“No,” Mason said, “we haven’t time to wait for anything. I want to get to her before the police do.”
“Hold everything,” Drake said. “Here we go.”
It was Drake’s theory that a detective car should be so completely average in appearance that an observer would find nothing sufficiently distinctive about it to attract attention on the one hand, or encourage memory on the other. Mason, sitting back against the cushions of the medium-priced, lightweight car two years old, watched Paul Drake cut through traffic and cheerfully take chances with fenders which had nothing to lose by an occasional lapse of judgment on the part of the driver.
“If,” Mason said musingly, “Austin Cullens got the diamonds from Bill Golding, why didn’t he notify Lone Bedford? If those were the Bedford diamonds, why did Mrs. Bedford deny they were hers? If they weren’t the Bedford diamonds, where did they come from? If Bill Golding had the stones in the first place, why did he deny having them when we talked with him?
“If, on the other hand, Cullens got the stones from some other source and not from The Golden Platter, how did he discover that other source. Approximately two hours before his death, he was evidently firmly imbued with the idea that Bill Golding had the stones, was holding them for six thousand, but could be forced to part with them on the payment of three thousand.”
“In other words,” Drake said, “it’s like making out an income tax statement. Every time you add up the figures, you get the wrong answer.”
“I didn’t know the income tax department bothered with detective agencies,” Mason said, grinning.
“They don’t. Detective agencies bother with the income tax department.”
Mason lapsed once more into thoughtful silence. Drake swung his car into a parking place at the curb and said, “Well, Perry, get your ambush planted, because we’re here.”
Mason said, “I’m not going to plant any ambush. I’m going to play it straight from the shoulder.”