The Case of the Crooked Candle

Chapter 9

While they were waiting for the elevator, Mason said to Della Street, “Now then, I’m going to drive you home, and you’re going to sleep.”

She laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

“You’re all in.”

“All in nothing! If you think you can hold out whatever’s in those letters, you have another guess coming.”

Mason grinned. “Want to devour all the purple passages?”

“Every one of them,” she admitted. “After all, don’t you make allowances for feminine curiosity?”

“I’m trying to make allowances for feminine fatigue.”

“I haven’t any, any more. That dinner made me feel ever so much better and — gosh. Chief, I could sit and listen to Van Nuys talk all night.”

“A very remarkable voice,” Mason admitted. “It probably indicates rather a remarkable personality.”

“A woman’s fortunate to have a friend like that,” Della said wistfully. “Someone who really understands her and sympathizes with her and — and tries to save her.”

“Save her from what?” Mason asked.

“From herself, of course.”

“Daphne Milfield evidently didn’t want to be saved from herself.”

“Of course she didn’t. But I mean it’s splendid for her to have a friend like Harry Van Nuys. When sire you going to read those letters, Chief?”

Mason grinned. “Tomorrow morning.”

They walked across the lobby of the hotel.

“Good night,” Mason said to the clerk.

His response was an all but inarticulate grunt.

“Come on, Chief, where are you going to read them?”

“In the office, of course.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

She laughed. “Fat chance. Come on, we’ll turn on the dash light in the automobile.”

They sat side by side in the automobile. There were half a dozen letters, all written in pen and ink. Those which bore the earlier postmarks had the return address of Douglas Burwell at a San Francisco hotel. Those that had been written later simply had the initials D. B and the address of the San Francisco hotel as a return. The letters covered a period of some six weeks and indicated a progressive intimacy.

“Well?” Mason asked Della Street when they had finished reading them.

“He sounds like a nice boy,” Della said.

“A boy?”

“Well, he’s — sort of inexperienced in that sort of thing.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Just the way he’s gone about it. The... Oh, I don’t know. He’s fallen head over heels, and that’s all there is to it. He’s naive, and an idealist. He’d never be happy with her. Van Nuys was right. It would have been a great tragedy.”

“Well,” Mason said, “let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re going to call him on long distance. There’s no time to get up there for an interview. And even then, an interview might be wasted. Let’s beat the police to the punch and see what Mr. Douglas Burwell has to say for himself.”

They called him from a long distance booth in one of the larger hotels, and at that hour the call was put through with such rapidity that within a matter of seconds, the operator made her report. “Mr. Mason, on your call to Douglas Burwell — he is out of town for a few days.”

“Do you know where he could be reached by telephone?” Mason asked.

The girl said sweetly, “You may talk with the clerk at the hotel, if you wish. All the information we can give is that he’s out of town.”

“Very well,” Mason said, and then over his shoulder to Della Street, “I’ll bet he’s in Los Angeles. What’ll you bet, Della?”

A moment later a masculine voice said, “Hello.”

Mason said, “I’m trying to get in touch with Douglas Burwell. It’s very important.”

“You are in Los Angeles, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s there.”

“Can you tell me where I can reach him?”

“At the Hotel Claymore.”

“Thank you,” Mason said, and hung up.

“Now then,” Mason said to Della Street, “one thing is definite and certain. You are going home and go to bed.”

“What did they say about Burwell?”

“He’s here in Los Angeles.”

“Where?”

“At the Claymore Hotel.”

“It’s not over two blocks,” Della said, and then added as Mason hesitated, “and if I go home in the middle of all this, I won’t sleep anyway.”

“You should learn not to get so excited over a murder,” Mason told her.

“Murder my eye! This is romance. That’s something entirely different. Come on, Chief, let’s go.”