Mason had his car brought out of the garage, and, while he was waiting for it, telephoned Della Street again. “Any luck with Virginia Trent?” he asked.
“Not a bit, Chief. I’ve been calling her at ten minute intervals. She doesn’t answer.”
“All right, let it go,” Mason told her. “Mrs. Breel was knocked down by an automobile out on St. Rupert Boulevard. Apparently she has a fractured skull, a broken leg, and possible internal injuries. The police are trying to locate Miss Trent. Sergeant Tremont has given me what amounts to an official summons to appear at headquarters and answer questions about some diamonds. There are a couple of angles about the thing I don’t like. Ring up the Drake Detective Agency. Get Paul Drake personally on the job. Tell him to grab a cab and go down to headquarters. He’ll find my car parked somewhere in the block. It’ll be unlocked. Tell him to climb in and wait. Also, tell him to get a couple of good men and hold them in readiness.”
Della Street said, “Okay, Chief. I’ll get busy right away. What’s all the shooting about?”
“I don’t know,” Mason told her, “something in Sergeant Tremont’s voice which I didn’t like.”
She chuckled and said, “I never heard anything in an officer’s voice yet that you did like, Chief.”
“Baggage!” he charged, and hung up the receiver as the doorman brought him his car.
Mason drove slowly to police headquarters, his eyes, narrowed to thoughtful slits, staring out from beneath level eyebrows. He realized he had neglected to obtain any address where he could communicate with Lone Bedford, and the realization was disquieting. For reasons of his own, Mason felt that it would be very much to his advantage to know just what had transpired at The Golden Platter before talking with the police.
He parked his car near the ambulance receiving station and had walked less than twenty steps when Sergeant Tremont stepped out of the shadows to take his arm in a cordial but firm grasp. “Who is this woman, Mason?” he asked. “A client of yours?”
“Not exactly,” Mason said.