“Not yet,” Mason said. “Her disappearance, however, is apparently voluntary. I’ve had my office telephone the various police stations, emergency hospitals, and check the ambulance calls.”
“And she hasn’t been arrested for shoplifting?” Mrs. Bedford inquired, in an amused drawl.
“If she has,” Mason told her, “the police haven’t heard of it.”
She laughed. “Well, I think my gems are safe. I thought I’d ring up so you could reassure that poor little starved wallflower.”
“You’ve recovered them?” Mason asked.
“Well, not exactly recovered them, but Aussie telephoned he’s found where George Trent had pawned them. It’s a second-rate gambling joint on East Third street, known as The Golden Platter. They have a café downstairs, and a little bit of everything upstairs. Aussie said George had the stones with him, all right, and hocked them for six thousand. I told Aussie three was my limit. Aussie said he thought three thousand was all the money Trent actually got on them that the other three thousand was an attempt at a shake-down. He said he could bring some pressure to bear on the man who ran the place, and get the stones for three thousand. I told him to go ahead. We’ll adjust the three thousand with Trent when he sobers up... I thought you’d like to know.”
Mason said, “Thanks. I do. Cullens hasn’t found Trent?”
“No. He figures Trent can take care of himself. Aussie’s on his way to get the stones. I expect to hear from him within an hour.”
“How,” Mason asked, “did you get this number?”
She laughed, and there was something purring in the quality of her laughter, a sensual, feline something which was quite definitely calculated to rouse the male to conquest. “You forget, Mr. Mason, that you’re famous,” she said. “And,” she went on, “having forgotten that, you are apparently oblivious of the additional fact that you’re interesting. Good night, Mr. Mason,” and he heard the sound of a definite click at the other end of the line as the wire went dead.