“When she left the property room in the jail,” Drake said, opening a notebook and consulting it, “she was in a hurry to go places. She ran over to the comer to flag a cab, didn’t have any luck, and walked down the street a couple of blocks to the Spring Hotel. There’s a taxi stand there. She had the taxi driver crowding signal lights and cutting corners until she came to the Milpas Apartments on Canyon Drive. She went into apartment three fourteen, which is rented by a Pete Chennery. Apparently she’s Mrs. Chennery.”
“Why, her apartment’s at the Bixel Arms on Madison Avenue,” Della Street said, “under her own name. The name isn’t listed in the telephone book because the phone was connected too late to be put in, but it’s under her name, and you can get it by calling information.”
Drake nodded. “How do you figure she’s Mrs. Pete Chennery at the Milpas Apartments?” Mason asked.
“The boys did a little snooping around,” Drake told him.
“Where is she now?”
“At last reports, still at the Milpas.”
“Did your men go through her apartment at the Bixel Arms?”
“We got in,” Drake said,” but were crowded for time. You met her out at the Green Room, took her down to headquarters, and she didn’t stay long. When she left, we figured she might be headed for her apartment, so I flashed the men on the job the signal to get out. They made a pretty good job of it, though. No letters, no correspondence, no checkbook. Nothing personal, except what you’d expect — tooth brushes, cosmetics, clothes, and a couple of hundred engraved visiting cards, together with the copper plate.”
“How about Chennery, was he home when she got there?”
“Apparently not. The apartment was dark.”