"I don't know. I can try. A girl doesn't get by very long in the looks jobs without learning how to put on an act."

  "What do you mean, looks jobs?"

  "Oh, being a cigar and cigarette girl in a night spot, checking hats, and stuff of that sort. You are an ornament as well as a worker. People feel free to make passes and you kid them along."

  "Well," Mason said, dropping the keys back in her purse, "we can try one rehearsal when we have a little more time. I don't want to rehearse you so much that it will look staged. I want you to make it appear spontaneous and natural. Go ahead now. Try and think of something else about that man, something that would be a clue."

  "I can't think of anything."

  "That dinner jacket," Mason asked, "he didn't mention it to you, where he had been or anything of that sort, or how he happened to be wearing it?"

  "No. I didn't think much of it at the time."

  Mason said, "It's a key clue, if we only knew how to interpret it."

  "I don't see why. Tuxedos aren't so unusual."

  Mason said, "Stop the first five thousand cars going over the Ridge route at ten o'clock in the evening, and see how many drivers are wearing tuxedos."

  Her eyelids narrowed as she thought that over. "Yes," she said, "I can see what you mean. It is unusual."

  "And that," Mason observed, "is the secret of crime solution. You find the things that are unusual, the things which vary from the normal or average, and, using them as clues, you get away from generalities, and down to specific individual cases."

  "I see what you are getting at, but I can't help you. He didn't say a thing about how he happened to be wearing it."

  "You must have left Bakersfield at around ten o'clock."

  "Yes."

  "And you think this man must have come from some place north of Bakersfield."

  "I can't be certain. I was watching the other cars. No, he may have swung around that traffic circle."

  "Did you notice any baggage in the car?"

  "No, I didn't. It might have been there, and I wouldn't have noticed it. And, of course, some might have been in the trunk."

  "Do you think there was any baggage in back?"

  She frowned. "I don't think there was."

  "He could hardly have gone back, opened the trunk, and taken out baggage after the accident. What's more, you have the keys in your purse."

  "That's right."

  "Did he have any rings on his hands?"

  "Yes. There was a diamond ring on his right hand. I remember seeing it when he reached for the gearshift, and his hands were well cared for, pudgy with short, thick fingers, and they were well manicured."

  "He wasn't wearing gloves?"

  "No."

  Knuckles sounded on the outer door. Stephane said, "This will be Uncle Max, and the boyfriend," and called, "Come in."

  It was Max Olger who pushed the door open. The young man hung back. Stephane called, "Come on in, Jacks. I won't bite."

  He walked over to the bed and stood looking down at her. "Hello, kid," he said, and then very diffidently picked up her hand, which was lying on the counterpane, held it for a moment, stroking the back of it with his other hand. "How you feeling?"

  "Swell."

  "I didn't want you to think I was – following you up. I wanted you to know about that. I am just here to help you. Your uncle got detectives to try and trace you. I didn't do a thing. Not that I didn't want to know where you had gone, but I knew you went away because you wanted to go, and I didn't want to do anything – Well, you know how it is."

  "Thanks, Jacks."

  "And I came here just to see what I could do to help. That's all, I am not going to be a nuisance. I told Max I would stay at a different hotel and..."

  She withdrew her hand, said, "This is Mr. Mason, my lawyer."

  The young man turned. He was as tall as Mason, and thirty pounds heavier, despite a slender waist. His big hand enfolded the lawyer's wiry fingers. "How are you, Mr. Mason? Mr. Olger has been telling me about you. Do the best you can for her. How do things look?"

  "I can't tell yet," Mason said, shaking hands.

  Stephane Claire said to Mason, "Really now, how do they look?"

  "Right now, they look black. All cases do at the start."

  "This is a long way from the start."

  "And a long way from the finish," Mason said. "You gentlemen won't mind if Miss Claire tells you what happened in rather general terms? I don't want her to tell her story so many times it will sound rehearsed when she gets on the witness stand."

  Max Olger nodded vehemently. "Good idea, Mason. That is splendid strategy. I have been in court and heard people tell stories that sounded as though they had been learned by heart."

  "They probably were. Well, I will be going."

  "Can I get her out of here?" Max Olger asked.

  "You can, if you want to put up ten thousand dollars cash bail or twenty thousand dollars bond."

  Stephane Claire said, "Good heavens, Mr. Mason! Am I as much of a criminal as that? When did all this take place?"

  Mason said, "Late this afternoon."

  Max Olger said, "I shall put up cash within the next thirty minutes. I didn't know how much would be required, so I carried ten certified cheques, each for ten thousand dollars."

  "You must have thought bail was going to be high," Mason said.

  "No. I simply came prepared in the event it was high."

  "You don't want to get out tonight, do you?" Mason asked Stephane Claire.

  "I most certainly do. I haven't said anything because there was no use crabbing about something you couldn't help, but this business of being detained has been like a nightmare."

  Mason said to Max Olger, "All right, go put up the bail and get her out. Where are you staying?"

  "The Adirondack. We will have a suite there."

  Jackson Steme said, "I shall go to some other hotel, Stephane. I don't want to intrude. Can you tell me some good hotel that is nearby, Mr. Mason?"

  "Might try the Gateview," Mason said. "It is within three or four blocks of the Adirondack. It is a quiet place, small but comfortable."

  Stephane said savagely, "Jacks, if you wouldn't be so damned self-effacing, I would like you a lot better. Aren't you going to kiss me?"

  "Do you really mean it? May I?"

  She turned her head away with a jerk. "No!"

  Mason tiptoed out of the room, let the door swing shut behind him, and walked rapidly down the hospital corridor. A cold wind had started to blow, and he buttoned up his coat, made certain that he wasn't followed, and dropped into a drugstore at the corner. He called Drake's office. Drake had just come in.

  Mason said, "Paul, I have been thinking we may have overlooked a bet."

  "On what?"

  "On Mrs. Warfield."

  "What about her?"

  "We didn't put a tail on her."

  "Well, I can do it if you want."

  "I think we should better. Put two good men right in the hotel. They can rent a room and take turns watching and sleeping."

  "I shall have them there within half an hour."

  "Call me back at my apartment," Mason said, "and before they start work, have them find out if Mrs. Warfield is in her room."

  "Right."

  Mason hung up, drove to his apartment, slipped out of his coat, vest, shirt, and trousers, put on a pair of slacks and a smoking jacket, and was lighting his pipe when the phone rang.

  "Drake talking," the detective said. "Everything's okay at the Gateview."

  "She is in her room?"

  "Uh-huh. The light is still on."

  "And your men are on the job?"

  "That's right. But I have found out something that doesn't look so good."

  "What?"

  "She went up to her room, then after a few minutes came back down to the lobby. The girl at the newsstand was just closing up. Mrs. Warfield tried to get some back copies of Photoplay."

  Mason whistled. "Did the girl have any?"

  "No."

  Mason frowned at the telephone. "That picture of Homan," he asked, "was that published in Photoplay?"

  "I think it was."

  "You don't know when?"

  "Some time last summer."

  "She didn't ask for any particular number?"

  "No, just asked for back copies of Photoplay."

  "We will have to raise our sights a couple of notches on Mrs. Lois Warfield."

  "You may be right at that," Drake admitted. "It makes my cheeks burn. She didn't act smart. She seemed like a woman who is accustomed to pick up her hand after the deal and find she holds all the low cards."

  Mason said, "Scrimping out of her salary to send those monthly remittances to Spinney certainly sounds on the level."

  "I am not so certain, Perry, but what that is just a dodge. If she was sending eighteen dollars a month, it would be two hundred and sixteen dollars a year. That's pretty cheap for a phony build-up."

  "Not for a person who is working in a cafeteria in New Orleans," Mason said. "Keep your eye peeled, Paul. I feel that we are walking in the dark, and there are banana peels on the sidewalk."

  "Well, I have got two men on the job who aren't exactly simpletons."

  "Keep them there," Mason said, and hung up.

  Chapter 10

  MASON WAS UP at seven-thirty. He closed the windows, turned on the steam heat, glanced through the headlines of the paper, and took a lukewarm shower.

  When he had dressed, he went to the bookshelves and selected a large white-backed volume which he spread open on the table in front of the window.

  The volume gave much biographical information concerning the prominent men identified with the film industry, and, using it as a reference, Mason checked back against the information which Drake had given him concerning Jules Carne Homan. The producer was thirty-four years old, had had high school education and two years of college. There was a long list of screen originals he had written and plays which had been produced under him. While the volume didn't say so in so many words, it was apparent that Homan's Hollywood activities had occupied a period of but little over two years. He had started as a writer, and, from the meteoric advance. Mason felt certain that there was a story behind the scenes. But there was no inkling as to what that story might be.

  Mason zipped open his brief case and stood staring at the photograph of Jules Carne Homan. He turned it over and looked on the back. The words, "Photoplay Magazine," had been stamped on the back. Mason pulled the shades, turned on a desk lamp, and tried holding the photograph at different angles. The words on the back didn't show through the photograph, except when it was held directly in front of a bright light.

  Mason was still frowning thoughtfully an hour and fifteen minutes later when he entered the office.

  Della Street brought in the morning mail. "How did your interview turn out?" she asked.

  "Nothing doing," Mason said.

  "She wouldn't talk?"

  "Apparently she knew nothing to talk about. But there is an angle I can't get."

  "What, for instance?"

  Mason handed Della Street the photograph of Homan. "Look at it," he said. "Don't turn it over. Just look at it. How would you know that was taken by a photographer of Photoplay Magazine?"

  "I wouldn't."

  "Well, it was, and she did."

  "You are certain?"

  "I am not certain of anything in this case. You follow a blazed trail that looks broad as a boulevard, and all of a sudden it evaporates into thin air and leaves you in the middle of a swamp somewhere. The ..."

  "Wait a minute," Della Street said, staring at the photograph. She held it up to the light.

  "No, I have tried that. The paper is too heavy. The light doesn't shine through. Then again, there wasn't any light on the table. She didn't even turn it around, just held it in her right hand, looked at it and then passed it back."

  Della Street said, "It's funny she didn't hold it in both hands."

  "She was doing some little feminine stunt or other at the time, digging in her bag or something."

  Della Street's eyes twinkled. "Not powdering her nose?"

  "Yes," Mason said, "I believe she was. Why?"

  "Goosey!"

  "What's the idea?"

  She opened her bag, took out a compact, snapped it open, said, "Hold out the photograph."

  Mason held the photograph out in front of her. Della Street tilted her compact.

  "Get it?" she asked.

  "Get what? ... Oh, my gosh!" Mason exclaimed.

  "You should have had me along," Della Street told him reproachfully. "This takes a woman's touch."

  Mason said to Della, "I am just a lawyer, but Paul Drake is supposed to be a detective. Wait until he hears . . ."

  A knock sounded on the door. "That's Paul now," she said.

  Mason grinned. "Open up for him, Della. This is going to be good."

  Drake came swinging into the office, said, "Hello, gang," and sprawled out in the big leather chair.

  Mason grinned at him. "How is the great detective this morning?"

  Drake cocked a baleful eye in Mason's direction. "This," he said, "has all the earmarks of being the preliminary for a sock right between the eyes."

  Mason said, "The trouble with us, Paul, is that we need a guardian. It serves us right for not taking Della along last night."

  "What now?"

  "Do you remember what Mrs. Warfield was doing when we showed her that photograph last night?"

  "Sitting at the table," Drake said.

  "Did she look at the back of the photograph?"

  "No. I remember she held it for a minute, then passed it back."

  "Don't you remember what she was doing when I showed her the photograph?"

  "No, hanged if I do. Was it before or after we had the cocktail?"

  Mason said, "She was fixing up her face."

  "I guess that is right – come to think of it – she was."

  Mason said, "Show him, Della."

  The lawyer held up the photograph in front of Drake. Della Street snapped open her compact. Drake looked puzzled for a moment, then, as Della Street tilted the mirror to one side and then the other, Drake gave a low whistle.

  "So," Mason said, "she may have been dumb enough to send all of her money to the man she loved, but she certainly made us look like a couple of amateurs. Reading the imprint on this photo in her minor, she had to transpose it in her mind, too. Yet she never so much as squinted."

  Drake said, "Well, we won't take it lying down. We shall really give her something to think about this time."

  "She is smart," Mason warned.

  "She is clever all right. She never let on she had the slightest interest in that photograph – but she made up her mind she would check the back issues of Photoplay, read the 'left to right,' and then wouldn't need to ask any questions."

  "Ready to go?" Mason asked.

  "Uh-huh."

  Mason said to Della Street, "Get your things, Della. In dealing with this woman, we need you on the job."

  While Della Street was putting on her coat and hat, Mason said to Drake, "One other thing, Paul. Read up on Homan's career in Hollywood. He didn't skyrocket up that far and that fast without having somebody shoving him up the ladder."

  "Who?" Drake asked.

  Mason grinned, "I am paying you money to find out things."

  "All ready whenever you are," Della Street said.

  "I will have to stop by my office to get my hat and coat," Drake said. This is going to be a big relief. I won't feel so darn sympathetic this time. I felt as though I was taking pennies out of the baby's bank last night."

  "And all the time the baby was picking our pockets for heavy dough."

  "Your car or mine, Perry?"

  "Taxicab. It will save time."

  "Okay, let us go."

  It took them less than ten minutes to get to the Gateview Hotel. Mason said, "Just to check up, Paul, let us see if there are any messages for you."

  "Wait a minute, Perry. I shall talk with my operative first. We will find out if she has been down to the desk."

  Drake moved off to one side. A man who had apparently been completely engrossed in a newspaper lowered the sheet, looked up at Drake, imperceptibly shook his head, changed his position, and went on with his reading.

  Drake moved back to Mason. "She is in her room."

  Della Street said, "If you want my advice, you won't give her a ring. She isn't expecting you, is she?"

  "No."

  "Why not take her by surprise?"

  Mason looked over at Drake. "Let us go."

  "Got the room number?" Mason asked Drake.

  "Six-twenty-eight."

  Mason looked at his watch. "She may not be dressed," he said. "If she isn't, Della, you will have to crash the gate and..."

  "A girl who worked in a New Orleans cafeteria will be up by nine-thirty," she said.

  They rode up in the elevator, walked quietly down the carpeted corridor. Mason found the door, tapped on the panel. After a few moments, he knocked again, louder. "Looks like you lose," he said to Della. "She is still asleep."

  Mason tried the knob of the door. It was locked. He knocked again, imperatively. There was not so much as a sound from the other side of the door.

  Drake turned to Mason. "Gosh, Perry, you don't suppose... we didn't get her so frightened or despondent... you know, she wouldn't be lying there..."

  "Give me a leg up," Mason said.

  Drake stooped, caught Mason around the knees, lifted him up so he could catch the projection just below the transom. The lawyer pulled himself up and tried to peer through the opening. "Can't make out anything, Paul, except I can see the electric light is on. Come on, let us get the manager."

  The manager was inclined to be somewhat distant, and Mason took prompt steps to counteract his suspicions. His sister-in-law, he explained, had come to the city. She was to have been at his office by eight o'clock, and he was to have taken her for an automobile ride. She hadn't shown up. The woman had a heart affliction, and was all alone. There was probably not one chance in a hundred but what she had simply been detained. However, Mason wanted to make sure.

  The assistant manager finally summoned the bellboy. "Go up and take a look in six-twenty-eight," he said, and, as Mason started to follow, said with authority, "You folks might as well wait here."