Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Lonely Heiress

“Evidently so,” Mason said. “She must make a habit of it — and, after all, why not? Having picked the best place for her to size up her prospective boy friends, there’s no particular reason why she should change it from night to night. If this is the best place for her purpose, any other place would be inferior, and... Let’s get that bag and then move over here and sit down where we can watch proceedings, Della.”

They found a couple of seats three rows back, but in such a position that they had a good view of what was going on at the information booth.

Della Street regarded the young man who was standing somewhat self-consciously in front of the information-booth barrier, and said, “He’s nowhere near as attractive as Kenneth Barstow.”

“Seems to be an upstanding young chap,” Mason said.

“But not attractive in the way that Barstow is. Tell me, Chief, have you known Barstow before?”

Mason shook his head. “Just one of Drake’s operatives. They come and go. That young fellow probably was in the war and hasn’t been back with Drake more than six months or so. I just haven’t had occasion to meet him, so I can’t answer your question.”

“What question?” Della Street asked, frowning.

“As to whether he’s married.”

She smiled. “I hadn’t asked it.”

“I merely told you I couldn’t answer it.”

They waited for a moment in silence, then Mason said, “I wonder if she’ll pass this one up. She’s probably sizing him up from some other part of the station, but I don’t want to try rubbering around. It’ll make us too conspicuous. Wait a minute, here she is, coming out from that telephone booth. That’s a good place for her. She can sit in there and size up the one she lines up.”

“She’s certainly going to a lot of trouble to get the perfect mate,” Della Street said.

“I’m afraid she’s not looking for a mate,” Mason observed thoughtfully.

“For what, then?”

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, “For someone to commit a murder, for all I know.”

Marilyn Marlow glanced quickly around the depot, then walked up toward the information desk.

“Certainly has a snaky figure,” Mason said.

“And how well she knows it,” Della Street said acidly. “She certainly dresses for it, and... well, here we go again.”

Marilyn Marlow walked up to the young man at the information desk. By this time that individual was rather absorbed in his own thoughts and it was necessary for her to touch his arm before, with a sudden quick jump, he whirled, to smile down at her, removing his hat in a single quick gesture of easy grace.

“That’s no boy from the country,” Della Street said. “That chap knows his way around. I’d like to know what he told her in his letter."

“Something that got a response,” Mason said, “and from what we know, that isn’t an easy thing to do. A hundred candidates a day! That’s quite a handicap — one chance in a hundred!”

The couple chatted for a moment, the man smiling affably and easily.

For a moment the girl seemed somewhat dubious. Her large dark eyes sized him up from head to foot in critical appraisal, then, apparently reaching a decision, she smiled an invitation to accompany her, and the two left the depot.

“Well, that’s that,” Della Street said. “I suppose it’s another taxicab and...”

Mason was crisply businesslike as he said, “We’ll make certain of that, Della.”

He arose and started for the exit.

“Want me with you?” Della Street asked.

“Uh huh, it’ll make it seem less conspicuous. When we get to the door, you pull back and argue with me to put through a telephone call to Aunt Myrtle. I won’t want to do it. That’ll give us an excuse to stand there without seeming to be gawking.”

She nodded and at Mason’s side walked out to the cement apron in front of the depot.

Marilyn Marlow and the young man were standing there, not saying anything at the moment.

“Come on,” Della Street pleaded in a loud voice, “you simply have to call Aunt Myrtle. She’ll never forgive us if she knows we went through town without calling her.”

“Oh, forget it,” Mason said. “Then we’d have to go out and spend all our time between trains sitting in a stuffy parlor and talking a lot of family stuff. Let’s look the city over and see what it’s like. It’s the first time we’ve ever been here.”

“No, we must call Aunt Myrtle. Perhaps we can go out after that.”

They were still arguing when a car pulled over to one side.

“Shucks,” Della Street said under her breath, “they can’t get a taxicab here. What are they waiting for? The taxicabs are around at the other end and...”

Abruptly Mason said, “All right, let’s go telephone Aunt Myrtle,” and putting his arm around Della Street swept her back toward the depot.

“What is it?” Della asked quickly.

“You might try looking back over your shoulder,” Mason said.

Della Street looked back. A car had driven up and stopped at the curb. Marilyn Marlow swept imperiously toward it and the young man, quickly reaching past her, opened the door and assisted her in, then climbed in beside her. The door slammed and the car moved away.

“Get a look at the chauffeur?” Mason asked.

“Good heavens, yes!” Della Street exclaimed. “It was Robert Caddo! And he was all dolled up in a chauffeur’s cap and a suit of livery!”

Mason regarded Della Street’s practically untouched plate.

“Not hungry, Della?”

She shook her head.

“I suppose you’re thinking of the same thing I am,” he said.

She nodded.

“I hate to be double-crossed by a client,” Mason went on, “but let’s try and get it off our minds while we’re eating. How about a dance?”

She nodded, and Mason swept her out on to the dance floor.

But neither of them could enjoy the dance. There was a certain tension about Della Street, and Mason’s jaw had a determined set to it.

“Of course,” Mason said at length, “it’s none of our business what she wants the chap for, but it certainly looks as though she wants to get some green-as-grass chap she can twist right around her fingers. I wonder if there’s something phony about that will, Della.”

Della Street laughed. “You’re not only reading my mind, but you’re getting it all churned up.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “let’s get out of here and take another look at Drake’s report.”

Mason called the waiter, paid their check, retrieved his car from the parking lot and drove to his office building.

The night janitor who operated the elevator, grinned at Mason as the lawyer signed the night register. “You seen Paul Drake, Mr. Mason?”

“Not recently.”

“He’s looking for you. He said that if you came in, to be sure to have you call him on the phone before you did anything else.”

Mason said, “Okay, I’ll stop in and see him.”

The elevator cage shot upward.

“What was that message again?” Della Street asked.

“Said for Mr. Mason to call him on the phone before he did anything else.”

“Mr. Drake is home, then?”

“Nope,” the janitor said. “He’s in his office.”

Della Street exchanged glances with Mason.

“The perfect secretary,” Mason said. “I’d missed that one, Della.”

“How’s that?” the janitor asked, as he brought the cage to a stop

“Nothing,” Mason said.

They walked past the lighted offices which bore the sign, Drake Detective Agency, on the door, down the long corridor, around the bend, and Mason latch-keyed the door of his private office.