“Okay,” Mason said, and hung up.
Mason piloted Peltham’s automobile out to a place which was sufficiently isolated to serve his purpose. Stopping the car, he shut off the motor and spread Peltham’s overcoat over a clump of brush, took a thirty-eight caliber revolver from his pocket, held the weapon close enough to leave powder burns in the cloth of the coat, and fired a shot into the left breast.
Tossing the coat into the car, Mason thrust the revolver back into his pocket and drove to the hospital. He picked up the thermal container with its content of human blood, and then drove Peltham’s automobile to the exact place where Tidings’ car had been found by the police.
Mason poured blood onto the overcoat around the hole which had been made by the bullet, both on the inside and outside. He saw that there were stains smeared liberally over the seat of the car and on the floorboards. He left spots on the steering wheel and trickled a rivulet down the inside of the overcoat to form in a puddle on the seat and floor.
When he exhausted his supply of blood, he surveyed the effect with critical appraisal and nodded with satisfaction.
Carrying the thermal container, he swung out in a long, brisk stride, heading northward. Headlights loomed ahead before he had gone two blocks, and Della Street slid her car into the curb.
“Okay, Chief?” she asked.
“Not a hitch anywhere,” he said.
“Just what,” she asked, “will this do?”
“It’s going to smoke someone out into the open,” Mason said, lighting a cigarette and settling back against the cushions of the car.