She made a dive for the telephone booth, and was careful to pull the door tightly shut. Mason said to Della Street, “Have any idea whom she’s calling, Della?”
“No.”
“What’s the idea of the party?” Mason asked.
She grinned and said, “The woman was plying me with drinks, and trying to get me to talk. I didn’t know how long it’d be before you showed up, so I pretended I was feeling the effects.”
“How much of it,” Mason asked, “is pretense?”
She gave the matter the benefit of frowning consideration, said, “About fifty percent of it is genuine, Chief,” then hiccoughed and said, “Well, perhaps you’d better make it seventy-five percent,” and laughed.
Lone Bedford emerged from the telephone booth, sailed up to Mason, linked her arm through his and said, “Okay, let’s go places. Can we get a drink at police headquarters?”
“That,” he told her, “remains to be seen.” He led the way to his car and drove to police headquarters, while the two girls, in high spirits, made hilarious comment on the cars they passed, the electric signs, and such other matters as came to their attention. At police headquarters, the property clerk regarded Mason with frowning suspicion. Mason indicated Lone Bedford. “Mrs. Bedford,” he said, “left some diamonds with Austin Cullens to give to George Trent. There’s some possibility that the diamonds found in Mrs. Breel’s handbag may be the Bedford diamonds.”
“So what?” the man behind the cage asked.
“I wanted to see if Mrs. Bedford could identify them,” Mason said.