Mason said, “You’re what I’d call a damn good doctor,” and hung up.
He telephoned the Drake Detective Agency and asked for messages. The man at the telephone said, “Your secretary telephoned, Mr. Mason, and said she’d located the party you desired and was carrying out your instructions.”
Mason thanked him, hung up and drove directly to the loft building at 913 South Marsh Street, where George Trent had his office and shop. Mason rang for the janitor, whose surliness changed into smiling cooperation as Mason slipped a folded bill into the man’s palm.
“Trent?” he said. “Oh, yes. He has an office on the fifth floor. The niece went up about five minutes ago.”
“Virginia?” Mason asked.
“I think that’s her name. She’s a tall, thin girl.”
“I want to see her,” Mason said. “Let’s go.”
The janitor took him up in the elevator, stepped out into the corridor to indicate a lighted doorway. “That’s the office,” he said, “down there on the left.”
Mason thanked him and pounded his way down the corridor. He knocked on the door, and Virginia Trent said, “Who is it, please?”
“Mason,” he told her.