The Case of the Daring Divorcee

Chapter Four

The pilot of the chartered plane came to meet the taxicab as Mason and Della drove up at the airport.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he said. “I didn’t expect you people for a couple of hours yet. What happened, did you lose all your money gambling?”

“Every cent of it,” Mason said, grinning.

“Don’t let him kid you,” Della said. “He was thinking about your wife.”

“Well, this is really going to surprise her,” the pilot said. “You’re ready to go back?”

“On our way,” Mason said.

They went over to the airplane, climbed in, fastened seat belts, the pilot warmed up the motors and took off to make a wide, sweeping turn over the brilliantly lighted business district of Las Vegas.

Looking down at the lights, Della said, “I’ll bet that takes a lot of money out of a lot of different states. When you stop to realize that gambling pays all the state taxes in Nevada, it certainly must exact a heavy toll from the tourists.”

“You’d be surprised how much money it puts into California,” the pilot said.

“How come?” Mason asked.

“I’d have a hard time keeping this charter service going if it weren’t for flights to Las Vegas,” the pilot said. “Las Vegas keeps our airlines prosperous, the hotels pay big sums to entertainers — a good many of whom reside in Southern California — and all in all it makes for a good deal of business.

“You also want to remember that very few people lose more than they can afford to lose. It’s not big-time gambling in terms of thousands of dollars. Most of the people go there for amusement and they’re willing to pay fifty or a hundred dollars to enjoy the thrill of gambling.

“When you come right down to it, I think the people there have a pretty good idea of the amount of business that comes in from Southern California. The Chamber of Commerce had a representative down there checking chartered planes tonight.”

“What do you mean, checking chartered planes?” Mason asked.

“Oh, just a routine questionnaire,” the pilot said. “They wanted to know how often we made trips to Las Vegas, what percentage of our total business was done on Las Vegas trips, and things of that sort.”

“Did they,” Mason asked, “inquire as to the name of your passengers, the persons who had chartered the plane?”

“That’s right. Wanted to know whether it was a corporation or an individual, whether it was a regular customer or a casual customer.”

“Did they ask names?”

“They asked names,” the pilot said, “but I thought they were getting a little too personal at that, and told them that it was against my policy to divulge the names of my clients who chartered planes.”

Mason glanced at Della Street. “You say this was the Chamber of Commerce?”

“Yes.”

“One man or two?”

“It wasn’t a man. It was a woman. Not a bad-looking babe.”

“Can you describe her?” Mason asked.

The pilot took his eyes from the gauges to look at Mason sharply. “Why?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I’m just wondering. I’d like a description of this woman.”

“Well, let’s see. She was about twenty-nine or thirty, somewhere around in there; a pretty good build, not too tall; nice curves but not chunky. She had blue eyes — well, sort of grayish.”

“Blonde or brunette?”

“Brunette.”

“Weight?”

“Oh, around a hundred and twelve to a hundred and fifteen — nice.”

“How did you know she was from the Chamber of Commerce? Did she show you a card?”

“No. She told me she was from the Chamber of Commerce. She didn’t make any bones about it; came right out and told me that they were trying to collect business statistics. She said they wanted to cover chartered airplanes for a month. They were also getting the number of incoming passengers on the regular planes.”

“What about automobiles from California?” Mason asked.

“She didn’t say anything about that.”

“Well, that’s all very interesting,” Mason said, glancing back from the copilot’s seat to where Della Street was putting away her notebook, after having taken down a description of the young woman who had been making the inquiries.

They flew along in silence for some fifteen minutes watching the stars overhead, the dark bowl of the desert beneath broken by the headlights of automobiles on the paved road below.

“When you come to think of it,” the pilot said abruptly, “that’s just a little strange. The people who come to Las Vegas by plane are just a fraction of the tourists who come pouring in. Where one comes by plane, a thousand come by automobile. Well, two or three hundred anyway.”

“Oh well,” Mason said casually, “people do funny things when it comes to gathering statistics.”

“They do for a fact,” the pilot said. “I guess it’s all right but somehow you’ve got me thinking.”

They landed at the airport in Los Angeles and Mason put through a call for Paul Drake.

“What do you know, Paul?” he asked.

“You’re early,” Paul said. “I didn’t expect to hear from you before two A.M.”

“Oh, we’re getting along fine,” Mason said. “Making progress. Perhaps we’ll let you get some sleep. What do you know?”

“Well,” Drake said, “Melina Finch, 625 Cypress Avenue, Las Vegas, is twenty-eight years old, a divorcee, brunette, nice figure. She owns a gift shop in Las Vegas but has a young woman who comes in occasionally on buying trips to pick up merchandise. She seems to live well and has some other source of income, believed to be alimony. Her ex-husband is an eastern millionaire.”

Mason said. “What about the other Nevada car?”

“That’s owned by Harley C. Drexel of 291 Center Street, Carson City. He’s a contractor and builder, fifty-five years old, makes a business of buying lots, putting houses on them, selling the house at a profit, buying other lots. Sometimes he has four or five lots and houses going, Sometimes he has only one.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “We may want more details on the Finch woman. We’ll skip Drexel for the time being.”

“Anything further?”

“Nothing more tonight,” Mason said. “Did you have a good dinner?”

“Did I have a good dinner,” Drake said. “Boy, I really lived it up. How about you, Perry?”

Mason laughed. “We had a hamburger on the way to the airport and we were so darned busy I forgot all about dinner. I’ll bet Della’s starving. I expect to remedy my oversight right now. See you tomorrow, Paul.”

Mason hung up the phone and turned to Della Street.

“Gosh,” he said, “I forgot all about dinner and—”

“So did I,” she said, “but my stomach is now reminding me.”

“Steak?” Mason asked.

She shook her head. “Ham and eggs for me.”

“That sounds good,” Mason said. “Come on, let’s go.”