out of a window and drove away.

“It becomes important to know where he was and what he did the night before his ‘death.’ Probably he was in Fresno. The police will be nosing around in a halfhearted sort of way. They’ll be looking for a registration of Edward Davenport. In all probability they won’t find a thing because he would have been using an assumed name.

“That motel at San Bernardino gives us a clue to his assumed name. It was probably Frank L. Stanton.

“That may give us a head start on the police. Have your correspondent in Fresno start tracing Frank L. Stanton. Put a dozen men on it if you have to. I want results and I want the thing kept completely confidential. Can do?”

“Can do,” she said. “We work with a good outfit at Fresno.”

“Okay,” Mason told her. “I’ll be in my office sometime around ten o’clock, but call me at my apartment if anything important develops.”

Mason shaved, had a drink of warm milk, stretched out on a davenport with the morning paper, covered himself with a blanket, read for ten or fifteen minutes, then dozed off into slumber, from which he was awakened by the sharp, insistent ringing of the telephone bell.

Since only Paul Drake and Della Street had the number of his unlisted private phone in the apartment, Mason grabbed for the receiver, said, “Hello.”

Paul Drake’s voice was sharply incisive.

“You’re usually waking me up out of a sound sleep, Perry. Now it’s your turn.”