He shepherded them toward the exit door. Virginia Trent, once more, started to talk about psychology as she stepped out into the corridor. Lone Bedford flashed Cullens a roguish glance, then said to Virginia Trent, “And what do you know about suppressed emotions, dearie?”
Virginia Trent drew herself up in rigid dignity. “I wasn’t discussing suppressed emotions,” she said with calm finality.
Mason, watching Della Street hold the door, ready to close it behind the departing visitors, could have sworn that the rapid flicker of Lone Bedford’s right eyelid as she smiled a farewell at him was not accidental.
When the door had clicked shut, Mason grinned at Della and said, “And only this noon I was talking about people being mediocrities, marching inanely through life.”
“A combination of characters like that,” Della Street said, “should be able to scare up something.”
“Not a mystery, I’m afraid,” Mason rejoined. “They’re all so beautifully normal. Aside from Virginia Trent, there isn’t anyone who has so much as a nerve.”
“Where do you suppose the aunt is?” Della Street asked.
Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Having seen her in action,” he said, “I’m inclined to agree with Cullens’ explanation. I think she’s trying an elaborate cover-up for her brother. But, just as a concession to the vagaries of a whimsical fate which has catapulted us into the situation, Della, we’re going to find out. Call up police headquarters. See if she’s been arrested or is in an emergency hospital anywhere. Check on automobile accidents and ambulance calls.”
Chapter 3
At approximately seven-thirty Mason was called to the telephone from the cocktail lounge of his apartment hotel. He recognized the rich, throaty voice of Mrs. Bedford, even before she gave him her name. “Have you,” she asked, “heard anything from the aunt in the case — Breel, I believe her name was?”