“Right,” Drake said. “They’ve moved Sarah Breel — came to the conclusion her skull wasn’t fractured after all.”
“Where did they move her?” Mason asked.
“The Dearborn Memorial Hospital.”
“Was she conscious?” Mason asked.
“I gathered not, but aside from possible internal injuries, they’ve figured it down to a broken leg and a concussion. How about Trent, Perry? What killed him?”
“Apparently a bullet,” Mason said. “Incidentally, there was a thirty-eight caliber revolver in the upper right-hand drawer of the desk in Trent’s office. That may or may not be significant. There was also a bottle of whiskey in the drawer. I’d been feeding whiskey to the niece and told Holcomb about the bottle. He pulled out the drawer a little farther than I had and got a glimpse of the gun.”
“I’ll get men on the job and see what I can find out,” Drake said. “Della wants you to call her.”
“I’m calling,” Mason told him.
He hung up the telephone, dialed the Maxine Hotel, asked for the Green Room and had Della Street paged. A few moments later her voice, a bit higher-pitched than usual, said, “How long does this keep up, Chief?”
“What keep up?” he asked.