Mason hung up the receiver, casually and mechanically noted the time on his wrist watch, and returned to his cocktail. Thinking the matter over, he called Della Street and instructed her to telephone Virginia Trent that the gems were located and would soon be recovered. Thereafter, Mason dined in the apartment hotel, and, as a matter of preference, dined alone. Finishing his coffee and cigarette, a bellboy approached him. “Telephone, Mr. Mason,” he said.
“Let it go,” Mason told him. “Get the number and I’ll call back.”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but it’s Sergeant Tremont at headquarters. He says it’s important.”
Mason ground out his cigarette, pushed back his coffee cup, laid down his napkin and a tip, and followed the boy to the telephone, where he heard Sergeant Tremont’s voice, crisp, businesslike, and coldly efficient, coming over the wire. “Mason, your office rang up all the hospitals this afternoon, looking for a Mrs. Sarah Breel. You were trying to trace ambulance calls and automobile accidents.”
“That’s right,” Mason said, his eyes wary and watchful, but his voice jovial. “What about it, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Tremont said, “Mrs. Breel was knocked down half an hour ago by a motorist out on St. Rupert Boulevard. She’s receiving emergency treatment at the ambulance receiving station right at present. She’s unconscious, fractured skull, broken leg and possible internal injuries... Now then, Mason, what we’re particularly interested in, is what led you to believe she was going to be hurt.”
Mason laughed, and tried to keep the laugh from sounding forced. “Naturally, Sergeant, I couldn’t look ahead and anticipate that she was going to be knocked down by an automobile.”
“No?” Sergeant Tremont asked, his voice containing more than a faint note of skepticism. “Just in case you had, you couldn’t have been any more solicitous.”
Mason said, “Forget it. I was interested in getting information, that’s all.”
“Well, you have it now,” Sergeant Tremont told him. “What are you going to do about it?”