Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

“That’s just the point,” Mason said. “Don’t you get it? They aren’t on our trail yet. They won’t get on it until they find this body. They won’t find it until some person comes to the house.”

“Who?”

“Perhaps,” Mason said, “it’ll be Rodney Wenston — although I hardly think so. Even if he does come here, he’s hardly in a better position to call the police than we are.”

“Why?”

“Because of the purpose for which this house was used, and the deception Karr practiced on the officers. Karr evidently fears the police as much as we do. And Rodney Wenston, unless he has an iron-clad alibi, is more apt to have pulled the trigger than anyone else — remember, Wenston’s been flying Karr back and forth to San Francisco, helping keep the secret of that wounded leg.”

Della nodded, then, indicating the bedroom with a slight inclination of her head, asked, “How did he get there, and why was he killed?”

Mason said, “Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk in Locarno’s Grill. Right now the big thing is a getaway.”

They switched out lights in the corridor, went down the stairs to the living room. Mason went around turning out lights. “No need to bother with fingerprints down here,” he said. “Once they suspect us, the two police officers can make an absolute identification.”

“Out the front door or the back?” she asked.

“The front door by all means. We stroll out arm in arm. Man-and-wife-going-to-the-movies stuff.”

“It’s late for a movie, and,” she added, “my stomach says man-and-wife-should-go-to-restaurant.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “man and wife go to restaurant. Wait here while I turn out the lights in the dining room.”

“Wait here nothing!” she protested. “What do you think I am? I stick to you like a foxtail to a dog’s ear until we get out of this place.”

Mason slipped his arm around her waist. “I know how you feel, Della,” he said sympathetically.

“D-d-darn it,” she said, his sympathy moving her almost to the point of tears. “Why couldn’t we let Paul D-d-drake keep on f-ff-finding our bodies for us?”

“We just led with our chins, that’s all,” Mason said. “Walked right into it, and, having walked right into it, we’re going to keep our chins up and walk right out of it.”

Della Street swung around to stand close to him. Her body pressed against his, her hands on his shoulders. “Don’t get the idea my chin’s down. I just got an awful jolt, that’s all.”

Mason finished switching out the lights. His small flashlight illuminated the way to the door. “All ready?” he asked.

“All ready,” she told him.

“A stiff upper lip,” he said, “and chin held high. We’re on our way.”

Mason flung the door open.

The fog-filled air stroked their faces with cool fingers. The street seemed deserted. Mason gave Della Street his arm. “The next few seconds are the bad ones,” he said. Together they walked down the stairs to the sidewalk. Halfway to the carline, Della Street said, “Lord, how I want to run. My feet seem to fly up at me. Do we take a car?”

“Yes. Remember, that radio patrol car is cruising around here, looking for two people who answer our description.”

“But if they stop us, they’ll recognize us.”

“That’s just the trouble. Seeing us together will make them realize how closely we check with the description given by the frightened party in the rubber-soled shoes.”

“Oh-oh,” Della Street said. “And even on the cable car we’ll be conspicuous. If there were only a phone handy so we could call a cab!”

Mason laughed. “In any event, you have to admit our lives don’t consist of a mere drab procession of uninteresting events.”

“No,” she admitted, chattering nervously to keep herself under control. “Life doesn’t bother us at all that way. Do we wait here for the car?”

Mason said, “We walk a couple of blocks, find some place — No, here comes a car now. We take it.”

The cable car which swung around the corner to the accompaniment of a jangling bell slowed at Mason’s signal.

“Got mad money?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“All right, get on by yourself. Sit in back. I’ll sit out in front. We’re just two people who happened to have taken the car at the same corner.”

The motorman pulled back on the big brake. Mason caught the hand grip and swung aboard a couple of seconds before the car came to a stop, permitting Della Street to board the enclosed section. The motorman released levers, pulled on a grip, and the car rattled forward.

After what seemed an interminable interval of twisting and turning, clanging across intersections, and being braked down steep hills, the cable car slowed in response to Mason’s signal. The lawyer slid from his seat, swung Ms long legs out to the ground, and walked rapidly away. Della Street followed demurely a half block behind. Abruptly Mason turned, started back, caught Della Street’s eye, and raised his hat “Well, well, well,” he exclaimed. “Fancy seeing you here!”

Her face lit in a glad smile. “Perry!” she exclaimed.

Two Marines who had been quite obviously interested in Della Street turned disappointedly away. Mason said, “This is indeed a pleasure. How about something to eat?”

“Do you know, that’s a peculiar coincidence. I was just thinking of going to a restaurant.”

“There’s a very nice café in the next block,” he told her. “Locarno’s — noted for its broiled steaks.”

“The way I feel right now, two cocktails and a steak would make a new woman of me.”

“Going to trade in the old model?” Mason asked.

“I’m thinking of it. What am I offered?”

“Two cocktails and a steak.”

“Sold.”

Laughing, she took his arm, and they started up the street together. She said, “My knees are wobbly. I’ve got the jitters. I need a drink, but I’m still hungry.”

“You’ll get accustomed to corpses after a while,” he told her.

“Yes. Working for a man who isn’t content to sit back and let a case develop, but has to go out and develop it, has its decided drawbacks.”

Mason said, “One of the first rules of secretarial efficiency is never to find fault with the boss when he’s about to buy a meal.”

“Isn’t a secretary entitled to her necessary traveling expenses?”

“Yes, but when she steps outside of her secretarial position and becomes an accessory, she loses her amateur status.”

“What’s an accessory?” she asked.

Mason said out of the corner of his mouth, “A moll who cases de joint.”

“Stop it,” she commanded. “I certainly led with my chin on that one. My face gets red every time I even think of it.”

Mason piloted her through the doors of the grill. “I’ve got some telephoning to do,” he said. “I’ll seat you, order some cocktails, and run.”

A headwaiter came smiling toward them. “Something near the...”

“A corner, somewhere far back,” Mason said.

The headwaiter’s smile became almost a smirk. “Yes, sir. I understand. This way, please.”

When they were seated and had ordered cocktails, Mason went to the telephone booth. He first called the airport, found that two seats were available on the midnight plane, and engaged them. Then he called Paul Drake’s office on long distance. Drake was not in, but Mason left instructions. “As nearly as possible,” he said, “I want to find out where Rodney Wenston was during every minute of the day. Tell Paul to get a line on Delman Steele, a roomer at the Gentrie house on East Dorchester. Got that?”

“Yes. Paul will be in in an hour or so.”

“Tell Paul to wait up for me,” Mason said. “I’ll be in his office about two-forty-five.” He hung up, returned to the table where two full cocktail glasses were waiting.