“Not yet,” Mason told him cheerfully, “but we’re doing some investigating, Paul.”
“What sort of investigating?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said, and then added after an appreciable pause, “yet.”
“When will you know?”
“I’ll know,” Mason said, “as soon as I can get to a telephone book and find out where a man by the name of Austin Cullens lives.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“If he lives on St. Rupert Boulevard between Ninety-First and Ninety-Second Streets,” Mason said, “it’s going to have a hell of a lot to do with it.”
He swung his car in a U-turn, drove rapidly to the corner drug store, where he said to the detective, “Alibi yourself out of any tickets for double parking, Paul. I want to take a look at a telephone directory.” He ran into the store and looked up Austin Cullens. The address was 9158 St. Rupert Boulevard. Mason stepped into the telephone booth, dropped a coin, dialed Della Street’s number. “Sorry to keep bothering you, Della,” he said, when he heard her voice on the line. “Hope I’m not interrupting a heavy date.”
“When I have a heavy date,” she said, “I can’t even hear the telephone. What is it this time?”
“I don’t know,” he told her. “There’s something here I can’t figure. Do we have Mrs. Bedford’s address?”