The Case of the Fan-Dancer's Horse

Chapter number 16

Della Street regarded Mason with twinkling eyes. She opened the door on the driver’s side of Paul Drake’s car and slid over so that Mason could get in behind the wheel.

“Painful?” she asked.

“Mentally painful,” Mason said. “Damn it, that’s what comes of getting sympathetic with women.”

“Did you have to try to hide her in the first place?”

“I thought I did,” Mason said. “I was trying to give her the breaks. I thought that if Sergeant Dorset got hold of Irene Kilby first, he’d bring in the witnesses to identify her. I thought there was a pretty good chance the witnesses might fall for it and identify... Oh well, it’s all water under the bridge now.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Do!” Mason said, indignantly. “I’m going to tell Lois Fenton to get herself a lawyer. I’m finished!”

“How did she do it, Chief?”

“Went into the bathroom, crawled out through the window. I’d left the keys in my car and she drove it away.”

“Didn’t you think she might do something like that?”

“Hell no. Why should she? I was sticking my neck out for her and telling her what had to be done. If she didn’t like my advice, all she had to do was to say so. If she intended to run away, she could have walked right out of the front door. She acted as though I was trying to make the pinch.”

“Is she guilty, Chief?”

Mason started to say something, then changed his mind and kept quiet.

Della asked, after a few moments, “What are you going to do about the car, report it as stolen?”

“No. I’m not going to do that to her. I’ll give her that much of a break. She’ll probably get in touch with me sometime later on in the day to tell me that my car is up in Oxnard or Ventura, or Santa Barbara, or Bakersfield, or somewhere, and I’ll tell her she’s got some money on deposit with me with which to hire another attorney.”

“Are you going to tell Paul Drake about her stealing the car?”

Mason said, “I don’t tell anyone anything. Just tell Paul Drake I’m off the case. Tell him to call in his men. Then let it go at that. I’m going to a Turkish bath. Tell Paul his car is back and thanks.”

“Shall I tell him where you are?”

Mason shook his head, said, “Tell him to call his men off. To hell with it.”

He stopped the car in front of his club, climbed out and watched Della Street slide over behind the steering wheel. There was a twinkle in her eyes.

“I know,” Mason said, grinning. “It’s funny. I’ll see the funny side of it myself when I come back to the office along toward five o’clock. Until then, you’re the only one who thinks it’s a joke. Bye-bye.”

She blew him a kiss.

Mason pounded his way across the sidewalk, entered the club, said to the doorman, “Why in hell is it that when a man has been victimized by a woman, every other woman he knows starts getting affectionate?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” the doorman said.

“No man would,” Mason told him. “I guess it’s just because they are mentally putting the guy on a sucker list.”

“You may have something there, sir.”

“I may at that,” Mason said, as he stepped into the elevator.

Two hours later Mason was dozing in the relaxed tranquility which follows a good Turkish bath and massage, when the attendant said, “Mr. Mason, you’re wanted on the telephone. It’s your secretary, and she says it’s important.”

Mason roused himself from the relaxation of half-slumber, slippered his way across to the telephone, heard Della Street’s voice, crisp with excitement, “Seen the afternoon paper, Chief?”

“No.”

“It’s just out. You’d better get one and then get over to the office.”

“What’s it about?” Mason asked.

“I’ll read you the headlines,” Della Street said. “Murder Suspect Apprehended Escaping in Lawyer’s Automobile — Attorney May Be Charged as Accomplice — Suspect Identified by Witnesses as Last Person to See Callender Alive...”

“That’s enough, Della. You can stop right there. I’m coming over.”