“So we go places,” Mason told him.
“What do we do when we get there?”
Mason said, “We go up on a porch and ring a doorbell.”
“You’re such a help,” Drake murmured, squirming himself into a position where he was entirely comfortable, with his head resting on the back of the cushion. “Let me know when you get there.” He closed his eyes and apparently dropped into prompt sleep.
Mason raced the traffic for the breaks at the intersection signals, swung into St. Rupert Boulevard and gave the car plenty of speed. He glided into the curb directly opposite a house on the right-hand side which sat back somewhat from the street, surrounded by a well-kept lawn. It was a pretentious, two-and-a-half storied residence, with wide veranda and a driveway leading back to a three-car garage with chauffeur’s quarters over the garage.
“Who lives here, Perry?” Drake asked.
“Austin Cullens,” Mason said. “Come on, Paul,” and he ran across the sidewalk and up to the porch. He found a doorbell and rang it. He could hear the bell jangling in the interior of the house, but there was no sound of motion back of the somber, unlighted windows.
The tall detective said casually, “The door’s ajar, Perry. Does that mean anything?”
“I think it does,” Mason said. “We’re going in.”
Drake slipped a flashlight from his pocket and said, “I suppose you know, some people shoot burglars.”