“But Paul Drake telephoned that you’d picked her up, and that everything seemed all right.”
“Drake,” Mason said, “is a damn poor judge of feminine character. I don’t know but what I’m not as bad… When did Drake telephone?”
“A few minutes ago. He said he guessed there was no need for him to keep a shadow on the woman, but he’d done it just on general principles, that she was Adelle Hastings, that you’d left her in a cocktail lounge, that she’d gone out right after you had left — within a matter of minutes — and had gone straight to her apartment. If you’ll give me the other half of that ten thousand dollars, Chief, I’ll take it down to the bank and make a deposit.”
Mason laughed mirthlessly.
“What’s the matter? Haven’t you got it?”
“No.”
“Didn’t she have it?”
“She must have it,” Mason said, “and she’s taking me for a ride to the tune of ten grand.”
“How do you figure?”
Mason spread out his hands in a gesture of resignation. “A sucker,” he said. “Just a plain pushover. I was so damn conscientious that I stuck my finger in the porridge and started stirring. Now I’ve stirred out all the lumps, and haven’t anything to show for it except a burned finger.”