The Case of the Daring Divorcee

Chapter Three

From the airport Mason telephoned Paul Drake. “Got the dope on those Nevada cars yet, Paul?”

“Just got it,” Drake said. “Car with license number ATK 205 is registered to Melina Finch, 625 Cypress Avenue, Las Vegas. License number SFU 804 is registered to Harley C. Drexel, 291 Center Street, Carson City. Got that?”

“Give it to me once more,” Mason said. “I want to check and make sure I have it right.”

Drake repeated the names and addresses, together with the license numbers.

Mason snapped his notebook shut, said, “I’ve got it. Now then, Paul, get your correspondents to check on these people.”

“I don’t have any correspondent in Carson City,” Drake said. “Reno is the nearest place. That’s thirty miles away and it’ll take a little while for my correspondents to get a man on the job.”

“Try and have it by midnight, if you can,” Mason said.

He hung up the phone.

Della Street said, “The pilot’s all ready.”

Mason and Della Street hurried over to the twin-engine charter plane.

Mason said to the pilot, “We want to go to Las Vegas. You can wait for us there. We’ll be coming back tonight. Everything okay?”

“Roger,” the pilot said.

They fastened their seat belts, the motors revved up, and the pilot, getting clearance from the tower, swept down the runway into the air and after climbing to elevation set a course for Las Vegas.

The sun, low in the west, illuminated the mountains as they flew high over the cities in the valley. They encountered turbulence over the mountains and leaving the timbered peaks behind, flew high over ‘the purple shadows of the desert.

It was dark by the time they landed in Las Vegas.

“You wait,” Mason said. “I’m sorry I can’t give you any definite time of departure. It’ll be more than an hour and it may be longer, but have it all gassed up and ready to go.”

“Will do,” the pilot said. “I’d like to start before midnight, if possible.”

“Flying difficulties?” Mason asked.

“Marital difficulties,” the pilot said. “My wife takes a dim view of these trips to Las Vegas — if I don’t get back before morning.”

“Get many such trips?” Mason asked.

“Well, it depends,” the pilot said, grinning. “From my viewpoint, I don’t get enough. From the wife’s viewpoint I get a lot too many.”

“We’ll let you know,” Mason said, “as soon as we know. But I feel certain we’ll be underway before midnight.”

A taxicab took them to 721 Northwest Firston Avenue.

As Mason had surmised, it was an apartment house.

He looked at the directory, found the name Adelle S. Hastings, and rang the bell.

There was no answer.

“Now what?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “Under the circumstances I think we’re justified in just trying the keys.”

Della Street said uneasily, “I feel that we should have some sort of an official status here. How about calling the police — just asking them to stand by?”

Mason shook his head. “Not yet, Della. Our client— Well, when you come right down to it, she isn’t a client but we are protecting her to the best of our ability anyway.”

“Protecting her from what?” Della Street asked.

“That,” Mason said, “is one of the things we’re trying to find out. We may be protecting her from herself.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I don’t know.”

Mason opened his brief case, took out the two key containers, started fitting keys to the outer door of the apartment house.

Key after key proved unavailing.

“Looks like we’ve drawn a blank,” Della Street said.

“We have one last one,” Mason said.

He inserted the key and the lock clicked back.

“Well,” Mason said, “this seems to be it.”

Della Street hesitated as Mason held the door of the apartment house open for her.

“Go on,” the lawyer told her, “it’s Apartment 289.”

“But why go up?” Della Street said. “We know now that the key fits. We know it’s her purse. We know she isn’t home and—”

“How do we know she isn’t home?” Mason asked.

“Because she doesn’t answer the doorbell.”

Mason said, “She might not care to have visitors or she might not be able to answer the doorbell.”

Della Street thought that over for a moment, then marched through the open door and down the corridor to the elevator.

They took the elevator to the second floor, found Apartment 289, and Mason pressed the mother-of-pearl button by the side of the door. They heard chimes on the inside but there was no sound of answering motion from within the apartment.

Mason tapped on the door with his knuckles.

After a moment the lawyer said, “Della, I know how irregular this is, but I’m going in. Perhaps you’d better wait here.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m just going to make sure that there isn’t a body in there.”

“You mean hers?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “Those two bullets that had been fired from that revolver must have hit something.”

The lawyer, using the same key which had fit the lock on the outside door, clicked back the latch lock and opened the door. He groped for and found the light switch. He turned on the lights.

It was apparently a three-room apartment with the living room in front, a door on the side evidently opening into a bedroom, while another door — which was standing open — disclosed a small kitchen. Apparently the apartment had been rented furnished but was considerably above the average run of furnished apartments rented to persons who came to Nevada to take up a brief residence, secure a divorce and then leave.

“Well,” Mason said, “so far no bodies — and very little indicating the personality of the occupant.

“There are a few books over there and the usual run of magazines on the table — an ash tray with two cigarette stubs in it and one glass with— The devil!”

“What?” Della Street exclaimed, at the tone of Mason’s voice.

Mason pointed to the glass. “Ice cubes,” he said.

“Good heavens! Then somebody has been here and—”

The door from the bedroom opened. A woman wearing a bathing cap with a robe draped around her stood looking at them with indignant eyes.

“Go right ahead,” she said. “Make yourself right at home! Don’t mind me.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Mason said, “but I had no idea you were home. I knocked and rang the bell. I telephoned you earlier in the day and had no answer.”

“I’ve been in Los Angeles all day,” she said. “Now will you kindly tell me who you are, how you got in and what you want, or shall I call the police?”

Mason said, “I’m Perry Mason, an attorney in Los Angeles. Why didn’t you return to my office?”

“Return to your office?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She said, “I’ve never been in your office in my life and I have an idea that you’re not a lawyer at all. Who’s that with you?”

“Miss Della Street, my secretary,” Mason said.

“How did you get in?”

“We used your key,” Mason said.

“What do you mean, my key?”

“Exactly what I said. You left your key in my office — together with some other things.”

She said, “If you don’t get out of here I’m going to—”

Abruptly she turned and raced into the bedroom, leaving the bedroom door open.

Mason saw her whip open a drawer in a bed-stand, then plunge her hand inside, grope around for a moment, then turn back to the door with an expression of amazement on her face.

She whirled and picked up a telephone by the side of the bed.

“I think I’d better get the police after all,” she said.

“Wait a minute,” Mason told her, “are you quite sure you want the police?”

“Why not?”

Mason said, “You left your handbag in my office, you know. There were quite a few things in it.”

“My handbag in your office?”

“Yes. Didn’t you miss it?”

Slowly she lowered her hand and dropped the telephone back into its cradle.

“Now,” she said, “I think you had better start talking.”

Mason said, “I think you’d better take the initiative, Mrs. Hastings. I can assure you that I’m here because I was trying to help you. I was very much concerned about you when you didn’t return to my office and I found that you had left your handbag, your purse, driving licenses, keys and... that other thing.”

“What other thing?”

Mason indicated the bed-stand with its open drawer. “The thing you pretended to be looking for just now, and I would like to compliment you on your acting ability. I certainly hope you can do as well when you get in front of a jury.”

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Mr. Mason — if you really are Perry Mason — do you have my handbag?”

Mason nodded.

“How did you get it?”

“You came to my office a little after noon today and left it there when you went out.”

“I wasn’t in your office at all. I have heard the name Perry Mason. I lived in Los Angeles with my husband for some time and have seen your name mentioned in the papers from time to time. I have never been in your office in my life.”

“Your bag?” Mason asked.

“My bag was stolen from my automobile sometime yesterday. I was in Los Angeles. I wanted cigarettes. I found a parking place in front of a store, grabbed a dollar bill from my change purse, dashed into the store, picked up a package of cigarettes and— Well, when I came out my purse was gone — although I didn’t miss it until later.”

“I see,” Mason said, smiling slightly. “Now, if you had the presence of mind to complain to the police that your purse had been stolen, you just might have a story the jury would believe.”

“Why should there be a jury? Why shouldn’t they believe my story? What possible object would I have in making up such a story?”

“I take it then you didn’t complain to the police.”

“As a matter of fact I didn’t, although I don’t see where it concerns you in the least.”

“Why didn’t you complain to the police?”

“Because,” she said, “for one thing, I didn’t know it was gone until I arrived at my home in Los Angeles and looked for my key and found the whole bag was gone.

“You see, I was on my way to keep an appointment with my husband. I was afraid I was going to be late and he is a stickler for promptness, so I was in a hurry. For that reason I didn’t put the cigarettes in my bag but just tossed them on the seat. The bag must have been gone at that time. In fact, that was the only time it could have been taken, but I didn’t notice it until I got to my house and reached for my key container.”

“Why didn’t you notify the police then?” Mason asked.

“My husband said it would be a waste of time and— Well, he didn’t want it known that I was spending the night there in our house. You see, we’ve separated and—”

“Was your reluctance to call the police due in part to the fact that there was something else in your bag?” Mason asked. “The something that you were looking for just now in the drawer by the side of the bed?”

“The gun?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“My gun wasn’t in the handbag,” she said. “For all I knew it was in that drawer in the stand by the bed. Someone evidently has taken the gun, presumably the same person who stole my handbag, since the keys to this apartment were in the handbag — and now you show up with those keys. Perhaps it is your story that should be checked, Mr. Mason.”

“You didn’t take the gun with you on your trip to Los Angeles?”

“Certainly not. I went in to Los Angeles to keep my appointment. I drove back this afternoon and got in just about twenty minutes ago. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, bad a drink, and was taking a shower when I heard voices out here... Now then, Mr. Mason, if you have my bag I’ll trouble you to return it.”

Mason said, “I’d like to ask a couple of questions first.”

“You have no right to ask questions — no more right to have your questions answered than you had to take my key and make an illegal entry into this apartment.”

Abruptly Mason became crisply businesslike. “You went in to Los Angeles yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“You had an appointment with your husband?”

“Yes, I tell you.”

“You kept it?”

“Yes.”

“What did you want to see your husband about?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“A property settlement?”

“I say it’s none of your business.”

“You didn’t reach any agreement with him?”

“Again, that’s none of your business, Mr. Mason.”

“Where did you spend the night last night?”

“For your information, I spent it in my own home, but there again, that’s none of your business.”

Mason said, “Look here, Mrs. Hastings, if you’re lying, and apparently you are, you’ve worked out what you feel is a very ingenious lie. But I warn you that you can’t get away with it. The police are too thorough and too clever.”

“I’ll worry about my affairs, Mr. Mason. You worry about yours.”

Mason said, “The bag which you left in my office shortly after noon had your driving license, a purse with a considerable sum of money in it, keys, and a gun; and for your information, two of the cartridges in that gun had been freshly discharged.”

“What!” she exclaimed, her eyes growing large.

Mason said, “You’re a very convincing actress. There are times when I find myself believing your story, and I believe it very much against my better judgment.”

Adelle Hastings moved over to a chair, abruptly sat down as though her knees refused to support her weight.

“Won’t you... won’t you sit down?” she asked.

Mason nodded to Della Street.

They took chairs.

She said at length, “Mr. Mason, you’ve entered my apartment unlawfully for a purpose I don’t quite understand. Lawyer-like, you’ve managed to put me on the defensive by asking me questions and talking about my story not being true. Now I’d like to find out about your story.”

Mason said, “My story can be vouched for by my secretary and by my office receptionist. She said you arrived about twelve-twenty, shortly after Miss Street and I had gone out for lunch. She said that you told her that you had to leave the office for just a moment, that you would be right back, but you never returned.

“Then, later on in the afternoon, we found this hand bag by the chair where you had been sitting. Naturally we didn’t know it was yours at the time. I took it into my private office and Miss Street and I made an inventory of the contents.”

“Did you,” she asked, “open the coin purse?”

“Yes.”

“What did you find in there?”

“Money.”

“How much money?”

Mason nodded his head to Della Street.

Della Street took a notebook from her purse, said, “Three thousand, one hundred and seventeen dollars and forty-three cents.”

“And a gun was in there?”

“Yes.”

“You say it had been fired twice?”

“Yes.”

“Where... where is that gun now?”

“In a drawer in my office.”

“Where is my bag with the contents?”

“I have it with me.”

“Have you,” she asked, “some way of proving that you’re Perry Mason?”

“Certainly,” Mason said.

He took a folder from his pocket, showed her his driving license and credit cards.

“Well,” she said at length, “I guess I have to accept your story. Where’s my handbag?”

“In my brief case here,” Mason said.

“Well, at least I can have that back.”

“You can when you have convinced me that you’re Adelle Hastings or Mrs. Garvin S. Hastings.”

“But I can’t convince you. You have all the proof — it’s in the handbag and you have that.”

Mason said, “And I’m not going to turn that handbag over to anyone until I’m positive of the identification.”

She thought for a moment, said, “If you have my bag you have a folder containing my driving licenses.”

Mason nodded.

“The California driving license,” she said, “has a thumbprint on it and also my picture.”

“The picture,” Mason said, “isn’t good enough to suit me.”

“There’s the thumbprint,” she said. “That should convince you.”

She walked over to a writing desk, opened it, spilled a little ink from a bottle onto a blotter, pressed her thumb against the blotter, then pressed it against a sheet of writing paper several times.

“I think these impressions are clear enough,” she said. “You should be able to make a comparison from those.”

“You don’t happen to have a magnifying glass, do you?” Mason asked.

“No, I don’t. I— Wait a minute, I do, too. Just a moment.”

She opened another drawer in the writing desk and rummaged around among some odds and ends and then produced a magnifying glass.

Mason opened his brief case, reached in, took out the card case, turned to the thumbprint on the California driving license and carefully compared the thumbprint with the thumbprints on the paper she had given him.

Satisfied, at length, the lawyer took the handbag from the brief case and said, “It’s all here except the gun. I’m holding that.”

“Why?”

“It may be evidence.”

“Of what?”

“Murder.”

She looked at him wordlessly, panic in her eyes.

“Where did you get the gun?” Mason asked.

“My husband gave it to me.”

“Where did he get it?”

“He bought it.”

“Why did he give it to you?”

“For my protection, because I do a little driving at night.”

“What happened last night?”

“My husband and I reached an agreement.”

“On a property settlement?”

“Yes.”

“Know an attorney by the name of Banner?” Mason asked.

“Huntley L. Banner?” she asked, her voice dripping with distaste.

“Yes. Who is he?”

“He’s my husband’s attorney, and I think it is largely due to him that my marriage split up.”

“It split up?”

She made an inclusive, sweeping gesture with her hand, indicating the apartment. “What do you think I’m doing here?” she said. “I’m establishing a residence.”

“So you can get a divorce?”

“Yes.”

“It’s amicable?”

“Of course. My husband is paying all my expenses.”

“I had a talk with Banner this afternoon,” Mason said.

“You did?”

“That’s right.”

“How did you happen to get in touch with him?”

“I didn’t,” Mason said. “He got in touch with me. He said that you had telephoned his office that you were going to put your affairs in my hands for the purpose of negotiating a property settlement.”

“Why in the world would he say a thing like that? I never called him and there was no need for me to get a lawyer. My husband and I reached an agreement without any difficulty. We had been holding off to see what developed in connection with certain oil property.”

“Banner said he had been authorized to make a deal on a property settlement,” Mason said.

She said, “I just can’t understand it.”

“Understand what?” Mason asked.

“The fact that Garvin didn’t call Huntley Banner and tell him that everything had been fixed up... What time was it he called you?”

“Around two o’clock or so this afternoon, perhaps a little after two. I didn’t make a note of the time.”

“Why, Garvin was going to call him first thing in the morning.”

“That was this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Evidently,” Mason said, “he didn’t do it. Is there any reason why he wouldn’t have done it?”

“No. He told me he was going to and I knew he would keep his word”

“Evidently,” Mason said, “he didn’t keep his word.”

“I just can’t understand that. It’s not like him. He—”

Mason indicated the telephone. “Suppose you call him right now,” he said, “and ask him what the score is.”

“That’s a good idea,” she said.

She went to the telephone, called long distance and said, “I want to put through a collect call to Garvin S. Hastings in Los Angeles. That’s a person-to-person call and I want the charges reversed. This is Mrs. Hastings calling.”

She gave the operator her number and the number of the Los Angeles telephone and settled down to wait.

“Do you always call him collect?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” she said. “He likes it that way. It gives him an opportunity to know I’m calling and where I’m calling from. He doesn’t like to have someone just call him on the telephone and not know who it is.”

“Doesn’t he have a secretary to handle the telephone?” Mason asked.

“Not at the house at night. He...”

She broke off and said into the telephone, “Are you sure?... No, I guess that’s all right. Just cancel, please.”

She dropped the telephone into place, looked up at Mason and said, “I can’t understand it. The long distance operator says a tape recording connection is on. That’s an answering service Garvin has when you call and a voice answers stating it’s a tape recording, that you will have thirty seconds after the voice ceases talking to transmit any message you may wish, that the message will be recorded on the tape so it can be played back when the subscriber returns to answer the telephone personally.”

“I tried calling that number,” Mason said, “and got the same message.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This afternoon after we had inventoried the contents of your purse.”

“But I can’t understand it,” she said. “I just can’t understand why Garvin didn’t call up Huntley Banner and tell him.”

“He was to do that this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t there this morning?”

“No,” she said. “I had other appointments.”

Mason said, “You just arrived here a short time ago. It didn’t take you all day to drive from Los Angeles here.”

“I had something else to do.”

“What?”

“I don’t think I care to tell you any more, Mr. Mason.”

“All right,” Mason said. “We’ll start putting two and two together. You were with your husband last night.”

“Yes.”

“You reached a property settlement with him.”

“Yes.”

“He was to telephone his lawyer, Huntley Banner, and tell him to draw up the necessary papers for you to sign. He was to do that early this morning.”

“Yes.”

“Banner hasn’t heard from your husband,” Mason said. “Your handbag was stolen yesterday. It was left in my office around noon today. There was a thirty-eight-caliber revolver in that handbag. A woman, wearing large dark glasses which would make it exceedingly difficult to recognize her, came to my office shortly after noon, told the receptionist her name was Hastings, that she had to see me upon a matter of the greatest importance, that she was in danger, that she needed protection and a private detective.

“Then after a few minutes she said she had to leave the office, that she’d be right back. She left and didn’t come back. She left your handbag in my office. In that handbag was your gun. It had been fired twice.

“Your husband didn’t do the things he was supposed to have done today. He isn’t answering the telephone.

“Now then, Mrs. Hastings, just suppose that some woman had stolen your handbag, had gone to your husband’s house shortly after you left this morning, had fired two shots and your husband is lying there very, very dead. Where do you suppose that’s going to leave you?”

Her face blanched, then suddenly her eyes became suspicious. “Now, just a minute,” she said. And then after a moment added, “So that’s your game.”

“What is?”

“You’re representing some client who stole my handbag and now you’re going to try to make me the goat.”

“My mysterious client stole your handbag before you saw your husband?” Mason asked.

“Yes. That’s when it was stolen.”

“You told your husband about your handbag having been stolen?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You were alone with him last night?”

“Yes.”

“You had no money?”

“I had no money when I arrived,” she said. “My husband gave me five hundred dollars as get-by money. I bought a new handbag and coin purse.”

“And operated your automobile without a driving license?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t make an affidavit your license had been lost?”

“No. I was going to do that this evening. I was going to report to the police that my handbag had been stolen.”

“Were you going to tell them about the gun being listed in the contents?”

“Certainly not. I had no idea the gun was in the handbag.”

Mason said, “I came here in a chartered plane. I’m going to fly back to Los Angeles. I wanted to get this thing straightened out. I was afraid you might be in danger. I suggest that you come back with me, that you go to your house and investigate for yourself... Does your husband have a secretary who comes in during the day?”

“Not unless he sends for one. He has his office and goes up there for most of his work.”

“Did he have any appointments for today?”

“I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t be able to find out whether he had kept his appointments?”

She said, “I might call Simley Beason.”

“Who’s he?”

“The office manager and general business manager. He’s very close to Garvin, my husband.”

“Closer than Banner?”

“Oh, Banner,” she said, spitting the name out with disgust, “is just a lawyer who tries to keep pushing his way in on things. I wish Garvin could see him in his true light, but he has Garvin completely hypnotized. Believe you me, Banner doesn’t have Simley Beason hypnotized. Simley knows exactly the sort of man Banner is — an opportunist, a selfish, scheming, conniving lawyer who keeps trying to get my husband to rely on him more and more in matters of business as well as in matters of law... I’m going to call Simley.”

She picked up the telephone and placed a person-to-person long distance call to Simley Beason.

“You have his house number?” Mason asked.

“Yes, of course... Oh, don’t be so damned suspicious, Mr. Mason. That’s the trouble with you lawyers... I did some of my husband’s secretarial work after I was married. I was his secretary before we were married. I’ve called Simley Beason a hundred times at—

“Hello, hello, Simley? This is Adelle Hastings... I’m fine... Yes, in Las Vegas... That’s right, I drove to Los Angeles yesterday. I came back just a short while ago... Well, that’s fine... Simley, tell me, I’m trying to get hold of Garvin and he doesn’t answer. The answering service is on and— What?... He didn’t say anything?... Well, that’s strange... No, no, I guess it’s all right. Probably something happened that caused him to leave town... but that’s not like him... Well, thanks a lot. I’m sorry I bothered you. I wanted to get in touch with him. I’ll call him again tomorrow. Look, Simley, let me know if you hear anything, will you? Tell him I want to see him.

“Well, it’s not exactly confidential; that is, in a way it is and in a way it isn’t. I reached an agreement with him on property matters and... well, thanks a lot. I knew you’d be pleased... I don’t know. He was to call Huntley Banner first thing this morning. Apparently he didn’t do so. Banner still thinks he’s in the saddle and is still trying to negotiate a property settlement, as he calls it. Actually what he’s trying to do is to make himself indispensable so that Garvin will put more and more reliance on him... I know you do, Simley... You know that I’m not greedy. I know it isn’t community property, but I did give up a good job, a career and my business connections and I was a good wife to Garvin for at least eighteen months... Frankly, I think things would have been all right if it hadn’t been for that Banner person... Well, I know you’ve got other things to do than sit and talk about Huntley Banner over the telephone. Tell Garvin when you see him that I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, will you?... He’ll be sure to be in tomorrow morning if he has that appointment... All right, thanks. Bye now.”

She hung up the phone and said to Mason, “My husband wasn’t in his office all day, which is strange, although he didn’t have any appointments; but he did have some important correspondence he wanted to dictate. However, he has a very important appointment tomorrow morning at ten o’clock and he’ll be sure to be there for that.”

“Provided he’s keeping appointments,” Mason said.

She said, “Mr. Mason, you have one of those damnable legal minds. You always think of the worst that can happen. You almost had me convinced that my husband was lying dead, shot with my gun.”

“And,” Mason said, “I’ve almost convinced myself of it now.”

She said, “You’re getting more and more like Huntley Banner— No, now I didn’t mean that. That’s uncalled for. I meant to say that you lawyers are all alike— No, that isn’t what I wanted to say either, but my husband has a lot of irons in the fire. He has a lot of important business affairs and I don’t think there’s any question that something happened that called him out of town unexpectedly and since he didn’t have any important appointments at the office he just didn’t show up.”

“And didn’t telephone?” Mason asked.

Her eyes narrowed for a moment. She said, “You have a point there. If he doesn’t show up by ten o’clock tomorrow morning for that appointment — but he will.”

Mason said, “I made one suggestion to you, Mrs. Hastings. I am going back to Los Angeles in a chartered plane. I think you had better fly back with us and see if everything is all right at your house.”

“And suppose it isn’t all right?” she said.

“Then you can notify the police.”

“Yes,” she said, “that would really knock the props out from under my story, wouldn’t it? I’d go to the police and tell them that I had flown in from Las Vegas because it suddenly occurred to me something had happened to my husband.”

“I’d go in with you,” Mason said. “We’d go to the house together. If there’s anything wrong we’ll notify the police and I’ll take the responsibility.”

“And if there isn’t anything wrong,” she said, “my husband would just raise merry hell, Mr. Mason, both with you and with me. It probably wouldn’t make any difference to you, but as far as I’m concerned it would ruin a perfectly good property settlement.

“Thank you very much for returning my things to me, Mr. Mason, and I think after all I’ll let you look over the property settlement after Huntley Banner draws it up, because I don’t trust him for a minute.”

“And the gun?” Mason asked.

“The gun,” she said, and frowned. “You’re sure two shells had been fired?”

“Yes.”

“I always kept it fully loaded,” she said.

“And someone stole it?” Mason asked.

“Certainly. I’ve told you that.”

“You’re not going back with us?” Mason asked.

“No, and I wish you’d stop interesting yourself in the case. You’ve found out that I’m all right now, and you’ve returned my handbag. I think that I’ll be in touch with you again, but I don’t want you to... well, I don’t want you to rock the boat. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Mason said.